“Come now,” Vladimir said, gesturing to the object on the table. “A piece of the lyre is here, before us, waiting to be studied.”
All eyes fell upon the plectrum. Evangeline wondered at its power, its allure, the temptation and desire it inspired.
“One thing I do not understand,” she said, “is what the Watchers hoped to gain by playing the lyre. They were doomed creatures, banished from heaven. How could music save them?”
Vladimir said, “At the bottom of the Venerable Clematis’s account, written in his own hand, was Psalm 150.”
“The music of the angels,” Evangeline whispered, recognizing the psalm instantly. It was one of her favorites.
“Yes,” Saitou-san said. “Exactly so. The music of praise.”
“It is likely,” Bruno said, “that the Watchers were attempting to make amends with their Creator by singing His praises. Psalm 150 gives advice to those who wish to gain heavenly favor. If their attempts were successful, the imprisoned angels would have been reinstituted into the heavenly host. Perhaps their efforts were directed toward their own salvation.”
“That is one way to look at it,” Saitou-san said. “It is equally possible that they were trying to destroy the universe from which they had been banned.”
“An objective,” Gabriella added, tamping out her cigarette, “that they obviously failed to achieve. Come, let us move along to the purpose of this meeting,” she said, clearly irritated. “Over the past decade, all of the celestial instruments in our possession have been stolen from our safe holds in Europe. We’ve presumed they were taken by the Nephilim.”
“Some believe that such a symphony would free the Watchers,” Vladimir said.
“But anyone who has read the literature agrees that the Nephilim care nothing about the Watchers,” Gabriella said. “Indeed, before Clematis went into the cavern, the Watchers played the lyre, hoping to lure the Nephilim to their aid. It was utterly unsuccessful. No, the Nephilim are interested in the instruments for purely selfish reasons.”
“They want to heal themselves and their race,” Bruno added. “They want to become strong so that they can further enslave humanity.”
“And they have come too close to finding it for us not to take action,” Gabriella said. “It is my belief that they’ve apprehended the other celestial instruments for their own protection from us. But they desire the lyre for another reason altogether. They are attempting to restore themselves to a state of perfection their kind has not seen in hundreds of years. Although we have been dismayed at Abigail Rockefeller’s perpetual silence, so to speak, on the matter of its location, we have not worried that the lyre would be discovered. But obviously this has failed. The Nephilim are hunting, and we have to be ready.”
“It seems Mrs. Rockefeller had our best interests in mind after all,” Evangeline said.
“She was an amateur,” Gabriella said, dismissive. “She took an interest in angels in the way her wealthy friends were interested in charity balls.”
“It is a good thing she did,” Vladimir said. “How do you suppose we received such crucial support during the war, not the least of which was her funding for our expedition of 1943? She was a devout woman who believed that great wealth should be used to great ends.” Vladimir leaned back into his chair and crossed his legs.
“Which, for good or ill, turned out to be a dead end,” Bruno murmured.
“Not necessarily,” Gabriella said, eyeing Bruno. She slid the plectrum into its leather pouch and removed a gray envelope from inside the leather case. On the face of the envelope was the pattern of Roman letters written into a square. If Celestine’s words held true, it was the envelope containing the Rockefeller letters. Gabriella placed it on the table before the angelologists. “Celestine Clochette instructed Evangeline to bring this to us.”
The angelologists’ interest became tangible as they spied the symbol stamped upon the envelope. Their reactions fired Evangeline’s curiosity. “What does it mean?” she asked.
“It is an angelological seal, a Sator-Rotas Square,” Vladimir said. “We have placed this seal upon documents for many hundreds of years. It announces the importance of the document and verifies that it has been sent by one of us.”
Gabriella folded her arms across her chest, as if cold, and said, “This afternoon I had the opportunity to read Innocenta’s half of her correspondence with Abigail Rockefeller. It became clear to me that Innocenta and Abigail Rockefeller were communicating about the lyre’s location obliquely, although neither Verlaine nor I was able to discern how.”
Evangeline watched from the edge of the upholstered chair, her spine exceedingly straight. She experienced a strange sense of déjà vu as Vladimir took the gray envelope with determined calm from Verlaine. He closed his eyes, whispered a series of incomprehensible words-a spell or a prayer, Evangeline could not say which-and tore the envelope open.
Inside, there were time-weathered envelopes the length and width of Evangeline’s outstretched hand. Adjusting his eyeglasses, Vladimir raised the letters close to get a clear view of the script. “They’re addressed to Mother Innocenta,” he said, placing the envelopes on the table between them.
There were six envelopes containing six missives, one more than Innocenta had written. Evangeline peered at them. On the face of each envelope were canceled stamps: one red two-cent stamp and one green one-cent stamp.
Picking up one of the missives and turning it over, Evangeline saw the Rockefeller name embossed on the back, along with a return address on West Fifty-fourth Street, less than a mile away.
“The location of the lyre is surely disclosed in these letters,” Saitou-san said.
“I don’t think we can come to a conclusion without reading them,” Evangeline said.
Without further hesitation Vladimir opened each of the envelopes and placed six small cards on the table. The stock was thick and creamy white, a border of gold at the edges. Identical designs had been printed on the face of each of the cards. Grecian goddesses with laurel-leaf wreaths upon their heads danced amid swarms of cherubs. Two of the angels-fat, babylike cherubs with rounded moth wings-held lyres in their hands.
“This is a classic 1920s Art Deco design,” Verlaine said, picking up one of the cards and examining it. “The lettering is the same font that was used by the New Yorker magazine on its cover. And the symmetrical positioning of the angels is classic. The dual cherubs with their lyres are mirror images of one another, which is a quintessential Art Deco motif.” Leaning over the card so that his hair fell into his eyes, Verlaine said, “And this is most definitely Abigail Rockefeller’s handwriting. I’ve examined her journals and personal correspondence many times. There’s no mistaking it.”
Vladimir took the cards and read them, his blue eyes scanning the lines. Then, with the air of a man who had been patient for too many years, he placed them back on the table and stood. “They say nothing at all,” he said. “The first five cards are as evocative as laundry lists. The last card is completely blank, except for the name ‘Alistair Carroll, Trustee, Museum of Modern Art.’”
“They must give some information about the lyre,” Saitou-san said, picking up the cards. Vladimir gazed at Gabriella for a moment, as if weighing the possibility that he’d missed something. “Please,” he said. “Read them. Tell me that I am wrong.”
Gabriella read the cards one by one, passing them on to Verlaine, who read through them so quickly that Evangeline wondered how he could have taken in what they said.
Gabriella sighed. “They are exactly the same in tone and content as Innocenta’s letters.”