The Chrysalis Read Online Free

is at the ready. But mercy provides an empty path.
    He knows the way by touch, for they have traveled it after nightfall on holy days, with nary a candle to light the way. Testing himself, he closes his eyes and runs his hand along the uneven brick walls of the narrow alleyways. His fingers memorize the undulations of certain corners, the roughness of particular stones, and the end of the passage. He wonders how to capture the texture of the mortarwork with his paints, settling on hues of white over reddish brown with brushstrokes of different widths and concentration.
    He opens his eyes. The illuminated windows of a diminutive house blink at him with wide-eyed innocence. Only the initiates know the truth: The smallness of the exterior masks a subterranean expanse that billets a banned Catholic meetinghouse. Here, far from the Calvinist sight of Father, far from the condemning view of the townspeople who pretend to practice religious tolerance but, in truth, see themselves as foot soldiers in the battle against the remnants of Spanish Catholic tyranny, Mother furtively worships.
    Pushing aside a rough-hewn wooden door, they descend a steep staircase. Though it is Monday, the hall teems with familiar faces, all of which greet them with nods. Like so many Catholics, Mother attends Calvinist service on Sundays—as marital vows dictate—then repents on Mondays.
    They wait in silence for Mass to begin. Except for the paintings of Jesus and the saints that adorn the walls and altar, the whitewashed, vaulted interior and rows of wooden pews remind Johannes of the Calvinist church they attend with Father. Mother says the pictures are meant to help achieve a prayerful state, to bring them closer to God. Yet he learns in Sunday school that Catholic worship is heresy and idolatry, that the Word alone should be used for spiritual meditation. Johannes pities his Calvinist teachers, that they cannot feel the sacred power of the art.
    The procession to the altar begins. The priest leads the pageant, resplendent in robes embroidered in gold and silver thread, and incants the Introit and Kyrie at the foot of the altar. He welcomes the congregation:
“Dominus vobiscum.”
Of his own volition, for Mother does not demand participation, Johannes greets the priest in reply:
“Et cum spiritu tuo.”
    During the Mass, the priest places his left hand on his chest and lifts the censer to incense the altar. As the censer swings like a pendulum, candlelight catches on its golden surface, irradiating dark corners and shadowed faces for a moment before arcing to brighten others. It gives all the chance to share in the light.
    The incense rises. Johannes inhales the heady, sweet-smelling perfume, as exotic as his cimarron paint or perhaps the Indian yellow. He watches the smoke ascend high in a pleasing offering to God, an emblem of their prayers.

four
    NEW YORK CITY, PRESENT DAY
    J UST BEFORE 4:00 P.M. THE FOLLOWING THURSDAY, MARA PAUSED at the entrance to Beazley’s. She had passed the mansion before and marveled at its design, a fanciful construct of its former owner, a nineteenth-century coal baron. But she had a different appreciation for its grand scale now that she stood on its steps, poised to enter the massive front doors.
    Once inside, she found her way across the festooned lobby by weaving through the bevy of female assistants in charge of setting up the auction and festivities. Almost all of them sported pin-straight, shiny hair, pearls, the latest Manolos, and headsets. They were preoccupied and utterly oblivious to her. Mara had chosen a black Calvin Klein sheath with a figure-skimming jacket for the event, but she felt dowdy compared to everyone else.
    After checking in with a formidable receptionist, Mara sat down on one of the scattered chairs covered in blue brocade. She eyed the collection of auction catalogs that were fanned out expertly on the marble coffee table. Though wary of disrupting the display, she