*Spoilers*
*Profanity*
*Ruthless Humour*

Takes place between WOD and...my 1st Pendy fanfiction, The New Orleans Patient.

Disclaimer: Again, Pendergast is not my creation. He belongs to Mr. Preston and Mr. Child. Thank you God/Allah/Pantheon Dwellers/YWYH/Mother Goddess/Those Nifty Celtic types...Anansi...Joseph Campbell (I don’t read him all the time, but I watched the ‘Last Video Interview’ and other things-I’m familiar with his ideas) Interesting man- he’s on my list of dead people to meet, along with Pres. Lincoln, Siddhartha Gautama, and all the Llamas and a bunch of other people...Nut, Bast, Ma’at, Isis, Thoth-y poo! Anubis, Horus, Osiris (he’s the man)...everyone else...you get the idea. Happy Hallowe’en! Heh heh.



(1)

Vincent D’Agosta lifted his liripiped blue cowl and adjusted his crow mask, straining to see the twin dials of his silver Rolex in the shade of the staircase. Seven-thirty-five, on the dot. Then, with meticulous, anxious consideration he checked the watch-face again, this time gauging it against the elegant french baroque grandmother clock ticking away demurely in the corner near the stairs. Where was he? Pendergast was supposed to have come down thirty minutes ago with Viola on his arm! Oberon and Titania...right. Something was up. Well, either that or the scrawny bastard was going to get a faceful of spiced punch when he finally showed. The albino had a fond sense of the theatre, but this was getting out of hand. Far off to the left of the clock, he could just make out Corrie Swanson in a white punk-rocker wig, silver makeup and elf-ears, done up as some kind of demonic Puck in black-striped hose and stocking feet. D’Agosta stared hard, choking back a snicker as her silhouette, eerily illuminated by the dim light from a high chandelier thickly laden with silver and candles, stalked ninja-style toward the punch bowl where a certain corpulent, red-faced lastcomer dressed as Constable Dogberry was just dipping in for another slosh of the far-beyond-excellent punch. For a moment, D’Agosta actually thought seriously about warning him, but then decided against it, as the Constable was obviously sauced beyond what little sense he had, and would never, even on his best day, have a snowball’s chance against Pendergast’s pet Goth. Was that a silver whistle in her hand? Doubtless her demented notion of a party favour. Heh. Trick or treat, Spencer. Trick or Treat. Sad that Aloysius had to miss this, even for the sake of his grand entrance...where the hell were those two? This was beginning to feel off to him, like an episode of the Nightlight Zone. In contrast to his failing mood, this unsavory thought jarred loose one of his more pleasant memories of Italy, namely that delicious moment when he’d mac-and-cheesed that fat freak Fosco with his own d*mn microwave device.

“You too, Lieutenant?” He felt a soft tap on his shoulder that shook him out of his revelrie. Margo Green stood there, done up in a period dumpy cook’s costume. Greasy Jane, he thought, admiring her disguise. Her brown hair bore a light dusting of flour, and her cheery face was smudged liberally with fireplace soot. Too-thin but bright eyed, she gazed at him for a moment or two, then held up a hand. He blinked then, for grasped tightly in her slim, strong fingers was a gigantic black-iron ladle, complete with dents and rusted rack-ring. “Shall we go upstairs and look for them? It’ll be like old times!”

“Christ, Margo-don’t remind me! But, yeah. Someone ought to keep those two out of trouble.” Arm in arm, they drifted through the small crowd of close friends, making for the upward staircase, finding easy footing on the steps despite the suspicious creaks that issued from the old wood as they ascended. She noticed him eyeing the ladle and shook it at him sarcastically. “Stop looking at me like that, Vincent. After Menzies’ little number, I think I can handle a couple of kids necking in the attic, so to speak.”

He shivered, suddenly taken by a fit of dèja vu as they reached the second floor. “As long as that’s all it is.”


“I don’t think so.” She breathed, holding the ladle askance, hand-over-hand as if wielding a sword. “Have you seen Proctor yet?”

“No.”

“Me neither, and that’s disturbing. What do you have that you can use, in case we find some friends?”

D’Agosta patted his hip and smiled. “Oi brawt me a pistwl, Oi did.”

“Bright lad.” She murmured, unimpressed. “We’re up here. Now what do we do?”

They looked around, the both of them transfixed by the various mounted skeletons and taxidermied animals that populated the upper floor like some hideous menagerie. One such artifact, a ‘sea-monkey’ as claimed by the faded bronze plaque on its glass case -in truth nothing more than a sturgeon’s tail sewn onto a shriveled gibbon’s corpse- stood in silent vigil across from a room at the far end of the hall, the only room with a light on. The two looked at each other, then ventured forth toward the brightly-lit chamber, tiptoeing against the straggling creak of the hardwood as they moved.

“Wait.” D’Agosta said, snatching Margo’s hand as she reached for the door handle. “The floor didn’t creak like this when I was here before, and that light’s too d*mn convenient. I think someone’s rigged this up on purpose, and not just on account of the bash downstairs. We need to be careful.”

Margo nodded, moving to the right of the door, then slowly reached for the burnished handle, feeling the cool, well-worn ornature rub against her skin as she twisted the metal knob in her hand, and then...something crisp and flat and ivory fluttered out from beneath the door, which had swayed open onto what appeared to be a small, single-window writing room. She bent down, picked the thing up. The ivory-colored object turned out to be a torn sheet of thick, creamy paper, clearly inscribed with Aloysius Pendergast’s neat, flowing script. “Look at this!” She said, smacking D’Agosta on the arm in alarm. Then Margo read the page aloud.

October the Fourth:

First, it was Michael.

I had just finished cataloguing Great-Uncle Antoine’s exceptional assortment of Tarot decks, Crowley, Rider-Waite, etc. when I began feeling somewhat light-headed from all the dust, and so thought perhaps I might take the air for a bit. Soon my penchant for reflection found me standing under the porte-cochère of the mansion on 891 Riverside Drive, watching the rain drift down in crystal sheets from the roof overhead, when I felt a sudden unwellness bubble up along my spine, only to settle upon my brain like a pall and burst, worming its’ way into my contemplations in the vein of some hellish miasma. With a shiver of recollection I realized, quite suddenly, that the peculiar sensation reminded me most vividly of my...transformative encounter...with the Agozyen on board the Britannia some months back.

My cranium was pounding, ringing with pain like a broken bell, as though some brutish, unseen implement were striking my skull on an uncomfortably steep incline and at very short distance. The ache crescendoed dizzily into a mental fog of sorts, sparking a strange sort of half-delusion in which I glimpsed what appeared to be the specter of Monsieur Michael Decker, who had been at once my friend, mentor and advocate among the Bureau’s more accomplished members. He was walking up to me through the rain, mouthing some unintelligible word, and then he vanished. But then, he had never been there to begin with. His honest presence was at best one highly improbable -if not impossible- notion, of course, being as that my brother had personally, most pointedly, in fact, seen to it that we would never speak again. His death had been a most exceptionally bruising affair, as had the others, to be truthful...but on with my soliloquy, as it were. If I had not felt so uniquely disturbed
by Michael’s wispy post-mortem appearance and the unaccustom frequency and fervor of my physical distress, I would have found the whole event quite, shall we say, psychologically engaging?

Ah, and speaking of engagement...Viola and I became somewhat...happily occupied that night. At dinner, I found occasion to speak of the headache and the odd vision it dredged from my mind, and she’d seemed concerned. I must say, at this point I almost didn’t share her sentiment on the subject, but I have found that it is always better to choose the wise path in such matters of fairer thought, and so I called on Dr. Bloom the next morning. Of all the terms bandied about in my personal physician’s company over the years, ‘severe tension headache’ has rarely, if ever, been one of them. But yet, that was what was mentioned as a possible cause for my rather straightforward symptomology. Odd, as I had expected to hear ‘vacation’ or ‘sleep deprivation’ at some time during the conversation, but I earned not even a ‘please’ from the good doctor, just a determined, feral smile and the vicious, oh-so-threatening flip of a prescription pad. Perhaps I should have scrounged about at
Feversham for a second opinion. To this day I shudder to think what might have occurred had I never seen that article on E8...

“Do you see? It’s Aloysius’ journal entry for the fourth of this month...” She said, poking her finger at a word near the beginning. “The Agozyen...that sounds Tibetan. I wonder if he is familiar with Alexandra David-Néel and her Fat Friar?...Look here! There’s a smudge over the word WAITE.”

“Yeah. Funny, that. Maybe we should go in and see if there are any more lying around.” D’Agosta mumbled, poking his thumb at the door, which was open only a sliver. “I always hated treasure hunts as a kid.”

Again Margo reached for the door, but this time it shook on its silvery hinges, swinging out in a kind of lagging sway, as if pushed by the wind. The thick, hung slab of painted wood connected with her shoulder, knocking her to the ground and stealing the breath from her lungs.

“Oh sh*t. Oh sh*t. Margo, you all right?” D’Agosta spat, pulling her away from the open door and glancing wildly about, one hand on his piece.

“Sure I am! But if I suffer a relapse of Frater Minoritis, remind me to blame it on our illustrious host.” She grinned, reaching for his arm, and the lieutenant’s dilating gaze soon became fixed on the sliver of light peeking out from the writing-room. The light was dimmer. He helped Margo to her feet and they both stared numbly at the door, weapons readied, as a strange, misshapen shadow swept across the floor toward them. The door edged open another foot, so very slowly, and the two, now looking at each other, proceeded to wait and watch, quivering as they huddled, he with his gun trained on the widening line of failing light, she with her black-iron ladle clutched tightly in whitening fingers. Abruptly the meager splinter of illumination spilling out from the little room flickered once and died, bringing a suffocating blackness down upon the upper hall. But then the door slipped open with a shuffling creak. Gun butt and ladle came crashing down, and then a warm, heavy something toppled forward, stickied and panting.


(2)

October the Thirteenth:

As it is Friday the 13th, after all, I find it only fitting to commit my latest subconscious conjuring to paper. Charles, my dearest Charles, was waiting beside my bed this morning. His neck was snapped, his skin chafed and purpled with hematoma. His limbs were bent in wicked, artful angles, just as when he had been flung from his apartment by my erstwhile younger brother. Hesitant, he looked at me with a clownish, curling grin that made me think of Mrs’ Krauss’s poor little Jobie at the end of their bittersweet sojourn in the specialized psych ward. It nearly seemed as though he wanted to embrace me in those broken-doll hands. I had thought myself quit of such sauntering animal self-cruelties after the Britannia, but again I must have woefully underestimated myself. Before his visage melted into the floor like sullen ice on hot pavement he smiled lovingly, and ultimately settled for taking my head, cupping my gaunt face in his impact-twisted digits. “...till...” Like the others, he murmured a fragment of speech into my ear, then he kissed both my cheeks, and slowly began to congeal on my antique Persian rug. A most unfortunate affair. However, thanks to that...visitation, I was able to decide upon a theme for my Hallows Eve festivities! I shall hold a costumed gala... But I feel it best not to elaborate to anyone on the particulars what spurred my sudden inspiration...lest one of my less-understanding companions fancy my committal, whereupon I may pitch myself into some useless depressive state just for the thrill of it.

Viola was worried, and has doubtless informed Proctor of my...inability to control myself. But thankfully dear Constance remains unaware, as yet. The idea that I am not completely myself is a thing she need not be burdened with, in her state. If things progress poorly and attract public attention, however, someone else may do it for me... best to keep Nora on that, I imagine. Perhaps I shall share my fears with her, and with Margo, if she will see me. I should so like to visit dear Miss Green at Feversham tomorrow, before she leaves. Something tells me I ought to be speaking to someone about this, but I hesitate to worry Viola further. Maybe Vincent, then? I am not used to being this...upset. In an attempt to lighten certain moods, I have informed everyone who would bother that my Hallow’s Eve Fete will be held here, at Riverside.”

“Do forgive me for that, Dr. Green, but I had to be certain it was you and not our...guest. I thank you both for not braining me. In any case, I found that page elsewhere in the house, and then there was the one that blew off the desk when I shut the window.” Proctor, dressed as a freshly-rumpled Horatio, said, calmly tossing eyes first at D’Agosta, then at Margo. “Before he disappeared yesterday, Dr. Pendergast urged me to peruse his journal. However, when I checked the desk where he keeps it, these pages were all I found. There must be more, hidden throughout the house. May I suggest in all vigilance that we arm ourselves and venture forth in shifts?”

Corrie Swanson pitched a white washcloth at him. “Oh, no. Once we break up into shifts we’re all screwed. You do watch movies, right? We’ll all be red shirts! No way. But whatever’s happened to Pendergast, it has to be weapon-worthy to keep his long white fingers away from the cake for this long.” A procession of witless, uncomprehending stares ensued, complimented by a lengthy silence. “What? Don’t give me that. It was in Relic, pg. 452 and 453! Oh, come on!” She held her paper cup of plain punch up to the light cast by the silver chandelier overhead. “We go as a mob, or not at all. Say, Proctor... where did you find that other page?”

Catching the washcloth deftly in one hand. Proctor gave a slight nod toward the grandmother clock. “Atop the timepiece. Perhaps someone dropped it from above?”

“Yeah. Upstairs again. My sentiments exactly, Miss Swanson, but there may be no choice but to split up, at least for now. We ought to establish guardstations or something, so no one gets lured off into a false water closet, or trapped in a secret brick alcove.” D’Agosta muttered, subconsciously caressing his off-duty pistol. “So Proctor, you uh...you do think Pendergast’s all right, just holed up in here somewhere, yeah? Have you seen Lady Maskelene, by any chance? I hope something hasn’t happened to her, after all this. Aloysius might come unhinged enough to...I don’t know...”

“...set his teddy bear on fire?” Corrie finished for him, nodding and patting him on the head like a little kid.

Proctor nodded again.

“Ah. I believe Miss Constance, eh, already took care of that.” He looked away, staring for a moment at a painting of odd stone stairs skirting bizarre angles round the inside of a stone structure. “I do so hope nothing has happened to Dr. Pendergast or Lady Maskelene. Miss Constance would be most distressed.”

“I’m already distressed!” A drunken Coffey mumbled, raising a finger-gloved hand stained with punch. A silver whistle dangled about his neck.

“Indeed sir. You are, how does the Lieutenant put it, quite sauced. Mightn’t you go and check the small chamber off the entryway for any pages? I will go with you, should you prefer.” When Coffey gave him a sloppy glare, Proctor returned it, then faced back to the rabble and shrugged. “I believe the kitchen and the vestibule remain unlocked. Should we search in the kitchen, we may find ourselves fortunate enough to happen upon a page. Speaking of pages, Dr. Pendergast once took one from Sherlock Holmes and suggested I hide some spare clips in the biscuit jar.” He grinned minutely as Coffey ambled off toward the mudroom, from whence the sounds of shuffling and prying could be heard. After some minutes a stillness settled over the house, and suddenly the evidence of Coffey’s rummaging presence had all but disappeared in the silence. “Hey, Constable Dingleberry!” Someone yelled. D’Agosta thought it must have been a rather happily snogged Smithback –dressed as Romeo, of all
things- ducking his head up from the hilariously inordinate sidetable display of cheeses at last. No answer, save a sharp thunking sound, and then came Juliet’s, or rather Nora’s, half-hearted admonishment. “Bill, if you fill your plate one more time, I’ll...” They didn’t seem to know what was up. Good for them.

All at once the revelling ceased as a sharp whistle sliced ears, setting those partygoers aware of the situation to nervous bristling. “Coffey?” D’Agosta called, drawing his piece again as he waved Proctor to the right of the widely-flung double doors, which were open. They slid into the room, weapons drawn, taking up stances for vantage every few feet. Nothing had been moved in the entry, and the grand mudroom off the porte-cochère was indeed vacant, if slightly moreso than it had been before, for Coffey was missing. There was, however, a small scuff near the door, as well as a sheet of paper. It was, of course, another journal entry.

“October the Nineteenth:

I have been in agony off and on for three days now, ever since I chanced upon a yellowed portrait of my sweet Helene.Odd to have found that where I did...odder still that I cannot seem to recall placing it there... In any case, too late did I deduce that due to these incessant migraines my self-indulgent, roiling guilt would find my injured sensibilities a far too succulent feast, since I did indeed choose to look upon her face for just a moment, perhaps longer than I should have, considering my feelings toward Viola. This morning after partaking of a small repast following a lovely night with my lady Maskelene, who had, peculiarly enough, still been asleep when I woke, I hallucinated the fade of Professor Hamilton, this whilst being accosted by a sudden, wracking haze of pain in which I nearly lost what meager breakfast I’d managed. That I should have seen him today while mired in my latest painful lapse was unnerving, and what was more, the ache seemed to strengthen briefly with his image, and lingered for nearly a full hour after his apparition had fled from the fullness of my attention. His fingers drew forms in the steam of the window, and he stared back at me, his eyes bound and rotten as though in grotesque parody of the Delphi oraculum, ruined mouth working, gnawing a single unbrought word in mangled Latin, and I felt an almost desperate yearning to bolt away and cleanse myself. But then he was gone from me again, yet still the pounding was bright in my thoughts, like an off-key symphony of clacking jaws champing away at my disciplines. With some effort I stilled myself, found a chair in which to stiffen my trembling limbs, and began to consider seriously the growing probability that I would require more leave.

On a happier note, Viola showed me pictures of her decorative vision for the main hall, an unconventional yet delightfully hypnotic meshing of Escher and A Midsummer Nights’ Dream. A rather elegant idea, even sweet I daresay, from the detailing of silver vines on the porte-cochère to the fascinating paintings of false staircases and passageways that will soon adorn any passages we don’t want prying eyes to explore. Still, despite our precautions, I do so hope none of the guests find their way downstairs...we wouldn’t want a re-enactment of The Cask...too many unpleasant memories for the lot of us. Thankfully enough, when we are together the migraines seem to dissipate. Perhaps I needed the diversion of Viola’s company.”

“And that, as they say, is that.” Proctor said, once he’d finished reading the page aloud. “Quite unfortunate to have misplaced Mr. Coffey. But we did gain another page. Sir, Miss.” Proctor reasoned with utmost practicality, eyes skirting back and forth from one end of the room to the other, as though looking for signs of recent disturbance. “I believe I shall lock these in order to diminish the playing field, lest our lurking foe should think to give an encore performance.” He shut the doors, and there was a soft click behind him.


(3)

“...and right under my nose, too.” Smithback murmured, shoving his hand through his hair, which only served to agitate his cowlick. Nora took his arm and leaned against him, searching his face. “Oh? Knowing you, you’re probably in on it. Whatever IT is.” She quipped drily, plucking playfully at a few errant strands of his unruly hair. At that moment Smithback fell to goggling in the direction of a certain barefooted noblewoman who was gliding down the stairs. “Lady Maskelene!” He cried, and everyone stopped to look. Viola was wearing a tumbling gray gown of silk strips and silver leaves, plain and flowing. A circlet of dried herb-sprigs nestled atop her glowing red-brown tresses, which seemed to retain the starry dampness of dew. She was wearing puttied elf-ears, though one could hardly tell they weren’t her own flesh, and her glistening skin was awash with the pallid gleam of frosted green and gold. An unadorned porcelain half-mask rested over her features, obscuring her
face in milky effigy as she fluidly placed first one foot, then the other down upon the silver runner at the foot of the staircase.

“Oberon!” She called with strength, lifting her moon-shaded eyes to the silver-laden chandelier and down again. Her hands raised above her head as she approached them and she played her supple fingers through the air with a triumphant smile, as if tasting something unsavored for years. “We have come seeking Council.” From out of nowhere, a cream-clad figure appeared in the greatroom, silver-shoed and silver-washed and clad in trailing grey. A long white hand pinched a sprig of nightshade between two sculpted pearly fingernails, while the other hand reached to gentle a concealing half-mask of baroque white porcelain and never fell, as though nursing an unspent ache. Silver eyes looked out upon the meager crowd from the ivory shadow of the bisque, as the Lord of Faerie flicked his gaze about, perhaps eager to find fault with the Court that was called.

“Indeed, my Titania.” The silvered lips, commanding, uttered three words in airy display, and the watchers grew still. “And oh what Council thou hast summoned this Eve! Perchance a tempting aimed to flare my temper. Or perhaps a gift, to assuage me in the matter of the Puck. Your roguish jongleur has proven rampant, my Queen. His aggregate, querulous in their mirth, are tromping through the streets, demanding offering!” The bright and risen silver eyes, glittering baubles in their bisque hollows, alighted on Corrie, and Oberon spoke once more. “What say you, my Puck, my favorite son, to this? What would’st thou speak that I might refrain from naming thee a quarrelsome troubler, and casting thy errant nature out from my sprawling abode?”

Corrie Swanson swept her whitened head down in a deep, cross-legged bow and straightened, squaring gazes with the Faerie King as though she were a lord in her own right. “I say we ought to feed their vices. Let them cheer you as benevolent, and we shall see what glories our minions fashion for their Lord.”

“Oh! And they are ours, now! What tack! What tongue! Oh, thou art wily, jongleur!”

She smiled, bowed again. “As I am thine, my Lord, to be sure.” And then, under her breath, a whispered retort surfaced, breaking the silence. “Oh, it sprawls all right. All those summer homes must cost you a fortune...heh.”

With a practiced sigh, Oberon held his head and slumped visibly, spurring Corrie and the rest to a fit of muffled snickering that soon burst into an all-out rowe of raucous laughter. Queen Titania moved toward her Lord, placing a hand on his shoulder as he removed his mask. “A marvelous discourse, Corrie dear.” Pendergast murmured sardonically, waving his white bisque mask about with his usual predatory flourish. “Heavens! And to think, in the Dark Ages you’d have been burned at the stake as a child.”

“You first, Pendergast. And please! A tart, overly-generalized reference to the Not So GreatWitch Hunts? Is that the best you can do?And to think you have a doctorate in Philosophy. Forsoothe! HA!”

“Um-hm. Bested by a half-pint nearly thirty years my junior. Whatever shall I do? Wherever shall I go?” The slim white hand went up, rising in a perfect imitation of the cliché. “And I hold multiple doctorates, Miss Swanson. I must proclaim, when I named you Puck, I never dreamt that my decision would prove so, shall we say, apt?”

“Now, Aloysius...” Viola added thoughtfully, setting a long finger aside her chin. “...if you were to stop verbally stalking Corrie and myself, there may be some homemade butter cake and crème fraîche with almonds in it for you...”

This little contribution brought the duel to a stellar crescendo, whereupon the two of them proceeded to go at it full force, signalling the start of the second round.

“I don’t need you to save me, Lady Maskelene! He’s the one who’s going to need...”

“I agree completely, Viola dear! Why really-there’s just no lasting competition here for my level of intellect...Couldn’t you just, eh, let me see that butter cake first, hm? Just a little peek, strictly for...motivational purposes?”

The crowd, meanwhile, proceeded to bob its collected heads back and forth between the three of them as they battled vigorously for some minutes. “Aloysius?” Lady Maskelene asked in a tripping murmur, moving to his side. “You win. I never could outlast you. Why don’t you go and retrieve the marzipan you made this morning, and snatch yourself a bit of my butter cake while you’re about it?”

“As you like it, my Queen.” Aloysius nodded and immediately dropped into a taut, eloquent bow, hesitating only a moment before he straightened and left, practically skipping his retreat into the kitchen.

Following a miniature symphony of barely audible clacks and dings, the sweet scent of butter cream, married with a subtle hint of fruit essence and spun sugar, wafted in from the pantry area. But just then the lights flickered, and a most unexpected sound emanated from the kitchen, a thudding, ephemeral crash of such abrasive violence that limbs tensed for flight, shattering the mood into tiny, mostly irretrievable pieces.


(4)

“Aloysius?” Viola cried out, the word hoarse with alarm as it shoved past her lips. Eyes were on her as she moved toward the kitchen doors, the rich frames of dark wood seeming to quake with her approach. Yet she flung them open and stared at the scene before her as if removed from all of it, letting the beautiful bisque half-mask slip from her fingers as though it were a rotted thing. And indeed it must have been old, for it struck the floor and shattered instantly, irreparably, into a little cloud of jagged shurds and white dust. But the vision what caused it proved far worse, for as the party-goers peered into the kitchen, they glimpsed a man they knew, holding a wicked cake knife that dripped crimson onto the oversized black and white diamonds of the floor, clutching his head and murmuring to himself. “I’m sorry. There was an accident...” He said softly, his face low, his eyes closed and unseen. Then he sank against the marble counter, bloodying it. A jagged, hideous pile of fluffy golden cake crumbs and brightly-colored broken candies lay at his feet, unnoticed. A thirsty, floury ruins, with mindless greed it soaked up the blood trickling from the wound and the knife, swelling with the moisture of it.

“So red...” Aloysius managed with childlike vagueness, considering his deeply-sliced hand as though it were some brilliant trinket. Despite this, the uninjured hand never stayed in its massaging, even as the pale skin of his forehead was smudged with scarlet tinges. “My skull...it aches terribly...” Still, his beautiful eyes remained closed.

Wordlessly Proctor stepped forward and took his arm. Lady Maskelene removed a limp grey tippet and tied it tight about the wound, then the both of them took pains guiding Pendergast’s dragging feet to a chair in the sitting room. “Forgive us, everyone.” She offered, catching each face with a glance and gazing gravely into it. “He’s suffered such horrific migraines, of late. I had to badger him into calling Dr. Bloom.” Viola turned to Margo and D’Agosta, motioning to the pages they still held. “I take it you attempted the...treasure hunt? The other two pages ought to be about somewheres. They will tell you what I cannot, for I have not yet seen them. Nor was I fortunate enough to discover where they were placed. Normally, in the interest of expedience I would council you to inquire after them directly, but Aloysius is in no condition now to give you any useful information. So please, if you would leave us for a moment?”

With that, the double doors onto the sitting room closed, barring her countenance from the crowd.

“What pages?” Corrie quipped, suddenly attentive. “You two aren’t going to hog all the excitement, not after that. I have to know what’s going on with him!”

D’Agosta and Margo handed them to her as they mulled over the contents. Then Corrie shared them with William and Nora, who simply stared at each other in somber dismay.

“Horrible.” Said Smithback, rubbing Nora’s shoulders as he looked at her. “I hate to think what’s going through his mind, right now. I hate to think what it could be that would drive a man like him to migraines. Let me play cryptographer! I’ll decipher these first three pages while all of you go and dig up the rest of them, okay? Nobody here wants Pendergast fielding the shame of a one-way trip to Feversham awake or asleep...”

Nora frowned at him then, remembering the last time she had left him alone to pry. “Don’t get lost, Bill. I mean it. I couldn’t take that.”

“I’ll be good, Nora! There’s no way I could pass up a chance like this! It’s Pendergast’s private journal we’re talking about! It’s a rare opportunity to get inside his head. Besides, Marian and Little John are both in the next room, fussing over poor Loxley’s paper cut.”

Suppressing a smile, she smoothed his cowlick with a wetted finger. “Just make sure you don’t run into trouble. This house could still be dangerous.”

Then she followed the others out into the main foyer, where the lonely punch table sat, its spicy aroma keeping a kind of warming company with the procession of foreign cheeses.

Hands nipped half-heartedly at the cooling offerings, and a murmur of discussion rose beneath the dim light of the silver chandelier.

“He ought to see that Dr. Bloom of his.” D’Agosta muttered, gnawing at a cheese roll and pausing occasionally to attack his punch like a man dying of thirst. “Too bad Proctor’s the only one with the number. Aloysius doesn’t count ‘cause he’s ah, not here. That only leaves Viola, and she doesn’t know the number, judging from what she said about having to force the issue.”

Margo sighed, and the bright of her eyes took on a certain feral gleam. “So we’re back to the chauffeur...but he’s in there with Viola, and we probably shouldn’t go in there and stir everything up.” She turned to Nora. “Corrie, Lieutenant, Dr. Kelly...may I suggest we check the kitchen again? There may have been some method involved in that little display.”

Everyone looked at her, including Nora, whose gaze now lit with understanding. “Of course! But why? He was obviously not himself. Those pages may not prove anything except that poor Aloysius has...inherited the family tendency toward depravity.”

Margo glared and shook the notes under the archaeologist’s nose. “Oh please, Nora! What are you, five? You’re just as intrigued as we are. Time to admit it and get to work solving this strangeness before it gets out of hand. And while we’re at it, we ought to take note of how and where each page was obtained. Something’s fishy in Riverside, and it’s not the Hudson.”

“As long as we find pages and not pirahna. Or lumbering sociopaths with dollies. I like my life.” Corrie piped up, drawing her finger across her neck in a long,drawn-out slitting motion. “Hey. If it turns out to be nothing, at least he’s put on quite a show...”

“Yeah. We all seem to have some experience in this, so...off to the kitchen, I suppose.” D’Agosta said, leafing through the three pages already in their possession. “And like you said, Margo-there seem to be faint smudges over certain words...perhaps he’s trying to tell us something. But why the drama? It’s over the top, even for him. Precaution is best, I think, as there may be something else going on.” He patted his weapon, urging the others to either find one or acquire another before entering. “I’m starting to feel like one of Prospero’s thousand friends, only He’s no Prospero, and that’s what troubles me.” Then he tacked himself onto the last of the line and they headed for the pantry once more.

One by one they made their way into the kitchen, vigilant of the blood and managing somehow to avoid the remains of cake and marzipan now smushed across the floor in what almost seemed a pattern. The biscuit jar sat tantalizingly off to one side of the marble counter, just on the other side of the room.

“An obscure reference to Poe. How adroit of you, Vincent. And thank you.” A familiar voice mused with temporaneous softness. D’Agosta stiffened, then relaxed when he realized who had spoken. Strange, that it had taken him so long to recognize who was speaking.

“Son of a...Aloysius, how-how did you? I thought you were...” Then he saw it. Aloysius Pendergast was standing there, in the doorframe, a finely-polished rapier in his hand. The blade, dripping something dark, indescribable and scarlet, was kissing the floor, scraping into the black and white diamond tiles as he moved. His eyes were shadowed and dark, closed against the soft light echoing from the high-hung antique pendulum lamps. In his other hand, the half-mask gleamed like molded moonlight-also drenched in deep red-damaged, perhaps, from the earlier incident.

“I was not myself when I summoned you here. Take everyone and get out. Something is...horribly, dreadfully wrong in this house. Please!” His eyes began fluttering in their sleep, as if holding something back, and D’Agosta began to feel something alien to him in this man’s presence. Unaccustom and tepid, fear’s sweet touch crawled chillingly up his spine with such sudden force that he took a step back. No one else moved. They were enthralled, transfixed by their own disbelief.

“Right. What about you? The journals? Viola and Proctor?” D’Agosta found himself saying the words, even as he tried his d*mndest not to stare at the wicked, gleaming rapier draining what was surely fresh blood onto the striking black and white tile floor.

Pendergast’s smile was weary, and he seemed far away, far more distant than he should have been. Almost as though he were drowning. “Strange how they create such a unity of contrast isn’t it? Black, white, red...and red the most lovely of all...I...oh! Forgive me, my friend.” He paused for a moment, suddenly as entangled in his own thoughts as D’Agosta had ever seen him. Then, recovering quickly, he went on as if he hadn’t just touched his head again.

“Those two...are in better shape than I. Be wary, if you choose to stay. Of me most of all. Search in here, but do it quickly. You must make haste, dear Vincent.” He turned, gazed with shuttered eyes at Margo Green, Corrie and Nora, seeing without seeing. “Margo. Corrie. If it becomes hopeless, run. And Nora...I will attend to William’s safety.” Then the agent flung the doors closed, and there was a soft click. A low moan followed, faint and yet so near D’Agosta could have sworn that the agent was still there, leaning against the doors and breathing, as though he were some perilous invalid, run afoul of Bedlam.

“Geez. That was, like, straight out of ‘The Fall of the House of Usher’, man.” Corrie rasped, nailing the situation squarely to the baleful whisper of Pendergast’s quick, retreating footsteps as her gaze panned apprehensively in that direction. “He said we could check in here, so let’s get cracking. I’m beginning to smell those pirahna.”


(5)

Eyes closed against the light, Aloysius Pendergast ran his hand along the rich, curving ornature of the kitchen doors he had just locked, feeling the warmth of the dark grain embed itself in him, if only for a little while. He took what comfort he could in that small bit of heat, for he was beginning to feel cold again. This time, he was prepared. Through the glaze of pain that was a constant companion now, it all came rushing back to him, every blood-sodden recollection playing like some menacing minuet, proclaiming the disruption in the mind of its composer, that the whole world should glimpse it and go mad. Relinquish oneself to one’s demise, and be calm in the face of destruction. “Lead me into all misfortune...” He gasped aloud, suddenly breathless with the weight of what he was about to undertake. He opened his eyes, glimpsing his reflection in the fine, needle-like length of the rapier blade. They glanced back at him, skewed by refraction, two slivers of spectacular silver-blue peering out from the metal. Abruptly, an entirely different movement caught his attention, and as he followed the line of the staircase up he glimpsed what could have been the figure of a woman standing there, gowned in white. Could have been, perhaps should have been. Instead there was thick fog where the sharp lines of life ought to have held in flesh, the features mere vague outlines edged in the eloquence of snow. As it floated toward him, he smelled the gritty salt of arid earth, heard the tromp of rooting bristle-pigs, and then, for a moment, upon his face there fell the crisp, dry cracking kiss of winds he had known once, the wild, harsh breath of the Serengheti. Renewed by this, he forced himself to look on the approaching form as he had so many times before, and a dull ache sprouted between his eyes as the thing advanced, mindless despite the painful substance gifted by his memory. It could have closed the gap between them with ease, instead at a slight gesture from him it stopped when it was some five or six paces away, fluxing in place, its cloudy, revenant visage gaining some measure of distinctive contour from their propinquity. Fingers and toes emerged from the fog, long, delicate, unblurred by years or decay, and a feminine face grew from the shadows, lit by empty orbs like stars that once had laughed. Now they shone aimlessly, pallid and doll-like, two frozen seas framed by the trickling ghost of sun-washed tresses.

“Helene.” Pendergast said aloud, and the whispered plea almost chapped his lips with its urgency. “Alas! Not satisfied with acquaintance, in desperation my guilt has filched your form, and now it seeks to flay me with its teeth. En garde.”



He concentrated on the sword in his hand, remembering its image to the tulpa, and soon a rapier, twin to his own, was gleaming in the creature’s grasp. “After you.” He took stance, carefully placing his feet as he swayed into a graceful arc, blade over his head, free hand beckoning, legs together, his lines placid and patient as though awaiting a tea chime. “I tend toward a style-of-no-style approach, myself. As such, I have no problem waiting. Attack when you will.”

Raising the sword a half-inch, the thing named Helene lurched to vicious life, leaping down the stairs and landing briefly in a cloud of white, lacy streams, only to spin on one foot at the bottom and fly toward him, blade gleaming with motion as it twisted in mid-lunge.

Down! Came his wrist in quarter turn, sending a tremor of force through his arm as blade met blade, twin swords glancing away from each other as his parry drove it back. It flew forward, footwork kicking air like feathers against the hardwood floor of the greatroom, the rapier light in its hands while it laughed and danced aside from his blade, as if his thrusts were nothing but a harmless breeze rising up from the river to toussle its garb of mist.

He spun, drawing it behind him with a backslice, but it kissed his forearm with its edge, drawing a beaded line of blood across his white skin. He ignored the flesh wound, smiling thinly as he pulled back into a tight defensive posture, right foot planted firmly against the floor before him, copying the direction of his blade with palm spread wide over the slim hilt. As if sensing his resolve, the thing named Helene skidded to a halt before him as he took position, testing his stamina.

Suddenly its dead blue eyes skirted toward a set of doors, and as the rakish figure of a man entered, his sparring partner melted away, blowing into nothingness like so much dust. Still, it had been a productive match. Thoroughly winded by the colossal exertion of maintaining control over the tulpa while engaging in a grueling session of cut-and-thrust, Pendergast sagged against the wall. Wordless for once, Smithback came to him, stuffed an arm under his and pulled him to a chair, where he quickly caught his breath enough to speak. “E8, Mr. Smithback. Ask Lotus Blossom, if you want. What you just saw was, in a way, a specter of my guilt, and what skill I’ve gained in restraining it pertains directly to my jaunt in Bhutan, and the maiden voyage of the Britannia. You realize the futility of committing any of this to print, I trust?”

Smithback simply nodded, unable to process. Still, words came. “What about Nora and the others? Won’t that thing...”

Pendergast smiled weakly and shook his head. It was the tiniest of movements. “My dear William, I will not allow it. Suffice it to say that Viola, Proctor and myself sent all of you on a ghost-hunt, as it were, a mere precaution. That this particular ghost just happens to be real is of little consequence, at the moment. secrets, except of course the usual harmless, amusing kind.” He laughed, if a little wearily, seeming at last to recover himself somewhat. “You mustn’t worry. Everything is going according to plan. After all...” He gestured to the kitchen doors, silver eyes twinkling. “..my fetes ARE legendary.”

William Smithback Jr. grinned uneasily then, and knelt beside Pendergast’s wing chair. “Thy years art Forty and Seven, my Lord. Mayhap it is time to retire? Nab a bit of pie in the sky, as it were? Surely my Lord is not adverse to the ken of a fool...already it be eleven of the clock.”

The agent laughed at this, his alabaster face brightening with that rarest and smallest of his smiles as he took the hand the man offered and held it to one side, just afar of his white lips. “Oh, what arch be found in knaves...” Closing his eyes once more, he settled himself back tiredly then continued, waving the newsman off with a feeble nod of his slender wrist. “Oh, be gone. Go thou to thy Bellibones and attest to thy safety. Be quit of me! Thou and thy flaming tongue are thus beseeched. Go, and ring thy folly bells else-where, that I may drift knowing thy plots are left unspun.”

Smithback bowed his head, rose. He then headed for the roundabout way into the kitchen, stopping only briefly to catch a breathed whisper from the man in the chair. “And thank you, William.”

“Good morrow, my Lord.” He answered, feeling lifted. “And rest well.” Then, with a song in his proverbial step, William Smithback Jr. disappeared into the darkness of a servant’s passage, headed toward the kitchens.


(6)

“Let’s see...not there...”

“Not there...”

“Ooh! I think I found the bat wings...wait, wait, yep. Bat wings.”

“Jesus Christ what’s that? And that? And that...nope. No luck here.”

“Found it!” Margo said, cupping the lid of a biscuit jar that was an exact replica of the one in the Basil Rathbone film. After a bit of careful digging she extracted their prize, a crisp sheet of thick cream paper, and was waving it about, dispelling white cracker crumbs over the immaculate black and green marble counter. Upon closer inspection, the surface was found to be embedded with cross-sections from all over the fossil record, from archaeopteryx to coelycanthus, from cotyledon to eohippus, and ad infinitum from there. She shivered with excitement. It was beginning to seem as if every inch of the mansion was going to resemble a Cabinet...then she looked down at the page. “Wait, no. This is just some sort of grocery list. Looks like Constance’s handwriting. Let’s see:


rat poison
sugar cubes
polishing oil
dulce de leche
knife sharpener
tongue depressors


“Well, that was...different.”

“Huh. You’re telling me.”

“Look at us, rummaging around in his pantry like ants at the sugar.” D’Agosta remarked with wryness. “Aren’t we the Baker Street Irregulars...”

“Yeah, man. The only thing missing is Watson. Oh, wait...” Her face distinctly deadpan, Corrie Swanson directed slitted eyes his way, snickering viciously. “...nevermind.”

“Reminds me of that dinosaur movie.” Nora said flatly, pointing out all the odd little –and not so little- antique cooking implements hanging from racks on the ceiling. “There’s enough cookware in here to feed a small militia. Not Bill, though. Not by a longshot.” She shrugged her shoulders and snuggled into herself, feeling a sudden surge of affection at the mention of Smithback, who was probably sloshed into oblivion where they’d left him in the main hall, hourding gourmet cheeses by the fistful.

“You’re not going to launch into song, are you?” This from Margo, whereupon a stiff silence erupted in the room, followed by what should have been wild laughter. Instead, a sudden resounding thud diverted their attentions, freezing them in place.

“Ouch! I mean, tweet-tweet. Oh, great. Hey Nora! It’s me! I can’t figure this trapdoor...”

Nora cocked her head at the sound of Smithback’s voice, suddenly intent upon the wall paneling, and began feeling along it for catches and depressions. “Bill!” She exclaimed when he stumbled out from a dumbwaiter carefully concealed by paneling. “What are you doing in there?”

“I wanted to have a look around?”

“Right, Smithback. Clearly you’ve gone over to the enemy. So, Pinocchio! Once we get all these pages together, what happens? Do we get to pull an Alice and go through the looking glass? Find the golden stub? Go to candyland? What?” Vincent D’Agosta was clearly becoming upset.

“Well, not exactly...” Smithback proffered, reaching for the newest page they’d collected. “But Pendergast obviously wants us to figure this out. And since I’m fairly certain he realizes that some people don’t have the complete works of Shakespeare committed to memory, it must be something that we can reason out with minimal effort. I was talking with him earlier after this odd little sparring session he had with some mysterious woman...could’ve been the housekeeper for all I know. He even seemed a bit worn afterward, so she must have really run him ragged. Anway, what I’m saying is, he didn’t tell me a thing. We just talked about the weather. You know how he is.”

“You can say that again.”

“Actually, no I don’t. Remind me.” Margo was onto him. She had to be.

“But, Lotus Blossom!”

“Don’t Lotus Blossom me, William Smithback. You know something, and I intend to find out what.”

“Lotus...Blossom? I suppose I ought not to ask. Still...” Nora murmured, eyeing them.
Smithback slumped in defeat, hanging his head like a drooping daisy, cowlick and all. He spoke, once more trying unsuccessfully to smooth back his hair. “He said something about E8, then he mentioned that weird incident on the Britannia.”

“E8. Tibet. Bhutan. Those strange deaths on the Britannia...the Agozyen. He’s created a tulpa! I knew it! My god, he really...” Margo cried, clutching at her blackiron ladle as though it were a liferaft. “How fascinating...”

“I’m lost.” D’Agosta said, frowning slightly as he looked from Smithback to Nora to Margo and back again. “What are we so happy about?”

Nora and Margo just stared at him, then nodded. “In Tibetan doctrine, it’s possible to summon a...physical manifestation of one’s subconscious will. But the techniques are rough, exorbitantly difficult...it wouldn’t be stable...still, that must have been what happened on the ocean liner. He must have used one to save the ship! My god! Nora, do you realize the implications?”

But Nora was no longer listening. Instead, her gaze had focused, sharp and quick, upon the double doors leading into the kitchen. A pale, shoeless woman stood there, with flowing silvery-sandy tresses spilling like waves over her bare shoulders. White linen swirled about her lithe form, brightening her outline as though she were some munificent goddess descended from the lathes of Heaven. Her dark eyes watched them, unmoving. But the doors were still locked. They stood still, feeling hairs rise on their necks as she moved closer to them. Her delicate white hand rose in offering, holding a thick sheet of cream-colored paper up to the light...it read:

October the Thirtieth:

The Day Before The Fete.
I may have spoken too soon when last I wrote in these pages, for today has been upsetting enough to bring on an entirely new dimension of headache...someone, probably Mime, has hacked, Hacked! into the guest list, and added Agent Coffey’s name to its number. I don’t imagine he’ll take my advice and attend in character as Constable Dogberry, however. The mere sight of him on such display would so take my mind away from certain unpleasantries, but it’s simply too much to hope for. Ah, but there is someone at the door. Perhaps it is Viola with some few last-moment adjustments to our plans...come to show off her Titania costume for the Fete, perhaps? Where is Proctor? Probably at the punch and cordials. My spiced punches are, after all, quite legendary, but really! Well, to be fair I ought to amend that. The man is entitled to some carousing. Quite the hand with a sniper rifle, my man Proctor is, with almost any weapon, truthfully. I should be back in a moment. Strange that I didn’t hear Viola’s footsteps on the stairs, but my head is proving bothersome again, so...it is far from surprising. All the better that Constance is still studying in Bhutan, otherwise she’d have been suspicious from the start, and undoubtedly would have force-fed me some of that horrid aspirin and duct-taped Bloom’s prescription to my forehead in my sleep. Come to think of it, she probably would have duct-taped me to my bed...The fact that I shall soon be visiting Bhutan somewhat more regularly is also beneficial, the need for explanation having been obviated by recent revelations.Truth be told, as soon as this Fete is over I fear I shall pass out from sheer frustration. I am having difficulty meditating... These headaches have me seeing double, but Viola hasn’t been sleeping well, so I oughtn’t to worry her with this. Regardless of these minor problems, I am up, and off to greet her.

The paper was folded carefully, set on the counter, and forgotten.

Then the doors opened with a soft click, and Aloysius Pendergast stepped inside, tossing a glance around the room before grasping the counter for support like a staggering drunk. “Forgive me everyone.” The agent said quietly, bright-eyed and nearly jovial despite the obvious pallor in his cheeks. “This is Helene Ligeia Pendergast.” He said, gazing at the woman for only a minute or so, yet that minute seemed to last a millenia. Then he straightened, forcing himself to breathe, to speak. “My dead wife.”


(7)

“Two things, if you will.” Viola said softly once they had all gathered again in the sitting room, her dark eyes flicking over the agent as he rested in a chair. “He is tired. And all of you must know by now that he has such trouble letting go. Both are understandable. I cannot blame him. As I understand it, her wounds were quite...”

Shaky with fatigue, a slim white hand moved in quarter turn, cutting her off with one silent motion. “Please, dearest. Not yet. I cannot bear that memory yet.”


The Helene-thing wavered then, fluctuating as if wrought with indecision. Then it shimmered, popping swiftly out of existence with a lingering glance toward the mudroom.

“Aloysius...” Viola said, rising from her chair. “...if you don’t rid yourself of your guilt, you know what could happen. I...don’t want to see you like this. When at last you have cast your grief upon the plain where it belongs, the Valley of the Kings will welcome you, as will I. Good night.” Then she bent over him, leaning in to place a feathery peck across his too-gaunt cheek. For an instant, his bone-white hand tightened almost imperceivably on the chair-arm, as if locked in struggle with something, but then he nodded, and sank back in exhausted repose. As she backed away, defeat, strange and terrible in its ferocity, shone in his eyes at first, but then something else more dreadful still began to gleam there, and all at once his features lost what little color they still possessed. Guests forgotten, he forced himself to his feet, his silver eyes fluttering wildly between Lady Maskelene’s retreating figure and the modified tulpa he had fashioned in the visage of his
late wife. It hovered at his shoulder, flickering like a candle as he watched Viola’s taxi speed away down the street. But the manifestation did not disappear as before, instead it lingered, looking toward the open door then back at him, waiting.

He was dishevelled now, his clothes in such disarray that he hardly seemed the same man he’d been just moments before, when he’d greeted them for a second time with something approaching his usual mixture of drama and grace. His hand fled to his temples again and he massaged the smooth flesh with methodical precision, oblivious to the throng of anxious faces around him. Instantly he took to walking the floor, too frantic to notice that the tulpa was moving toward him...reaching for him...

His houseguests tried to speak, found they could not. Instead their fear forced them to watch, sitting in silence as the creature who so resembled Pendergast’s beloved came nearer and nearer to him. “Aloysius.” It mouthed with softness, smiling gently, cooing to him as though he were an errant child and she the matron of orphans calling him in from play at sunset.

“Oh my sweet Helene...” He breathed, reaching for a gun he kept hidden. Then, fingers trembling the while, he aimed at her lily breast. The barrel rose slowly, painfully, and agony, thick and blatant, scraped across his face as from a blow. “I did kill you then, didn’t I, so many years ago? Yes, I did. I murdered you and buried your body in the Bush, before the boar king’s aggregate could finish goring you to carrion. Even now, Deepest Africa still holds your corpse within her rushing bosom. I shot you through the heart, near the stand we’d rigged to track the running of those wild pigs upon the Plain. Your blood seeped into the cracked earth, yet did not quench it. How was it then, that even You could not abate that parched land’s thirst?”

The shade took his face in its hands. “Did you give me a chance to?” It seemed to say, laughing at him. Then the revenant became a thing of smoke, white and billowing, and leapt into his chest, pouring into him as though trying to fill a sieve. In lagging, languid answer, he dry-fired the handgun only once, having chosen her destruction for a second time as she had looked on him, and as the ringing of the report cleared from the room, the pallid doll of smoke, too, grew less and less until it was no longer.

Wearied for the moment beyond his capacity for speech, Pendergast promptly slumped to his knees as though in prayer, his limbs long since gone to water with the effort of long-avoided decision.

“I took the liberty of calling Bloom, sir.” Proctor proclaimed calmly as he crossed the room to tend to his employer. “Do forgive me, but the Doctor was more than eager to stop by. I fear for the sanctity of the evening.” It almost seemed admonitory, if not for the big man’s obvious concern as he slipped an arm under Pendergast’s own and hauled him to his feet.

“Furthermore, might I suggest you retire to your room with a sizeable brandy snifter?” The chauffeur mused gravely, stretching a hand toward the liquor cabinet. “The good doctor is going to find your current wretched condition ample fodder for an extended stay at Feversham, especially if you cannot sufficiently relax before the car arrives. And we all are quite aware of how very much you despise going to Hospital...”

But Pendergast was in no mood. The agent merely dragged his fingers over his face, and reaching his widow-peaked hairline, smoothed his white-blonde hair back into a semblance of decency. “Forsoothe!” He shuddered. “But I wouldn’t be so sure of Lady Maskelene’s departure just yet, my eager compatriot.” Blinking smugly, he withdrew a small booklet and some papers from somewhere on his person, which set Smithback and Carrie to snickering when he opened his mouth to speak once more. “I took the liberty of lifting her passport from the locked suitcase where she keeps her, ah, lacy underthings.”

D’Agosta meanwhile, had managed to open his mouth and was attempting speech, though words had yet to form. Margo and Nora were pointing and staring, eyes dilating to the size of small moons, yet the chauffeur never moved, never even blinked. The man was an occurrence unto himself.

“Hah! I knew it! You do have chutzpah after all!” Corrie cried, falling on the floor in a snickering fit of hysterical laughter.

“Good gracious me, the look on your faces! My goodness. But never mind. Viola will be returning in a moment. That was just a ruse to distract the tulpa so I could reabsorb it! Ah, would anyone care for some of the –actual- butter cake? Some marzipan? I, for one...” Aloysius started, but a soft mumbling interrupted him.

“It’s a trick of the light. That’s what it is. It’s a d*mn trick of the light.” D’Agosta murmured flatly, pulling a five-year-old cigar from his pocket and lighting it on a tall white candle that glowered from the mantelpiece. “Mirrors. Trick doors. Legerdemain. Hey, did you hear something?” He cupped his ear and bent over the fireplace, straining to catch what he’d thought he’d heard. “Ya know, I could have sworn there was someone else here at the beginning of this, but, for the life of me...nah. It’s probably just some kids scaling the walls or something. You do have the burning pitch and refuse at the ready, right?”

Pendergast just smiled and slid a long white finger languidly over his lips. “Oh, I suppose...but really, you needn’t worry yourself over trifles, dear Vincent. And besides,” He mused, his silver eyes skirting toward the mudroom, brimming with wicked intent. “I have something much better waiting in the basement.”

“Not...” Nora clapped a hand to her mouth, suddenly white-faced.

The agent shook his pale head vigorously, his features greying with apology as he realized what she meant. “Oh, heavens no! What kind of-” Then he stopped, because she had raised her hand and was pointing it at him, blushing as she tried unsuccessfully to contain her all-too-obvious amusement.

“I got you. Admit it.” She said, grinning.

His silver-blue eyes lowered in deference, glittering like mercury in the dim light. “That may be, but what for an encore?”

“Oh, I could think of a few things...” Margo interjected, looking from D’Agosta to Smithback and back again. “Le grand souris en brochette, anyone?” She held up the ladle and waved it menacingly.

Fixing his wintry grin in place, Pendergast swallowed. “Yes...and I would be the first one to mention it, Dr. Green. Did any of you manage to reason out my journal?”

Smithback smiled and held up the final page. “ Wait till Helene comes. Waite, from Rider-Waite! Then till, then the other words. Too easy! I had it before I even got here!”

A collective groan ensued, but Smithback would have none of it.

“Really, Bill-I think that’s pushing it.”

“No, Nora, seriously! I already knew his wife’s name, see? I saw them spar in the foyer. Then, when he mentioned E8 and the Britannia, I figured it out. Slick, huh?”

“Slick? I’ll show you slick, Slick! Lotus Blossom...honestly!”

“Now, wait a minute! Ow!”

“You think that hurt, William Smithback Jr? You just wait!”

“Hey, don’t pinch me there!”

Moving to stand by D’Agosta near the fire, Agent Pendergast watched from slitted eyes as husband and wife embraced cheerfully, turning away just as their gazes met to afford the two lovebirds some time in private. Sagging in leisure against the facade, he brought the documents in his hand up to his face and pressed them to his cheek, inhaling the faint, salty scent of the sea that drifted up from the passport and sighed. “So the gala is salvaged, my dear Vincent. But yet! But yet I say! Am I not a man caught between heaven and hell?” He raised his hand, waggled three fingers.

With a wordless grin, the lieutenant knocked back his glass of armagnac, then brought together ring-, middle-, pinkie and thumb. He held them near to his mouth. Lips brushed fingertips, lightly, curtly and ever so briefly. Then he lowered the hand and reached over, gently tapping the flats of those fingers against his albion friend’s pale jaw. Silver-blue eyes closely shuttered in the candlelight, Pendergast observed the gesture mutely, almost passively, without the slightest twitch of apprehension.

“Well, there looks to be a chicken in every pot, at least.” D’Agosta said finally, withdrawing his hand and stuffing it into a pocket.

“Indeed.” The agent drawled with a syrup-laden half-smile, locking gazes with his chauffeur across the floor, who then glanced sidelong at the mudroom entrance. “But Dr. Bloom will doubtless have my hide, to say nothing of Viola. In any case, I hope this has proved to be a most unique and agreeable All Hallow’s Eve.”

Abruptly he paused and held a hand to his white ear. “Ah, and what is this? Why, I do believe I hear a knocking!” He cried, with superbly devious relish as he stepped brisquely over to the wall closest to the mudroom. “Perhaps I should have held this fete at Great Aunt Cornelia’s estate instead...Ravenscry has always boasted so many delicious creaks and moans and swooshes for ready ears to feast upon. Yet I must confess, to be privy to the natural stress-sounds of aging wood and metal in this, my great grand-uncle’s former abode, is quite a treat. Adds to the mood, one could say.” Tossing back a fifth of cherry brandy as though it were vodka, Pendergast knocked once, twice, and then a peculiar sound, somewhat akin to the irate bawling of a disaffected elephant, reverberated up through the wall from very far below, as though birthed from the depthful innards of a monstrous old cookpot. “The wind, the wind, the wind doth blow!” He quoted loudly, launching into a lengthy poetic diatribe whilst making airy gesture toward the window, effectively preventing any motion his guests might make toward puzzling out the livid howl still ringing from the bowels of the mansion. The agent had, of course, heard said howl quite clearly, as had his chauffeur, the indefatigable Proctor. There was even a single coherent word to be gleaned from the trailing echo as it climbed harshly through the jagged subdermis of the wall.

“P-E-N-D-E-R-GAAAAAAAST!”

Well, that...and the faintly strident chirp of a dimestore whistle.


FIN

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