One Week Later

December 3

Pendergast laid aside the thick book he was reading — Douglas Hofstadter’s brilliant if at times recondite Gödel, Escher, Bach—and looked over at Constance Greene. She was sitting opposite him, ankles crossed demurely over a leather footrest, drinking Hediard Mélange tea with milk and sugar and gazing into the fire.

“Do you know what I just realized, Constance?” he asked.

She glanced back at him, eyebrows raised in mute inquiry.

“The last time we sat together in this room, Percival Lake paid us a visit.”

“You are right. And therein — as the saying goes — hangs a tale.” And she went back to sipping her tea and looking into the fire.

Mrs. Trask and Proctor appeared quietly in the library doorway. The housekeeper had long since recovered from her shock, and was simply glad to have the household together again. Proctor, too, looked like his old stoic self, and the only remaining sign of his ordeal was a slight limp — the result, he’d explained, of a lion bite and a hike across almost two hundred miles of trackless desert.

“Excuse me, sir,” Mrs. Trask said to Pendergast. “But I just wanted to know if we could do anything for you before we had our supper.”

“Nothing, thank you,” Pendergast said. “Unless you need anything, Constance?”

“I’m perfectly fine, thank you,” came the reply.

Mrs. Trask smiled, curtsied, then turned away. Proctor, the eternal cipher, merely nodded and followed her back in the direction of the kitchen. Pendergast picked up his book and pretended to resume reading, but privately he continued observing Constance.

She’d spent the last week in a private Florida clinic, recovering from the wounds she’d sustained in the fight with Flavia, and tonight was her first night back in the Riverside Drive mansion. Although they had spoken at some length over the week — and while each had told in detail their stories of how they’d spent the last month apart, and any lingering misunderstandings were now fully cleared up — she did not seem herself and, truth be told, had not — as far as he could tell — since leaving Halcyon. All evening she had seemed restless and brooding; she would start to play a piece on the harpsichord, then leave off in the middle of a passage; she would pick up a book of poetry and stare at it, but for half an hour not a page would be turned.

Finally, he lowered his book. “What’s troubling you, Constance?” he asked.

She looked over at him. “Nothing is troubling me. I’m perfectly fine.”

“Come now. I know your humors. Is it something I’ve said or done — or not done?”

She shook her head.

“It was unforgivable of me to leave you defenseless like that in Exmouth.”

“You couldn’t help it. You nearly drowned. And as you know, I managed to — how should I put it? — entertain myself in your absence.”

Pendergast winced inwardly.

After a minute, Constance shifted in her chair. “It’s Diogenes.”

“How do you mean?”

“I can’t stop thinking about him. Where is he now? What’s his frame of mind? Will he seek out the good in life — or will he prove a recidivist?”

“I fear that only time will tell. I hope for all our sakes it is the former — I gave Howard Longstreet my word on the matter.”

She picked up her teacup, then put it down again without tasting it. “I hated him. I loathed him. And yet I feel that what I did was too cruel — even for somebody as wicked as he was. Even… given what he’d done to me. And to you.”

Pendergast considered a variety of answers, but decided that none of them would be satisfactory.

“You made him the way he was,” she went on, her voice lower, eyes still on the fire. “He told me about the Event.”

“Yes,” Pendergast said simply. “It was a stupid, childish mistake — and one I regret every day. Had I known, I would never have forced him into that terrible device.”

“And yet that’s not what troubles me. What troubles me is that, despite everything, he tried to come back from the dark place in which he’d spent so many years. He created Halcyon. It was to be his retreat from the world; his place of safety. Also, I think he built it to make sure the world would be safe from him. But then he made the mistake of falling in love with me. And I–I was consumed with a thirst for revenge.”

Suddenly she looked directly at Pendergast. “You see, we’re two sides of the same coin, you and I. You, at least in part, made Diogenes into the monster he was. And now, I’ve unmade the good man he tried so hard to become.”

“Do you really believe he was telling you the truth?” Pendergast asked gently. “That he loved you? That he had left the sick and evil part of him behind?”

Constance took a deep breath. “He had left the evil part of him behind — as best he could. I don’t think he’ll ever be free of it; not entirely. But yes: he loved me. He cured me; he saved my life. He would have done so even if I hadn’t agreed to stay at Halcyon. Those days we spent together… he couldn’t have said such things — done such things — if he hadn’t been utterly in love.”

“I understand.” Pendergast hesitated. “And, forgive my bluntness — just what, ah, things did you do?”

Constance went quite still in her chair. For a moment, she didn’t reply. When she did, it was in a very quiet voice.

“Aloysius, I hope you’ll understand if I ask for your solemn promise never, ever to ask me that question again.”

“Of course. Pray forgive my indiscretion. The last thing I want to do is pry, or to cause you mortification in any way.”

“Then it’s forgotten.”

Except that it wasn’t. If anything, Constance seemed now to grow more restless, more agitated. She went back to looking at the fire, and the conversation died. And then, after several minutes, she glanced over at Pendergast again.

“There’s something that Diogenes told me — shortly before you arrived.”

“Yes?”

“He observed that my son — our son, his and mine — needs to be more than a figurehead; more than the nineteenth Rinpoche, the venerable figurehead of a distant and secret monastery. He’s a boy, as well: and a boy needs his parents — not just acolytes to worship at his feet.”

“You’ve visited him before,” Pendergast said.

“Yes. And do you know what? The monks wouldn’t even tell me his religious name. They said it was a secret, to be known only to the initiated and never spoken aloud.” She shook her head. “He’s my son; I love him… and I don’t even know that name.”

She was breathing more quickly now. “I’ve made up my mind. I’m going to stay with him.”

“Another visit?”

“I’m going to live with him. In the monastery.”

Slowly, Pendergast laid the book aside. “You mean, leave Riverside Drive?”

“Why not?”

“Because—” Pendergast was nonplussed. “Because we have—”

Constance stood up abruptly. “What do we have exactly, Aloysius?”

“I care for you deeply.”

“And I—I love you. But you made it very clear, that night in the Captain Hull Inn, that you don’t return my love.”

Pendergast began to stand up, as well. Then he sat back down. He passed a hand over his forehead slowly, and he felt his fingers trembling as he did so. “I… I love you, too, Constance. But you must understand — I cannot let myself love you in that way.”

“Why not?”

“Please, Constance—”

“Why not, for God’s sake?”

“Because it would be wrong; wrong in many ways. Constance, believe me: I’m a man; I feel the same things you do. But I’m your guardian. It wouldn’t be proper—”

“Proper?” She laughed. “Since when have you cared for propriety?”

“I can’t help the way I’ve been brought up, the system of values and morals inculcated into me my entire life. Then, there’s our age difference—”

“Are you referring to our hundred years age difference?”

“No. No. You’re a young woman, I’m a—”

“I’m not a young woman. I am a woman who has already lived far longer than you ever will. I’ve tried to tamp down those needs, those desires, that every person feels.” Now her voice was quiet again, almost pleading. “Don’t you understand that, Aloysius?”

“Of course. But…” Pendergast felt overwhelmed with confusion, unable to order his thoughts. “I’m not very good at this. I fear that should we… have the relationship you suggest, something will go wrong. I would no longer be the person you look up to, that you respect, as your guardian, your protector…”

This was followed by a long silence.

“That’s it, then,” Constance said quietly. “I can’t stay here. Knowing what I know, having said what we’ve said — continued living under this roof would be intolerable.” She took a deep, shuddering breath. “There’s an Air France flight to Delhi that leaves at midnight. I checked earlier in the day. If you’d be so good as to make the arrangements, I’ll ask Proctor if he would drive me to JFK.”

Pendergast was stunned. “Constance, wait. This is so sudden—”

She spoke over him, quickly, her voice trembling. “Please just make the arrangements. I’ll get my things together.”

* * *

An hour later, the two stood beneath the porte cochere, waiting for Proctor to bring the car around. She was wearing a vicuña coat, and her Hermès Birkin bag — a gift from Pendergast — hung on one shoulder. Headlights striped the façade of the house; a minute later, the big Rolls came up. Proctor, his face a taciturn mask, emerged and put Constance’s things in the boot, then opened the rear door for her.

She turned. “There’s so much I want to say. But I won’t. Good-bye, Aloysius.”

Pendergast had a thousand things he wanted to say, as well, but in that moment he couldn’t find the words. It felt, somehow, that a part of himself was leaving — and yet he seemed powerless to do anything about it. It was as if he had set an engine in motion that, once started, could no longer be stopped.

“Constance,” he managed. “Isn’t there anything I can say or do—?”

“Can you love me the way I wish you to? The way I need you to?”

He did not reply.

“Then you’ve answered your own question.”

“Constance—” Pendergast began again.

She put a finger to his lips. Then, taking it away, she kissed him. And without another word got into the Rolls.

Proctor closed the door, then got back behind the wheel, and the car began making its way slowly down the drive. Pendergast walked after it as far as Riverside Drive. He watched as the vehicle merged with the northbound traffic. He watched as its lights slowly became indistinguishable among myriad others. And as he watched, a silent shadow clad in black, a light snow began to fall, covering his pale hair; he remained unmoving for a very long time as the snow grew heavier, his figure slowly fading into the blur of the white winter night.

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