Angelopolis A Novel Page 0,20
his but stared through him, as if they had never met before. He felt his cheeks go warm, and he wondered if it had been a good idea to have called her at all.
While she was the perfect agent to consult—her extensive knowledge of St. Petersburg and access to the angelological collection at the Hermitage was invaluable—he wasn’t sure how she felt about seeing him again. They’d met the year before at a conference in Paris, and spent the night together after having drinks at a bar in the fourteenth arrondissement, near the academy. The next morning they agreed that it had been a mistake, that they would simply pretend that the night hadn’t happened. They hadn’t spoken much since then. While he’d suspected that one day her professional savvy would be useful, he’d never imagined that he would be coming to Vera about Evangeline.
Verlaine stared at Vera, watching her move. She was as beautiful and brutally elegant as he remembered, but to his surprise he could not recall what it had been like to be with her in bed, what her body had felt like next to his. He could only summon forth the sensation of holding Evangeline, her presence like a vortex of white-blue snow, swirling and dancing around him as he tried to catch it.
Vera, however, hadn’t forgotten a thing: She suddenly turned to Verlaine, giving him a hard look, one that conveyed curiosity and complicity at once, and then glanced from Verlaine to Bruno. Registering that she and Verlaine weren’t alone, she assumed the expression of a disinterested colleague.
“Thanks for agreeing to meet us on such short notice,” Bruno said.
“It was quite a surprise to get your call.” Vera shook Bruno’s hand and gestured for them to sit at one of the tables. “Please, tell me what I can do to help you.”
“I’m not entirely sure if you can help,” Bruno said.
“Actually,” Verlaine said, cutting in, “we’re hoping you can give us some information.”
“With pleasure.” Vera moved her eyes over Verlaine until he felt his stomach turn. Details of their night together were beginning to come back to him.
Without trying to explain, he removed the jeweled egg from his pocket and turned it in his fingers as if it were a Rubik’s cube. With each twist of his wrist, he struggled to forget that this egg had been in Evangeline’s hands only hours before, and that the Nephilim had likely abducted her in hopes of obtaining it.
Vera took the egg from Verlaine, lifting it as if it might explode in her hand. “My God. Where did you get this?”
“You recognize it?” Bruno asked, clearly surprised by the intensity of her reaction.
“Yes.” Her expression softened as she grew thoughtful. “It’s Fabergé’s Cherub with Chariot Egg, made in 1888 for Empress Maria Feodorovna.” Vera ran her fingers over the enamel and, with expert movements, opened the egg, moving the hinges apart so that the golden mechanism creaked. As she removed the chariot and cherub figurine, Verlaine stepped behind her and examined it over her shoulder. The workmanship was exceptional: The sapphire eyes, the golden hair—every detail of the cherub had been perfectly rendered.
“What does it say on the sash?” Bruno asked.
“Grigoriev,” Vera said, reading the letters painted in Cyrillic. She paused, considering the word. “The patronymic of Grigori, meaning son of Grigori.”
Verlaine couldn’t help but think of Evangeline’s connection to the Grigoris: As the granddaughter of Percival Grigori, she was a descendant of one of the most vicious Nephilim families on record. “Is it possible that the egg could belong to the Grigori family?”
Vera gave him a weary look. “Grigori is an extremely common name in Russia.”
Bruno rolled his eyes. “It’s just a piece of tsarist bling, a nicely made bauble. Nothing deeper than that.”
“I don’t agree with your aesthetic sensibility,” Vera said. “Fabergé’s eggs are exquisite objects, almost perfect in their lack of practicality, whose sole purpose was to delight and surprise the recipient. Their seemingly impermeable exterior cracks to reveal another egg and then, at the center of this egg, a precious object, the surprise. The eggs are the most pure expression of art for art’s sake: beauty that reveals only itself.”
Verlaine liked the way Vera stood when she spoke, her posture that of a ballet dancer midstep, one arm moving with her voice, as if her ideas had been choreographed to match the rhythm of her body. Perhaps sensing the intensity of Verlaine’s gaze, she changed her stance.
“Go on,” Bruno said.
“The first Imperial Easter egg