Gabriel's Promise (Gabriel's Inferno 4)

Prologue

1313

Verona, Italy

The poet paused, his quill hovering like an anxious bird over the vellum.

The words he’d placed in the mouth of his beloved were convicting. Even the ink condemned him.

In penning Purgatorio, he’d been forced to reexamine his life in the aftermath of her death. His tribute to Beatrice was both homage and penance. But this was not the end.

No, Beatrice’s death was not the end of their love. He loved her still and in loving her would be transformed.

The bird of his quill returned to the vellum, giving voice to his loss. He had not been worthy of her in this life. But perhaps, in the next . . .

“Turn, Beatrice, O turn thy holy eyes,”

Such was their song, “unto thy faithful one,

Who has to see thee ta’en so many steps.

In grace do us the grace that thou unveil

Thy face to him, so that he may discern

The second beauty which thou dost conceal.”

Here was his beloved now, beautiful and resplendent. Their love remained, but it had changed. And in changing, it deepened and became the stuff of eternity.

The poet looked out over the city of his exile and mourne

d for his home. He mourned for Beatrice and what had not been.

He hoped for what was to come. Her love had pointed him beyond herself, beyond their earthly love, to something transcendent, perfect, and eternal. He vowed, even as he purged his soul, that the words he penned would be prophetic and that all promises he made to her would be fulfilled. . . .

Chapter One

September 2012

Mount Auburn Hospital

Cambridge, Massachusetts

Professor Gabriel O. Emerson cradled his newborn daughter to his chest. He was reclined in a chair next to his wife’s hospital bed, where she lay sleeping. Despite the protestations of the nursing staff, he’d refused to place the baby in the nearby bassinet. She was safer in his arms, resting over his heart.

Clare Grace Hope Emerson was a miracle. He’d prayed for her in the crypt of St. Francis in Assisi, after he’d married his beloved Julianne. At the time, he’d been unable to father a child, the result of his own self-loathing. But with Julianne at his side, as his Beatrice and his wife, he had prayed. And God had answered his prayer.

The baby stirred and moved her head.

Gabriel held her securely, his large hand covering her back so he could feel the rhythm of her breath.

“We loved you since before you were born,” he whispered. “We were so excited you were coming.”

In this moment—this quiet, tender moment—Gabriel had everything he had ever wanted. If he had been Dante, he was Dante no longer, for Dante never knew the pleasure of marrying Beatrice or of welcoming a child born of their love.

The poet in him reflected on the strange course of events that had taken him from the depths of despair to the heights of blessedness.

“Apparuit iam beatitudo vestra,” he quoted with sincerity, thanking God that he hadn’t lost his wife and daughter, despite the complications during delivery.

The specter of his father intruded on his happiness, prompting a spontaneous promise. “I will never leave. I will be here with you both, my darling girls, for as long as I live.”