Angelopolis A Novel Page 0,39

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 let you take my blood—why?”

“Ah, you are curious about motives. For me the psychological component of my work with you—the reasons for extracting your blood, the feelings of your mother when she subjected you, her only child, to such exams—is uninteresting to me, to say the least. My work is a razor, cutting through the unnecessary padding of human existence. Feelings, emotional attachments, maternal love—this means nothing at all here in my lab. But, as you are interested in questions of ‘why,’ let me show you something that might fascinate you.”

Godwin walked to his microscope and, after a clinking of glass plates—the changing of slides under a lens—a new image appeared on the ceiling.

“These are the very unsophisticated images I captured of your blood, and your mother’s blood, thirty years ago. It is amazing that I could work with such images at all, they are so imprecise. Technology has changed everything, of course.” Godwin walked to the table and stood by Evangeline’s side. “You cannot see the details, but if you were to look closely, you would note the vast difference between your mother’s blood and your own. Your mother was not an angelic creature. She was the