they remained in the service of a Russian in exile until the end of the First World War. Soon after they
settled in Paris where, some years later, they opened an antique store called the Russia of Old.”
“They carried all of this?” Verlaine asked, gesturing to the clutter around them.
“Certainly not,” Nadia replied. “These objects have been acquired over a lifetime of collecting.
But my parents did smuggle out a number of treasures. They risked much in doing so.”
Verlaine held up the jeweled egg that had brought them to Nadia. “This egg financed your parents’
life in France,” he said.
“Yes,” Nadia said. “The jeweled egg you hold in your hand and the rose-strawberry guilloche
enameled Mauve Egg in the portrait—these are just two of the eight eggs my parents brought out of
Russia in 1917. The other object was less flashy but no less valuable.” Nadia gestured to the album
and then took it between her gnarled hands. “My parents originally believed it to be a remembrance
album. These kinds of albums were fairly common in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries.
Young women would press flowers received on special occasions, especially flowers from suitors—
corsages, Valentine’s roses, and that sort of thing—as souvenirs. They were in fashion among girls of
the upper classes as keepsakes. The four grand duchesses may have collected all of these flowers
themselves. It is a curious book, and my parents never fully understood it. What they did understand
was this: that the tsarina had prized it. Because of this, they held on to it, refusing to give it up. Over
the course of their lifetimes, my parents acquired and sold many imperial treasures. It was how their
business began and how their reputation was made. But my mother never sold the eggs, and she never
sold the album. Before her death, she gave this book to me.”
“Your parents may not have understood the significance of this book,” Vera said, her voice hard,
her eyes glistening with interest. “But surely you must have your own theories about the flowers.”
There was a moment of hesitation, as if Nadia considered the danger of revealing what she knew.
“Nadia,” Bruno said, his voice gentle, as if speaking to the child in the portrait rather than to the
old woman. “It was Evangeline who gave the Cherub with Chariot Egg to Verlaine. It was Angela
Valko’s daughter who led us here.”
“I guessed as much,” Nadia said, an edge of defiance in her voice. “And that is the reason why I
will help you unlock the egg’s meaning.”
Angelopolis, Chelyabinsk, Russia
Evangeline blinked, trying to identify the strange images coming at her, but she could see only faint
gradations of light: the flickering of colors moving above; the flash of white at her side; the darkness
beyond. She swallowed and a sharp pain tore into her neck, bringing her back to reality. She
remembered the stab of the scalpel. She remembered Godwin and his expression of triumph as he
filled a glass vial with her blood.
Scanning the ceiling, her gaze followed a swirl of moving color. A projection emanated from a
machine—it looked to be a kind of microscope—at the far side of the room. Godwin stood under this
kaleidoscope blur, his pale skin absorbing red then purple then blue. A line of text appeared at the
bottom of the projection. Evangeline squinted to read it: “2009 mtDNA: Evangeline Cacciatore, age
33, matrilineage of Angela Valko/Gabriella Lévi-Franche.”
Following her gaze, Godwin said, “Years ago, I examined samples of your mother’s DNA. I also
examined your mitochondrial DNA, although, strictly speaking, this wasn’t exactly necessary: The
female line is preserved completely in the mitochondrial DNA. You, your mother, your grandmother,
your great-grandmother—all the women in your family have an identical mitochondrial genetic
arrangement. It is quite beautiful, conceptually. Each woman holds within her the same sequences of
DNA as her most ancient female relative; her body is a vessel carrying this code forward.”
Evangeline wanted to respond but found it difficult to speak. The drug was wearing off—she could
wiggle her fingers and feel the pain of the incision—but the residue made each word a challenge.
“Don’t try so hard,” Godwin said, moving closer, until he stood directly above her. “There is no
point in speaking. Nothing you could say would interest me in the least. It is the one thing that I love
about my work—the body expresses everything.”
Evangeline pressed her lips together and, forcing her numb tongue to form words, said, “My mother