Knowing Constance
by Brownie
URL: http://www.bluecatsgraphics.com/pean/fanfics/6/

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.

Part II

“Who is she?!”

Diogenes Pendergast was pacing in front of his long-time companion. Her long white hair whipped around her face like streaks of wild lightning. He knew how red and angry her face would be if only she were not a victim of albinism.

“She’s a friend of my brother,” he ignored her fit.

“The one you hate? Well, now I understand everything, thanks!” she yelled at the top of her lungs.

“Now, see, if only you were the tiniest bit more intelligent, you would see why we want her here!” he grabbed her wrists and stared her straight in the eyes.

She pulled away violently, something Diogenes Pendergast would have let precious few other people do. “So she can dredge your horrible brother back into our lives?! So he can find out where we’ve had to hide ourselves like common criminals because, may I remind you, of HIM?! Diogenes, I’m tired of running! Running towards Aloysius, running away from Aloysius, running after Aloysius!" She was half-way across the room by now. She turned her head back to face Diogenes. Her beautiful, sharp red eyes were a watery grayish-pink. “When I think of what he’s done to you...” she whispered, collapsing into a broken chair.

He walked to her side. Kneeling down so that they were at eye level, he pulled her wispy hair behind her ear, and pressed his lips against her flesh.

“True, we may run into Aloysius, my lovely, but it is all for the sake of something greater. We run into him today, and we bury him tomorrow. Look to the future, my dear, look to the future.”



Constance Greene watched the wiry man sashay down the staircase with all the elegance a southern gentleman could ever wish to possess.

He was, without a doubt, a Pendergast.

“Constance, m’dear, I have the most lovely little room all set up for you upstairs,” he cupped his hand next to his mouth, as if he was going to tell her a secret, “That’s why I had to run upstairs, I hadn’t quite finished making the bed by the time you arrived!” he laughed at his inability to finish household chores.

She followed his long stride back up the winding stairs, clutching Aloysius’s battered old briefcase close to her heart.

In the rooms that were unlocked, she could see vast expanses of cobweb, broken mirrors, and general deterioration.

Somewhere deep in the shattered genteel class displayed in the home, Constance Greene stumbled on the realization that her own home with Proctor and Aloysius would probably look no different than this, devoid of its loving caretaker and devoted master.

Suddenly, each room she passed took on the countenance of a room back home. She fought to hold back her anguish and surprise. She loved her home, her snug and comforting home, and she couldn’t begin to imagine this eerie darkness falling over the place where she had lived nearly her whole life.

Spiders crawling over Father’s bookshelves, scuttling through the shadows. Age cracking the leather on Aloysius’ favorite chair, the wooden legs rotting so thoroughly that they would never allow their warm, gentle occupant to be seated there again. The knotted floorboards falling through, the doorknobs rusted through... the wine cellar broken into, the bottles broken shards of glass on a mossy stone floor... her home, her warrens, her tunnels caved in. Her only solace, her only peace, gone forever, shot to hell by time itself.

In a house so lovingly created, cared for, and upkept, the cruelest irony was God’s own: entropy. The house had moved towards disorder the moment it was built.

She could not bear to look in any of the rooms anymore and run the risk of watching her own memories unfold in the passing rooms. Instead, she looked straight ahead, and watched the curious bob-walk of Diogenes Pendergast in front of her.

Soon after they arrived at a small quaint room, certainly better, Constance thought, than some of the others. The shade on the small window was shut, and the wooden floor was a little dusty, but there were no cobwebs in sight.

“Mr. Pendergast?”

“Oh, darling, you’ll not be calling that when you’re a guest in my house, it’s Diogenes.”

“I, well, Diogenes, for the past three days, I’ve been feeling worse and worse, and, honestly, I came because I...” she hesitated, “I think I’m going to die.”

“What?” he blurted out as a pure reaction.

“I have this sick, dead feeling in my stomach, and my head hurts all the time, and I can’t control my crying... that’s why I came.”

“Why didn’t you go to Aloysius?” he spoke. He voice was sweet and tender and real. Every other word he had spoken to her had been sugar-coated or a lie, and in this quiet room, with this quiet girl, he let his guard down.

“I didn’t know what to say to him...” she murmured, “He invited this woman over, this incredibly beautiful, perfect woman, and I was watching them when all of a sudden, it felt like I was going to throw up, I went to my room, and it came over me. My head was hot and I was dizzy and I cried and cried.”

“I see...” the menacing undertone returned to his voice, and the cogs in his head began turning.



Aloysius Pendergast and Viola Maskelene rose from the long table, wiping their mouths. Clearing the dishes himself, Pendergast walked into the kitchen to see Proctor standing by the window.

“Anything wrong?” he smiled.

Proctor turned, “No, nothing... Is Lady Maskelene here still?”

Pendergast put down the plates in the sink, “Yes, why?”

“I, ah, thought I heard someone leaving earlier, but it must have been my imagination,” Proctor chuckled.

“Indeed,” a flicker of hesitation crossed Pendergast’s face, but then he smiled, “Well, I think we will have a slice of your pumpkin cheesecake, but she will probably leave following that.”

“She’s not staying over?”

“I... well, she... no.”

Proctor had never known Aloysius Pendergast to be at a loss for words. “I’m sorry,” he offered.

Pendergast took up the cheesecake and whirled away, “Proctor, don’t be,” he said brazenly.



Constance was seated the length of a table, and a world away, from the pair at the far end.

He sat at the head of the table, and the white woman sat to his right. Constance assumed that he was left-handed, or, more likely, ambidextrous like his brother, and the woman was right-handed, as they held hands while they ate, leaving each other’s grasp only to slice the meat.

Constance barely ate anything. The meat was so rare that it was bloody, and the vegetables were cooked in strange, exotic spices. She noticed the woman, when she ate the vegetables at all, became flustered, and immediately would down her glass of wine, which Diogenes would then refill.

And as for the wine, Constance hardly drank. When she did, it was always with Aloysius, and when he was sure to be home the whole night. If she drank too much, she found she became violently ill, no matter how fine or mild the drink. Even through the stomachaches and the vomiting spells, she relished the memories of spending the night with him. He would carefully pull her hair back and let the sickness take over. When only the forceful retching of air remained, he would take her to his bedroom, wrap his arms around her, and let her dry heaves absorb into his warm body. In those hours with his reassuring heat surrounding her, and his body wrapped protectively around hers, she fell in love with him. In her dreams, he would take her hand and they would venture off with William Smithback Jr. and Vincent D’Agosta, running around the city, hands slick with crime and blood. She would live in his adventures, starring as Margo or Nora Kelly, pretending she was as brave or as beautiful as them, pretending she could help Special Agent Aloysius Pendergast in some way other than staying at home and being his obedient little researcher.

When she woke up the next morning, Pendergast would be gone, and she would be in her own bed, left with suffering and nightmares.

She left the wine untouched.



“Constance? I’ve made breakfast for us,” Aloysius Pendergast called out to no one in particular. She was not in her room on the main floors, and he did not know where Constance went on these now rare occasions when she disappeared for days at a time, presumably descended beyond the charted blueprints of the house. He only hoped she could hear him, wherever she was.

He walked into the library, and saw that the drapes on the picture window were drawn open, letting in streams of morning sunlight.

Proctor appeared suddenly, and Pendergast turned on him angrily, “Proctor, why are these curtains drawn? You know Constance can’t handle this much sun yet! Where is she?”

Proctor stopped cold, “Well, sir, I was really hoping you would know the answer to that.”



“So you’re Aloysius'...” the white woman had a sneer on her face.

Constance was silent as she thought for a minute before answering, “Attendant.”

“I see,” the woman said curtly.

They were eating breakfast together, Diogenes missing from the table. Breakfast, she was delighted to find, was much more edible than last night’s meal. The tea had a sting to it, but the woman had dismissed it, calling it Phragman’s Indian Sea blend. Besides, after a few sips, Constance decided she rather liked it.

Constance could not contain her distaste for the pale-faced lady, “And you are Diogenes'...?”

The woman’s face curled contentedly, “Lover.”

The two finished their meal in silence.



Diogenes Pendergast slipped into Constance Greene’s room. He found quickly what he was looking for, the briefcase was under her bed.



“Proctor, I have to find her,” Aloysius Pendergast said breathlessly.

“Mr. Pendergast, you have no idea where she could be!” Proctor insisted.

“No, I have every idea where she might be—with Diogenes.”

Proctor gasped, “How could you possibly know that?”

“Remember when Diogenes was framing me for the murders of my close associates?”

“Of course.”

“And he told me he had gone to visit Constance, just to let me know that he knew of her existence,” he continued the tale.

“Yes, yes, get on with it!” Proctor urged and Pendergast threw a few items into a valise on his bed.

“There is no possible way that he knew of Constance’s existence. I don’t doubt he knew some of the passageways, as he himself used to disappear for days back at Ravenscry. The passageways under Ravenscry actually led to the family mausoleum, and Diogenes would come back with horrifying memorabilia of the family. I’m positive that the same passages would have been dug under the new Ravenscry, but obviously devoid of the tombs. That’s how Diogenes knew how to get about through the underground of the house, and he must have run into Constance... but why would he find such a perfect potential victim, then let her live? I mean, thank God he did, but Diogenes would have immediately known how much grief her death would cause me. And if he did not know about Constance—”

“And you’re positive he didn’t?” Proctor interjected.

“I would bet my life on it,” Pendergast collapsed in a chair, mystified. “If he didn’t know about Constance... why was he searching around beneath the house?”

“In the timeless words of a timeless man,” Proctor said, smiling, “That is the question of the hour.”



Diogenes Pendergast pulled out the raggedy old letter he had given to Constance months and months ago. Throwing it aside, he rifled through the other junk in the briefcase, a thickly worn book...

Relic? He thought, That book could cure insomnia. Smithback, Diogenes chuckled, what a hack. I would have done the world a favor if I had just killed him when I said I was going to. No more half-assed books, that’s for sure...

...A dusty old pair of broken glasses that looked circa 1890s in poor lighting... Descartes’ Discourse on Method...

And nothing else.

Diogenes felt his face grow hot and knew that as far away as his brother was, whether he knew about it or not, Aloysius was victorious.

But something Diogenes was sure his brother did not know was just how short-lived that victory would be.

Part III

“What do you mean it wasn’t there?” she cried.

“Just keep working,” Diogenes growled.

She stirred a pot in which a tangy, curious smell was wafting from.

Diogenes dipped his finger in and tasted it. He spat it out immediately, but gave his approval with a decidedly wicked grin.

“And how is it?” she asked sweetly.

“Delicious.”



Constance Greene was very ill that night, her stomach was more upset than it had been, and she found she could barely concentrate on anything more than a few moments. Diogenes Pendergast and his rose-eyed woman put her in bed early, leaving her with a scalding kettle of Phragman’s blend. She sipped it slowly, breathing in the spicy coils of hot steam.

As soon as she could muster the strength, she pulled herself out of the bed and retrieved the small black leather notepad from behind the dresser, where she had taken to hiding it.

Crawling back into bed, she flipped through the pages. The sweet tobacco scent of Father drifting back into the room. The black scribbles of ink and occasional illustrations etching out tales of dark alchemy and exotic medical treatments. Bare before her, his life’s work.



In the following two days, Constance got out of bed twice. Once to put the notebook back in its place, and the other for breakfast the following morning. She collapsed at the top of the stairs. The white woman brought her tea, which Constance begged for anytime anyone passed her door, and brought soup once a day.

Following dinner on the day in which Constance could not even lift herself from the bed, Diogenes came in. He closed the door behind him, twisting the lock when she wasn’t looking.

“Oh, my poor, poor girl, how are you this evening? Better, I hope,” he lifted a hand to her forehead and pulled it away quickly. “You’re still burning like hell, lovely...” he sighed.

Constance said nothing.

“I’m sure you’ll get better within the week, Constance, I’m sure of it,” his voice oozed with empathy.

Her patience had worn thin, “Why are you here Diogenes? Is there something I can do for you?”

He paused, uncertain of how to proceed, “Yes, well, no. I’m not sure, Constance. The question is what can I do for you,” he continued, “When you came here, you appeared to be in perfect health, and I was shocked at your claim that you would die. Now I see that you were correct. You may die, you may not die. I just want you to know that we are here to assist you in anything you may need or desire. Perhaps you have some matters you need cleared up before...” he fell quiet, “or anything you need me to pass along to someone, or anything you need to tell anyone... you know, I’m here, and Constance, I’m more than willing to help you... you’re a guest in this home.”

She willed herself to keep her gaze from the dresser behind which her little leather notebook was hidden.

“I... I want to see Aloysius one last time,” she said painfully.

“My pet, I am sorry, but that is the one thing I cannot do.”

The doorbell rang.

Then a frantic scuttling up the stairway. Constance could hear the doorknob jam against the lock, and the frantic pushing of a body against the door.

“Diogenes, Diogenes!” a high voice called out.

Constance scrambled to sit upright, “Why is the door locked?!” she demanded.

Diogenes darted angrily to the door, un-locking it and storming out.

Constance heard muffled yells, and a “What are you doing here?!”

After that, she heard it. She heard the voice.

Pulling together all the strength she could, she knew she had to get downstairs, she knew she had to see that face. To hear the voice was not enough, she had to see the lips that made the voice, the tongue that formed the words, that face. His face.

She struggled to reach the top of the stairs. After realizing that she would make it no further than this, she lay herself down to watch the scene unfold below her.

“Diogenes, I’m not playing games. Not today. Where is she?”

“Oh, brother, you were never skilled in the art of negotiation, so unlike I...” Diogenes’s cruel drawl was back.

“If you’ve hurt her,” Aloysius rounded Diogenes into a corner, his voice a low growl; this was a tactic he was proud to have learned from Vincent D’Agosta. “If you’ve hurt her, I’ll take that albino bride of yours and choke her ‘til she’s all sorts of colors. How’s that for negotiation?” Aloysius Pendergast could no longer hold back. His voice was no longer that of a Southern gentleman, but that of a blue-collar country boy.

Diogenes was unfazed. To everyone else, Aloysius Pendergast seemed as though he could be polite to his executioner, but Diogenes knew it was simply a matter of pressing the right buttons.

Aloysius knew he was losing already, and backed away.

“Aloysius... you know what I want. And I know what you want. There is an easier way to do this,” Diogenes smoothed his shirt.

“Can I talk to her for a minute at least?” Aloysius said finally, lost for words.

Diogenes laughed, “Of course not. Don’t think for one minute that I underestimate you.”

“I... I just want to make sure—”

“Doubt she’d want to see you anyway, why do you suppose she ran away?” Diogenes turned his back on his brother.

There was silence for minutes uncounted.

“If you give her back to me, I will give you what you want,” Aloysius said finally.

“Truly?” Diogenes turned on his heel, wearing a silly grin, “That flimsy little waif truly means that much to you?”

Aloysius could not look at Diogenes; his eyes averted.

“Oh, god, don’t tell me she’s your friend. She’s so utterly boring! So disgustingly dull! I was hoping you’d show up brother dear, after I realized what I was searching for was not on her person. Now that I have her, and you, we can make a trade. I’ll get what I want, and you can take what I don’t want off my hands! God, I mean, I thought I was going to have to actually kill her... as if bringing her to the brink of death wasn’t bothersome enough.”

Aloysius tore up the stairs. As soon as he saw Constance, he fell to the ground and took her up in him. Her body was limp in his strong arms, and he knew something was wrong. He knew his brother had not lied.

“Constance, oh, Constance, please, please, don’t do this to me. This isn’t you, sweetie, just shake it off. Please don’t do this. Don’t die like this.” His begs and pleads were to an empty gaze, a dry mouth, limp hair. Diogenes walked up the stairs slowly, one by one, enjoying the sight laid out so nicely before him.

“Ah, dear. This is what time has given Aloysius Pendergast... a broken-up version of his old family home, with the accompanying houseful of bad memories... a cache of 'friends' not even worth the effort to kill... and a 100-year-old child for a lover. Oh, my, my, my. They were all wrong. Mommy and Daddy would dote on you so, saying how wonderful, how sweet, how talented you were...” Diogenes spat on Constance, “And look at you now.”

Aloysius threw himself as Diogenes. “What did you do to her?!” he shouted over and over as they pummeled each other.

Diogenes may have been more quick-witted, but he was no match for Aloysius blow-by-blow. Aloysius put his FBI training and martial arts aside and was beating up his younger brother like two boys in the schoolyard.

“Aloysius Pendergast? Bullying his little innocent brother! What a delightful change of pace,” Diogenes screeched.

“Change of pace? No, see, I was going for change of face.” He shoved the heel of his hand up Diogenes’s nose, breaking it instantly.

Somewhere in the commotion, Diogenes got a shot to one of Pendergast’s beautiful blue eyes, and it began to blacken on sight.

“Oh, dear, now we look like twins! One nice blue Pendergast eye, and one unsightly eye, excuse the pun, courtesy of a loving brother!” Diogenes tossed Aloysius off him.

Aloysius stayed where he was, and Diogenes pounced on him like a cat. “Aloysius, you could have pinned me minutes ago, I’m disappointed.”

At the mention of Diogenes’ eye, Aloysius had lost his will to fight.

Diogenes dug his elbow into one of Aloysius’s ribs, and the man groaned. When Diogenes could feel his brother’s rib strain against the pressure, he held it there.

“Diogenes...” Aloysius Pendergast could barely speak, “I’ll give you what you want... just tell me what you did to her... so I can cure her...”

“What I did to her? Why don’t you ask her. I’m sure she’ll be happy to tell you that it was you that did this.”

Whatever Aloysius wanted to say, he deemed it not worth the stress.

“Oh yes, dear brother. You. She showed up at my door and told me she was going to die.”

“...she ...came here?” he whispered.

“Of course. She just followed my instructions.”

“What... instruct—”

Diogenes leaned down and cracked Aloysius’ rib. Aloysius shouted in pain. Diogenes got up off him, “Where is the formula, brother? I’m growing tired of our little game.”

“What instructions!” Aloysius wheezed.

“The instructions I gave her in the note when I told her I needed her and loved her! Hoping when you messed up, she’d come crying to me, journal in hand!” Diogenes yelled, clearly exaggerated. “She came because of Viola, didn’t she? She said a beautiful, perfect woman came to your house, and she was watching you, and she got sick. All right? Yes. I’m bored, and if you don’t tell me where the formula is, I’ll break another rib, but this time I’ll remember to puncture the lung.”

Aloysius closed his eyes, thinking of everywhere she could have put it, in her corset, under her mattress, on the windowsill, in the dresser...

He thought about an incident nearly six months ago...Proctor had wanted to make Turkey Galantine for dinner one evening last fall. He remembered the argument between Constance and Proctor over that dinner, just thinking about her distaste for the Turkey Galantine Proctor had wanted to make made him laugh. Well, that night the cookbook went missing and it was only last month that Aloysius had found it behind his dresser, bookmarked to Turkey Galantine.

“Behind the dresser,” he muttered.

A few minutes Diogenes returned, leather book in hand. He nodded to his brother, leaned over and said one word, “Pindone,” and turned away, jogging down the stairs.

Aloysius Pendergast was extremely angry with himself. He had wasted all his energy for nothing.

Far, far away it seemed, he heard his Rolls-Royce peel out of the driveway. Diogenes would be long gone by the time he centered himself enough to get up, be able to walk, and carry Constance.

He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. “Proctor? Yes, yes, we’re fine, but I need you to get to 187 Edgeview immediately... right, I know. No, I think we’ll be okay. All right. Okay, bye.” Snapping it shut, he tossed it across the floor.

He wiggled out of his suit jacket, and threw it over her. He pulled his arms through hers, and drew close to her.

He tucked his face in the soft skin between her neck and shoulder and squeezed her tightly. She smelled of butterfly’s wings and piano keys and autumn leaves and silver spoons and...

...she smelled of...

...him. His heart beat faster against her cool, white skin.



When she awoke, he was there. She could not see his face, but she knew it could be only him, with his hands tight around her waist, his knee in the crook of her bended leg, his soft heat fanning the flames of her heart.

She felt his head on her neck, and turned her head slightly to look at him. He was dreaming, she knew. His inner eyelids flittered and she wondered who he was thinking about.

The fight must have been a hard one. One of his eyes was blacked out, and his vividly white hair was disheveled for the first time she had ever seen. She slipped her hands in between his—they were ice cold. She pulled them up to her chest, trying to warm them with her body heat. Vaguely, she wondered how long she had been there with him.

Then, as she drifted back into slumber, she realized she didn’t care.



“Oh, sir!” Proctor shambled up the stairs. Pendergast slowly brought himself to his feet, clutching his ribs. Constance was asleep on the floor. Proctor picked up the sleeping beauty and slung his arm around Aloysius Pendergast. “Let’s go home,” he said quietly.

The limousine was parked out front. Proctor and Pendergast laid Constance out in the back seat, and Pendergast climbed in.

“You’re not going to ride passenger?” he inquired.

Aloysius let his gaze fall on the frail woman curled up on the cold leather. “I don’t think so, Proctor... I rather want to... want to sit with Constance. You know, make sure she’s all right.”

Proctor smiled to himself as he took his place in the driver’s seat, “Of course, sir.”

Pendergast lay her head in his lap, and took her hand in his. He let his breathing fall in sync with hers and watched her sleep.

She was dreaming, he knew. Her inner eyelids flickered and he wondered who she was thinking about.

Back at home, Proctor dribbled some nasty smelling liquid down Constance’s throat. Aloysius Pendergast watched on with some concern as he twisted the cap on a small bottle.

“What did you say Diogenes did to her?”

“He gave her the chronic poison Pindone, which limits mobility and deteriorates the lining of the stomach. She was saying something about tea in her sleep, and as the effects of the poison progressed, I imagine that’s how they’d have to give it to her... They were hoping she’d turn over the journal if she believed she was on her deathbed.”

“Pindone?”

“Yes, it’s a very mild poison. It wouldn’t have killed her for another few weeks. She might have slipped into a coma, but...” he trailed off. “Easily reversed by Vitamin K1.”

“Well, that’s lucky.”

“I suppose. I mean, if she didn’t have the journal or he couldn’t find it, Diogenes would have needed her alive to make a trade with me, you know, Constance for Leng’s journal.”

Proctor looked up, alarm rising in his eyes, “You didn’t... you didn’t give him the journal, did you?!”

Diogenes was sitting in the airport terminal, eagerly reading a small leather notebook. His rose-eyed woman sat to the right, dark sunglasses on her eyes and a large pink scarf covering her head. Diogenes’s own dark glasses were making it hard to read the small, cramped print.

Finally he hit the paydirt, the list of ingredients needed for Leng’s elixir. He laughed out loud and proceeded to read.

After a few minutes, he reached the last of the highly illegal ingredients and savored the moment before he turned the page and read on.

He hadn’t read for more than five seconds before he bolted out of his seat in anger. He wasn’t going anywhere on some damn plane. His pale-faced companion fled after him.



Ave Frater,

I hope you enjoyed our dear ancestor’s note-taking skills, reminds me of some journals I had the displeasure of reading as a child.

As you can see, I’ve taken this opportunity to give you a list of what you need to prolong your life.

Congratulate yourself, you have the key to age itself!

What you’re missing is the lock.

Or what you might know as the painfully exact instructions needed to create the potion.

I don’t think, at this point in time, that it would be wise to let you unleash yourself upon multiple generations. I apologize for the inconvenience.

Sincerely,

Your loving older brother



Constance Greene was lying in Pendergast’s own bed, awakening from a long and dark sleep. Opening her eyes slightly, she saw Aloysius. He was wobbling around the room with a cane, breathing deeply. He wore no shirt, but his taut, muscular stomach was wrapped in confining tape. Proctor came to the door then, bringing him some tea.

Proctor noticed her eyes were open. “Ah, Miss Constance, would you care for some tea?” Pendergast looked surprised and turned. When he saw her bright face watching him, he couldn’t help but smile.

“Yes, please, Proctor.” He nodded and left.

A comfortable silence fell over the room. Pendergast slowly made his way towards the bed. Constance watched patiently, face set in bliss.

He sat down on the bed at her feet. His black eye blinked. “About Viola—” he began, but Constance interrupted.

“Aloysius, what you do in your bedroom, and who you do it with, is private.”

He contemplated for a moment, then leaned in to her so that their foreheads were pressed together and their noses swept past each other, and their lips were so close that Constance felt it when he talked, “Private? Well, that’s real good...” he whispered and kissed her tenderly. “I doubt you’d be much interested in my love life anyway.” He smiled softly and pulled away from her.

When Proctor came back, Aloysius Pendergast was wobbling around the room with his cane, breathing deeply. Constance was frozen inside their kiss and hadn’t moved.

Pendergast poured her a cup of tea and slid into bed next to her.

“Aloysius?” she said, finally stirring.

“Yes, Constance?” he spoke calmly, sipping his tea.

“Are we in love?”

“I’m not sure,” he set his cup on the bedside table. “I do know that I love you, though.”

“Aloysius?”

“Yes?”

“Can I also say that I love you, but that I’m not sure if we’re in love?”

“Why, yes, Constance, I believe so.”

She said nothing after this, and he turned his head slightly so that he could look at her. Her soft hair fell around her face beautifully, and he smiled to himself. Her wide eyes were peacefully closed, and her body sweetly close to his.

Vaguely, he wondered how long he had loved her.

But then, as he drifted off into slumber, he realized he didn’t really care.