The Angel Scroll by Penelope Holt – Spotlight and Giveaway

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ONE ANCIENT PROPHECY, TWO HEARTBROKEN LOVERS, AND A WORLDWIDE SCAVENGER HUNT FOR THREE MIRACULOUS PAINTINGS.

After her husband’s death, New York artist Claire Lucas has baffling dreams and waking visions as she channels an enigmatic and healing painting of a holy man in India at the deathbed of a young woman. When widowed antiquarian Richard Markson announces that Claire’s canvas is one-third of three paintings prophesied by the Angel Scroll, a recently discovered Dead Sea parchment, she is pulled into an international scavenger hunt to find the stolen scroll and the paintings it predicts.

As she pursues the paintings with Richard across historic and holy sites in America, Israel, and Europe, Claire encounters a series of remarkable teachers. A Buddhist, a Benedictine monk, and a professor of early goddess worship all provide rich explanations for the artist’s compelling and perplexing psychic experiences — until she assembles the incredible triptych and deciphers its inspirational message for the modern world.

Enjoy an Excerpt

In Benares, India, the sweltering night dragged on. Moonlight slid through the bedroom window and bathed the young, Christlike figure who sat cross-legged on the floor. Only a loincloth covered his slender hips, and his long, coarse hair was coiled in a topknot on his crown. He’d been watching the young woman on the low bed for hours. She was feverish, her breathing shallow, as she squinted at him now through half- closed lids. Her husband held her hand and shot the young man a pleading look. “Please let her live. I’m a rich man. I can pay you. I can help the poor of Benares, the poor of India.”

“To thwart death is not to conquer it,” the young master said, and the husband buried his head in the bed’s embroidered cover. In a single, fluid movement, the holy man rose and stroked his host’s bent head, His long, graceful fingers raking the dark hair, slick with perfumed oil, revealing a channel of pale, moist scalp.

Beyond the bedroom, in the narrow hallway, the master found his three companions propped against a wall and dozing. He tapped the closest with a calloused foot, and one by one the sleeping men awoke. “Is she well now?” the tall one asked, stretching.

“She will be dead come dawn,” his master whispered, as the four men stepped into the dusty and deserted Indian night.

The phone rang. Claire woke up and realized her face was wet. She’d been crying again. She eyed the clock—9 a.m. She cleared her throat, picked up the phone, and tried to sound awake. “Hello?”

“You still sleeping?” Claire held the phone away from her ear to stop Deirdre Vetch’s whine from piercing her brain. “You’re coming to the gallery to talk about the painting, right? We must talk.” Deirdre’s verbal pummeling began.

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