universally believed to be of harm to the Nephilim—to the very family he served,” Azov said.
“Ah, you’ve hit at the very root of Angela’s skepticism,” Valko replied. “But her doubts were quickly assuaged by consulting the Nephil family tree.”
“The Book of Generations,” Vera said. She’d seen the society’s copy of the infamous collection of genealogies just once, during the same conference in Paris that had exposed her to Seraphina Valko’s powerful photographs of the dead Watcher, the very conference where she had met Verlaine. The Nephilim genealogies were considered to be rare and precious resources.
Valko emptied his teacup, placed it on the table, and said, “You see, Alexei Romanov’s hemophilia was passed down from Alexandra’s family. The tsarevitch inherited the blood disorder from Queen Victoria. Queen Victoria was one of the most vital, effective Nephilim rulers in English history, while her husband, Albert, was actually partially Golobian, although this was a family secret that has been very well hidden. The hemophilia was passed through the Nephil line. Thus, it would follow that this disorder was one of the traits the medicine of Noah would cure.”
“Surely it would have killed him,” Azov said, echoing Vera’s thoughts.
“Perhaps it would have,” Valko acknowledged. “But Rasputin had little to lose in the gamble. He had promised not only to ease Alexei’s bleeding episodes but to cure him completely. If Noah’s medicine turned the tsarevitch human, the vow would be fulfilled; if it killed the boy, the hemophilia could always be blamed.”
“Rasputin would have been sentenced to exile—even execution—if Alexei had died on his watch,” Vera said.
“You should remember Rasputin’s power over Alexei’s mother,” Valko said. “He was thought to have cast a spell over Alexandra. He was charged with every kind of evil practice imaginable—of holding black masses at the palace, of invoking demons to harm Alexandra’s enemies, of the sexual practices associated with the Khlysty sect. Maybe there was a kernel of truth to the rumors. But if he hadn’t come up with a cure, he would have lost all power over the imperial family.” Valko looked out the doorway, as if the morning star were pulling him toward some distant memory. “I was a boy of nine years when the tsarevitch was executed with his family. Despite his Nephil lineage, despite all that I knew to be wrong with imperial Russia, I remember feeling a profound horror at the thought of his murder, horror at the pain he must have suffered as he and his family were led into the cold and shot. Horror, in the end, at the cruelty of humankind. I cannot say why, but I felt a strange kinship—something like brotherhood—for this murdered child. When his body disappeared and rumors abounded that he lived, I wondered if he was perhaps hiding somewhere, waiting to return.”
Azov exchanged a look with Vera and said, “Just last month, genetic tests identified the remains of Alexei Romanov. They were found in a communal grave in Ekaterinburg.”
“And so Rasputin’s success or failure meant nothing,” Valko said. “Revolution would have snuffed out any progress Rasputin had made with Alexei.”
“What I don’t understand,” Azov said, “is why Angela became involved in all of this. What did she hope to gain from the formula?”
“Remember, it was Rasputin, not Angela, who actually attempted to produce the medicine of Noah,” Valko said. “My daughter’s efforts may have had the appearance of such an endeavor, but the true nature of her work was something else entirely.”
“Such as?” Vera asked.
“Performing a wedding,” Valko said and, seeing Vera’s surprise, he added, “A chemical wedding. The concept is invoked as a symbol for chemical union: a female element and a male element being brought together in an unbreakable, eternal bond. This marriage of disparate elements brings forth a new element, often called the Alchemical Child.” Valko turned to Vera and placed a hand on Rasputin’s journal, brushing her arm. “May I?” he asked.
Vera felt an instant reaction to Raphael Valko’s touch. Something about him made her profoundly aware of herself—she glanced down at her sweaty, wrinkled clothes, the same clothes she’d worn to work when Verlaine and Bruno showed up at the Hermitage, and wondered how she appeared to a man like Valko.
Valko turned through Rasputin’s journal, finally stopping at a page of hastily written sentences. “I read this page thirty-two years ago with Angela. She understood the value of Noah’s medicine, and she was intent upon re-creating it.” Valko gave Azov a nod. “That is how you came into our acquaintance, Hristo.