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narrow hallway connecting the convent to the church, the wide entrance corridor.
    “Architectural drawings,” Verlaine said.
    “What variety of architectural drawings?” Percival asked, biting his lip as he flipped through the pages. The first had been stamped with a date: December 28, 1809.
    Verlaine said, “From what I can tell, these are the original sketches of St. Rose, stamped and approved by the founding abbess of the convent.”
    “They cover the convent grounds?” Percival asked, examining the drawings more closely.
    “And the interiors as well,” Verlaine said.
    “You found these where?”
    “In a county-courthouse archive upstate. Nobody seemed to know how they ended up there, and they’ll probably never notice that they’re gone. After a little searching, I found that the plans were transferred to the county building in 1944, after a fire at the convent.”
    Percival looked down at Verlaine, the faintest hint of challenge in his manner. “And you find these drawings significant?”
    “These are not really your run-of-the-mill drawings. Take a look at this.” Verlaine directed Percival to a faint sketch of an octagonal structure, the words ADORATION CHAPEL written at the top. “This is particularly fascinating. It was drawn by someone with a great eye for scale and depth. The structure is so precisely rendered, so detailed, that it doesn’t fit at all with the other drawings. At first I thought it didn’t belong with the set—it’s too different in style—but it has been stamped and dated, like the others.”
    Percival stared at the drawing. The Adoration Chapel had been rendered with enormous care—the altar and entrance had been given particular attention. A series of rings had been drawn within the Adoration Chapel plan, concentric circles that radiated one from the next. At the center of the spheres, like an egg in a nest of protective tissue, was a golden seal. Flipping through the pages of drawings, Percival found that a seal had been placed upon each sheet.
    “Tell me,” he said, placing his finger upon the seal. “What, do you suppose, is the meaning of this seal?”
    “That interested me, too,” Verlaine said, reaching into his overcoat and removing an envelope. “So I did a little more research. It is a reproduction of a coin, Thracian in origin, from the fifth century B.C. The original was uncovered by a Japanese-funded archaeological dig in what is now eastern Bulgaria but was once the center of Thrace—something of a cultural haven in fifth-century Europe. The original coin is in Japan, so I have nothing but this reproduction to go by.”
    Verlaine opened the envelope and presented Percival with an enlarged photocopied image of the coin.
    “The seal was put on the architectural drawings over one hundred years before the coin was discovered, which makes this seal—and the drawings themselves—rather incredible. From the research I’ve done, it seems that this image is unique among Thracian coins. While most from that period depict the heads of mythological figures like Hermes, Dionysus, and Poseidon, this coin depicts an instrument: the lyre of Orpheus. There are a number of Thracian coins in the Met. I went to see them myself. They’re in the Greek and Roman Galleries, if you’re interested. Unfortunately, there is nothing quite like this coin on display. It’s one of a kind.”
    Percival Grigori leaned on the sweat-slicked ivory knob of the cane, attempting to contain his irritation. Snow fell through the sky, fat, wet flakes that drifted through the tree branches and settled upon the sidewalk. Clearly Verlaine did not realize how irrelevant the drawings, or the seal, were to his plans.
    “Very well, Mr. Verlaine,” Percival said, straightening himself the best he could and fixing Verlaine with a severe gaze. “But surely you have more for me.”
    “More?” Verlaine asked, perplexed.
    “These drawings you’ve brought are interesting artifacts,” Percival