The Obsidian Chamber

53

Twenty-four hours had now passed with Constance locked in her room — twenty-four hours of absolute silence, save for the occasional running of water and the lightest of treads on the floor, which reassured Diogenes that at least she was still alive. She had made no appearance, not even to eat. Once, late the previous evening, he had gone to the door and knocked softly, carrying a tray of food for her, the most exquisite sweetbreads and foie gras in a red wine veal reduction. There had been no sound, no response, to his knock. And so he leaned in to the door panel and whispered that he had dinner for her. And the strangest whisper, just on the other side of the door, came back, startling him with its proximity and its crazy timbre.

“Go… away… now.”

And now, as another evening approached, he sat in the library, his hands gripping the arms of the chair. He couldn’t concentrate; he couldn’t read; he didn’t want to listen to music; he couldn’t even think straight. What was she doing in her room? Had the arcanum taken effect? Had he made another mistake, despite the maniacally obsessive care he had taken with the new formulation? Her mental state had always been of a rather precarious nature. Had she, at long last, finally gone insane?

He had to get himself under control and put an end to this morbid brooding. The place to do that was his meditation chamber. He made for the back door, almost running; went down the stairs; and hastened along the sandy path that led to the bluff. Moments later he emerged into the saw grass. As he came around the bluff the temple emerged from behind the dune, gilded in the late-afternoon light, beckoning him with its sanctuary. He opened the door and entered, making his way shakily to the black leather divan near the center, where he lay down, exhausted and slick with sweat.

Immediately the magic of the place began to work on him: the coolness, the peace, the gray silence, the A minor light. He half closed his eyes and, yes! He could just see, obliquely, those little glints of color, like fleeting flecks of rainbow from a rotating piece of cut glass.

Yes, this was better. Constance would eventually emerge from her room — the requirement for food demanded it. And then he would deal with whatever happened, turn on the full wattage of his charm, and try as he had never tried before to keep her on his island, make her love him as he loved her. He had succeeded this far; he would not fail now.

Slowly, his breathing returned to normal as peace settled over him. The sun was low in the sky, and one side of the temple glowed pearlescent, while the other side, in shadow, was dark and mysterious.

He stretched out on the long divan, the leather buttery soft. He reminded himself that dealing with her was indeed like taming a wild animal. He could not, must not, press her or push things to a head. She had to come out of that room of her own free will. And then he would see if the arcanum had worked. He felt certain that, once she felt its surging effects, she would have a new outlook on life. That the outlook still included him, he hoped and prayed to the gods.

Suddenly a vague shadow passed over the panels of obsidian glass. Someone had just walked by. And there it returned: a dim outline, moving slowly toward the door. It wasn’t Gurumarra; this part of the island was forbidden to him.

Whoever it was, was standing at the door. Waiting. And then he watched in a kind of chilling horror as the knob slowly turned and the door eased open.

And there, framed in the blazing light of the dying sun, was Constance.

He stared at her, as she stared at him. He rose to his feet. She was transformed, utterly changed: strong, radiant, glowing with health and vigor. She was wearing one of the old-fashioned dresses she had brought down from New York, but now, as she stepped into the temple and closed the door, he saw her white hands reach behind and unhook the top of the dress. It was like a dream. He watched, mesmerized. Slowly she worked open the hooks, one by one, and then she slipped her arms out of the sleeves. For a moment she held the top of the dress in place, and then she released it, letting it drop to the floor.

She wore nothing underneath. Her long, white body, slender yet voluptuous, with a hint of muscles moving under the pale skin, was like a vision.

She gave her head a little shake, loosening her hair. He couldn’t move. She took a step toward him, and another, then a third, until she was very close, her face inches from his. Slowly she began to unbutton his shirt, and he saw she was breathing rapidly, her chest heaving with excitement, face flushed. It was extraordinary: the change the arcanum had wrought on her was nothing short of miraculous.

Ever so slowly, barely touching him, she removed his shirt, and then she knelt, taking off his shoes, unbuckling his pants — until the two of them stood there, inches from each other, naked. Only then did she reach out and lean toward him, giving him a long, lingering, delicious kiss before slowly pushing him backward onto the divan.