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Part I

She wondered if she was anything more to him than part of the house. If he, as vigilantly observant as he was, noticed her. When she thought about how long it took him to become aware of her presence in the house, even after she started appearing on the main floors, she thought he would never really see her.

Sometimes, right after Father had gone, she would wonder if she was a ghost. If she wasn’t real. He wasn’t even the one who noticed her first, it was Proctor. Dear, old Proctor. Her only friend beyond Aloysius, and she doubted very much if Proctor thought of her as a friend.

“Good evening, Constance.”

Her heart leaped, and she spun around to watch Aloysius glide into the den. She smoothed her modest green dress, and walked over to his side. He leaned over and kissed her. She tried to keep a prim face as she felt her pulse quicken.

She could never put her finger on what it was that made him so beautiful. She wanted to say he was smooth, but she knew that had the wrong connotation. She wanted to say he was smooth like wine and smooth like music and smooth like wit. If anyone was a fit companion for a ghost woman, it was Aloysius Pendergast.

She knew how lucky she was to be owned by the Pendergast family; Aloysius was just like Father. Unlike Father, though, she had Aloysius all to herself.

“Constance?” he said softly, looking up at her.

She tried with sheer willpower to slow her jackhammer heart. It did no good. She replied with a shaky voice, “Yes?”

“We’re going to have a guest at dinner tonight,” his voice was tender, demure.

“Oh,” she was crestfallen, “Am I allowed?”

“You may join us if you wish,” he seemed certain that she would not want to eat with him and his guest.

“Who is coming to dinner, Aloysius?” she said warily.

He face sagged for a moment, and he looked down at his hands. After a moment of contemplation, he lifted his chin, and looked her straight in the eyes.

“Lady Viola Maskelene,” he said as strongly as he could.

Constance’s voice grew small, and in her words were hesitation, “Is she helping you out in your case?”

He almost laughed, “No, no.”

“Then she is a suspect...” her body was taut with anxiety now, “or a victim, and you are looking for information.”

“No, Constance.”

Her voice was a whisper, “Ah, I see.” She turned towards the door, “I suppose I’m not that hungry. I don’t think I shall be joining you tonight, Aloysius.”

His read on her body language made him instantly regret inviting Viola over. They should have gone out, or to her place, anything except here.

She was too unsta... She was too delicate.

Lady Viola Maskelene looked flawless in his eyes. She was as stunning as he remembered.

“Viola!” he cried, “Please come in.”

Stepping in out of the snow, Viola Maskelene brushed the flakes off her coat. He took the fur off her shoulders and hung it in the closet.

“Aloysius... you have a beautiful home,” she purred.

He smiled and led her through a door that she did not remember seeing as she came in. They walked into a mahogany-laid library.

Low, delicate chandeliers burned with candle-power. Her mouth dropped open thinking about how long it must have taken to light the hundreds of flickering candles. She noticed big clumps of cloth pinned up to the ceiling around the three chandeliers.

“What is that for?” she pointed absently at the ceiling.

“The dropcloth?” he questioned. At her nod, he showed her three large tassels near the door. “Smothers the flames. Helpful in case of a fire, say... or one Mr. Aloysius Pendergast who would rather not spend two additional hours putting out each candle with his silver snuffer.”

“Two hours?!” she gaped. “It looks beautiful.”

“I’m not sure quite why I spent all that time on them, since it is you who lights up the room, anyway,” he turned to her, and slipped his hand into hers. “Would you care for some ’46 Chere D’Albernaque, my dear?”

“The sounds exquisite,” she said breathlessly, gazing around in wonder.

“When will dinner be served?”

“Within the hour. Is that all right?” Viola and Aloysius sat down in two large leather armchairs across from each other.

Viola fell silent for a moment. She began to rub her toe up and his leg, letting his skin quiver for just a second before she resumed her sensuous strokes. She saw him stiffen visibly. “Yes, that will be perfect,” she whispered.

Aloysius Pendergast closed his eyes in bliss, “Yes, quite,” he said, sinking down into the chair.

Constance Greene felt a hot tear roll down her cheek. She slipped back into the shadows and disappeared deep into the recesses of the house.

She finally arrived at a small, quaint room. The red, pink, green, and blue quilt on the four-poster bed was neatly pressed and clean. The moldy chest of drawers in the corner and packed dirt walls emphasized the dank atmosphere of the room. She had worked so hard to cheer up the desperately depressing room, and it had only served to sink her further and further into despair.

She felt rather as though she was going to retch. She threw her head back, tears sucked up into the dirt floor. She felt as though her intestines were knots and Lady Viola Maskelene was pulling on the ends, laughing mercilessly. That woman’s face was seared across her mind’s eye, and she could do nothing to wash the evil image away. Her sobbing made her brain hurt and her face feel terribly, uncomfortably hot. Her eyes swam in their sockets and she could barely stand.

To a person in society, Constance Greene was obviously under the same emotional duress that we all, unfortunately, find ourselves under. Body-racking sobs, the pain that rips through your head with each cry, the blubbering face and uncontrollable shrieks...

Constance had never felt this way. She had never had that feeling in the pit of her stomach, or that hurt in her brain, or those flooded eyes. She thought solemnly, past the inconsolable grief, that no hurt could wound beyond the scar Aloysius Pendergast ripped open in one fell swoop. That no pain could ever be greater, or more fierce, or more deep. That this feeling must surely mean the worst of all possible things.

She was going to die.

She finally found the dignity to pick herself up and crawl over to the armoire. In one of Pendergast’s old briefcases she placed a small leather notebook, a broken pair of old glasses, a thin copy of Discourse on Method, a thicker, broken-spined copy of Smithback’s Relic, and a letter that began simply,

I need you.

On her journey, she wondered.

Wondered what it would be like to be needed. Oh, it sounded so delightful. She already found herself thinking about him... and forgetting him.

Could he heal her? Could he patch her wounds and prevent death? What was it that he needed from her? What if she had accidentally left it behind, and he would turn her out? Every scenario played itself over and over in her mind.

The road was snow-dusted, and every part of her body shivered in broken rhythm, crying out for heat. Every part of her body except for one, that is.

Yes, yes, her feet were nice and toasty-warm against the weather in Lady Viola Maskelene’s boots.

He’ll realize the boots are gone before he realizes I’m gone, she thought bitterly.

She could hear the doorbell deep inside the empty house. Through the dusty glass, the place looked in shambles. It was probably abandoned, she might as well just go back to Aloysius, but it was dark already. It had taken her two days walking, and one day she had been able to hitchhike a ride. Even if she wanted to go back, she wouldn’t be able to until dawn.

She sat down on the stoop of the house and began to cry for the umpteenth time in 72 hours. She had gambled her entire life on this address. This address given to her in a note so many years ago. She didn’t know who the man was, what he wanted, or why he needed her. He never said two words to her, and she had packed up her life to go to him.

She couldn’t return to Aloysius. He had been so perfect and so accommodating, and she had repaid him by storming out in a jealous huff. She would have to live out the rest of her few days in homelessness.

She wondered when death would descend upon her. It had been three days. Granted, she felt as weak, sickly, and alone as she had three days ago, but back in that room, that little, enclosing room, she thought she would drop dead within the hour. She could nearly feel death’s hand upon her, fearing the icy grip that would drag her down into the depths of hell...

Suddenly, an icy hand gripped her shoulder.

She screamed with glass-breaking force. Whipping around, she saw the devil himself holding on to her.

As her scream died down, he spoke to her. The devil spoke to her. “My child, I surely cannot have you going around screaming yourself into seizures, especially when I need you so...”

She pulled in a sharp intake of breath. “It’s you.”

The man’s eyes glistened, “It’s me,” he affirmed, tugging on his small ginger beard.

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