and folding them into his pocket.
“Certainly,” Evangeline said, perplexed by Verlaine’s interest in something she found to be quite banal. “Take as many as you’d like.”
“Thanks,” Verlaine said, smiling at Evangeline for the first time in their exchange. “You’re probably not supposed to help me out like this.”
“Actually, I should have called the police the moment I saw you,” she said.
“I hope there’s some way I can thank you.”
“There is,” Evangeline said as she ushered Verlaine to the door. “You can leave before you are discovered. And if you are by chance found by one of the sisters, you did not meet me or set foot in this library.”
St. Rose Convent, Milton, New York
S till more snow had accumulated while Verlaine was inside the convent. It drifted from the sky in sheets, collecting upon the svelte arms of the birch trees and hiding the cobblestone walkway from view. Squinting, he tried to locate his blue Renault in the darkness beyond the locked wrought-iron gate, but there was little light and his vision could not compete with the thickening snow. Behind him the convent had disappeared in a haze; ahead he saw nothing but a deepening void. Negotiating the new ice under his shoes as best he could, Verlaine edged his way out of the convent grounds.
The crisp air in his lungs—so delicious after the stifling warmth of the library—only served to add to the exuberance he felt about his success. Somehow, to his astonishment and delight, he had pulled it off. Evangeline—he couldn’t bring himself to think of her as Sister Evangeline; there was something too alluring, too intellectually engaging, too feminine about her for her to be a nun—had not only given him access to the library but she had shown him the very item he’d most hoped to find. He’d read Abigail Rockefeller’s letter with his own eyes and could now say with certainty that this woman had indeed been working on a scheme of some sort with the sisters of St. Rose Convent. Although he hadn’t been able to get a photocopy of the letter, he recognized the handwriting as authentic. The result would surely satisfy Grigori and—more important—bolster his own personal research. The only thing that could have topped this would have been if Evangeline had given him the original letter outright. Or, better yet, if she had produced as many letters from Abigail Rockefeller as he possessed from Innocenta—and given him those originals outright.
Ahead, past the bars of the gate, a sweep of headlights broke through the blur of snowflakes. A matte black Mercedes SUV pulled into sight, parking next to the Renault. Verlaine ducked sidelong into a thicket of pine trees, an act of instinct that sheltered him from the harsh headlights. From a needling crevice between the trees, he watched as a man wearing a stocking cap followed by a bigger, blond man carrying a crowbar emerged from the vehicle. The physical revulsion Verlaine had felt earlier in the day—from which he had only just fully recovered—returned at the sight of them. In the headlights’ glare, the men appeared more menacing, larger than was possible, their silhouettes blazing a brilliant white. The contrast of illumination and shadow hollowed their eyes and cheeks, giving their faces the stark aspect of carnival masks. Grigori had sent them—Verlaine knew this the moment he saw them—but why on earth he had done so was beyond him.
Using the edge of the crowbar, the taller man brushed at a line of snow clinging to one of the Renault’s windows, running the metal tip over the glass. Then, with a show of violence that startled Verlaine, he brought the crowbar down upon the window, shattering the glass with one swift crack. After clearing away the shards, the other man reached inside and unlocked the door, each move quick and efficient. Together the two of them went through the glove compartment, the backseat, and, after popping it open from inside, the trunk.
“Certainly,” Evangeline said, perplexed by Verlaine’s interest in something she found to be quite banal. “Take as many as you’d like.”
“Thanks,” Verlaine said, smiling at Evangeline for the first time in their exchange. “You’re probably not supposed to help me out like this.”
“Actually, I should have called the police the moment I saw you,” she said.
“I hope there’s some way I can thank you.”
“There is,” Evangeline said as she ushered Verlaine to the door. “You can leave before you are discovered. And if you are by chance found by one of the sisters, you did not meet me or set foot in this library.”
St. Rose Convent, Milton, New York
S till more snow had accumulated while Verlaine was inside the convent. It drifted from the sky in sheets, collecting upon the svelte arms of the birch trees and hiding the cobblestone walkway from view. Squinting, he tried to locate his blue Renault in the darkness beyond the locked wrought-iron gate, but there was little light and his vision could not compete with the thickening snow. Behind him the convent had disappeared in a haze; ahead he saw nothing but a deepening void. Negotiating the new ice under his shoes as best he could, Verlaine edged his way out of the convent grounds.
The crisp air in his lungs—so delicious after the stifling warmth of the library—only served to add to the exuberance he felt about his success. Somehow, to his astonishment and delight, he had pulled it off. Evangeline—he couldn’t bring himself to think of her as Sister Evangeline; there was something too alluring, too intellectually engaging, too feminine about her for her to be a nun—had not only given him access to the library but she had shown him the very item he’d most hoped to find. He’d read Abigail Rockefeller’s letter with his own eyes and could now say with certainty that this woman had indeed been working on a scheme of some sort with the sisters of St. Rose Convent. Although he hadn’t been able to get a photocopy of the letter, he recognized the handwriting as authentic. The result would surely satisfy Grigori and—more important—bolster his own personal research. The only thing that could have topped this would have been if Evangeline had given him the original letter outright. Or, better yet, if she had produced as many letters from Abigail Rockefeller as he possessed from Innocenta—and given him those originals outright.
Ahead, past the bars of the gate, a sweep of headlights broke through the blur of snowflakes. A matte black Mercedes SUV pulled into sight, parking next to the Renault. Verlaine ducked sidelong into a thicket of pine trees, an act of instinct that sheltered him from the harsh headlights. From a needling crevice between the trees, he watched as a man wearing a stocking cap followed by a bigger, blond man carrying a crowbar emerged from the vehicle. The physical revulsion Verlaine had felt earlier in the day—from which he had only just fully recovered—returned at the sight of them. In the headlights’ glare, the men appeared more menacing, larger than was possible, their silhouettes blazing a brilliant white. The contrast of illumination and shadow hollowed their eyes and cheeks, giving their faces the stark aspect of carnival masks. Grigori had sent them—Verlaine knew this the moment he saw them—but why on earth he had done so was beyond him.
Using the edge of the crowbar, the taller man brushed at a line of snow clinging to one of the Renault’s windows, running the metal tip over the glass. Then, with a show of violence that startled Verlaine, he brought the crowbar down upon the window, shattering the glass with one swift crack. After clearing away the shards, the other man reached inside and unlocked the door, each move quick and efficient. Together the two of them went through the glove compartment, the backseat, and, after popping it open from inside, the trunk.
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