Beneath all the copies ofMessiah, I found a stack of a pamphlets calledThe Musical Times and Singing-Class Circular, a kind of music newsletter. It seemed to be a collection of interviews and reviews.
Finally, I picked up the topmost version of Handel’s most famous score and hummed a few notes, listening to the differences from what I’d heard at Cadogan Hall the past three Christmases, or ever. It was beautiful. Changed, and yet suffused with the same joyous spirit.
I didn’t know what to make of any of this, but I thought if I kept this version with me—and could get a minute to study it—I might be able to understand what Handel was doing, which might help with the context I’d need to turn him. It wasn’t going to be enough, but it might help, and it was the best idea I had. So, I folded the newest version ofMessiahinto my pack, then turned to my friends.
“The wraith’s driving persona is Handel.” Chuey gaped. “No way.TheHandel?” Church took a sharp breath. “Dear me.”
“ ‘Dear me’ is right,” I said. “But we need to learn something more about him, something that will lead us to his Rupture. Without that, we don’t stand a chance of binding him.”
Lakshmi sheathed her sword. “Perhaps not even then.”
“You need a library, bro,” Chuey said. “Preferably one with access to Handel source material.”
From Handel’s home, we made fast for Westminster Abbey.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
True Illumination occurs when thanatists strengthen their thanaturgic light with specific knowledge and understanding.
—Raptorial Julien, “The Menace of Wraiths”
The luminous skyof the Renaissance Stratum gave Westminster Abbey the look of a bright castle. We approached the Dean’s Yard entrance, and the door opened before we even had a chance to knock. A squat abbot peered out at us. “We’re closed,” he said.
I fished Kincaid’s St. Jude medallion out of my pocket and held it up for the man to see. He squinted at it, then opened the door and shooed us inside.
“Follow me, please,” he said.
I didn’t have it in me to travel the Strata just then. Besides, we’d probably have more luck searching Westminster archives in this stratum, closer to Handel’s lifetime. “Could you get a message to Father Kincaid up top?” I said. “Ask him to please meet us down here. In the meantime, maybe there’s someplace we could rest?”
The abbot looked us over. “Very well.”
He led us past the cloister and across toward the Chapter House. Through an open door on the left, we saw a small gathering around a casket.
“I thought you were closed,” I said to the abbot.
“It’s a private memorial for Lady Mary Montagu,” he told us. “She was a friend of the abbey.”
Lady gasped.
I came around next to her. “You okay?”
“She was a pioneer of inoculation,” Lady said. “This funeral means the topside world has relegated her to the margins of history . . . her candle has been doused and her semblance with it. Such a shame.”
The abbot herded us into the Chapter House.
The stained glass windows seemed ablaze with the bright sky of the Renaissance Stratum. Thick shafts of colorful light streaked down to the tiled floor. But the paintings on the wall—depictions of the apocalypse—gave the chamber a solemn feeling. You could almost feel kings’ councils debating here in the years before Parliament.
“Wait here,” said the abbot, shutting the door behind him on his way out.
We sat on a bench against the wall, content for a moment’s peace. The Chapter House here was similar to the one topside. But something about it seemed . . . holier. Before I’d stopped going to St. Frances Cabrini, I’d wondered if prayers and faith got into the places where people share them. I was a kid then, but if there was anything to that, it strangely jived with what I’d learned about Strata-folk—their convictions ran deeper than those of the average topsider.
After a few minutes, Kincaid came through the door, a rod in one hand, the other hanging from his belt. He was a bit red-eyed, but all things considered looked okay.
I pushed myself up from the stiff wooden bench. “Can we talk?” He eyed me, Lakshmi, and the rest. “Where’s Cassius?”
We didn’t have the time, and I didn’t have the will to explain it all to him. “He’s alive. He’s just made some different choices.”
Kincaid hefted the rod in his hand. “If there was ever a man worth your trust or forgiveness?—”
