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As she finished one of these notations, the fire settled in the grate with a loud crack. Constance looked up abruptly, eyes widening at the sudden noise. Her eyes were large and violet, and strangely wise for a face that appeared to be no older than twenty-one. Slowly, she relaxed again.
It was not that she felt nervous, exactly. After all, the mansion was hardened against intruders; she knew its secret ways better than anyone; and she could vanish into one of a dozen hidden passages at a moment’s notice. No-it was that she had lived here so long, knew the old dark house so well, that she could almost sense its moods. And she had the distinct impression something was not right; that the house was trying to tell her something, warn her about something.
A pot of chamomile tea sat on a side table beside the chair. She put the documents aside, poured herself a fresh cup, then rose. Smoothing down the front of her bone-colored pinafore, she turned and walked to the bookshelves set into the far wall of the library. The stone floor was covered in rich Persian rugs, and as she moved, Constance made no noise.
Reaching the bookshelves, she leaned close, squinting at the gilt bindings. The only light came from the fire and a lone Tiffany lamp beside her chair, and this far corner of the library was dim. At last she found what she was looking for-a Depression-era prison management treatise-and returned to her chair. Seating herself once again, she opened the book, leafed ahead to the contents page. Finding the desired chapter, she reached for her tea, took a sip, then moved to replace the cup.
As she did so, she glanced up.
In the wing chair next to the side table, a man was now seated: tall, aristocratic, with an aquiline nose and a high forehead, pale skin, dressed in a severe black suit. He had ginger-colored hair and a small, neatly trimmed beard. As he looked back at her, the firelight illuminated his eyes. One was a rich hazel green; the other, a milky, dead blue.
The man smiled.
Constance had never seen this man before, and yet she knew immediately who he was. She rose with a cry, the cup dropping from her fingers.
As fast as a striking snake, the man’s arm shot out and deftly caught the cup just before it hit the ground. He replaced it on its silver salver, sat back again. Not a drop had spilled. It had happened so fast that Constance was hardly sure it had happened at all. She remained standing, unable to move. Despite her profound shock, one thing was clear: the man was seated between her and the room’s only exit.
The man spoke softly, as if sensing her thoughts. “There is no need for alarm, Constance. I mean you no harm.”
She remained where she was, standing motionless before the chair. Her eyes flickered about the room and returned to the seated man.
“You know who I am, don’t you, child?” he asked. Even the buttery New Orleans tones were familiar.
“Yes. I know who you are.” She choked on the unca
The man nodded. “I am gratified.”
“How did you get in here?”
“How I got in is unimportant. Why I am here is the true question, don’t you think?”
Constance seemed to consider this for a moment. “Yes. Perhaps you are right.” She took a step forward, letting the fingers of one hand drift from her wing chair and slide along the side table. “Very well, then: why are you here?”
“Because it’s time we spoke, you and I. It’s the least courtesy you could pay me, after all.”
Constance took another step, her fingers trailing along the polished wood. Then she paused. “Courtesy?”
“Yes. After all, I-”
With a sudden motion, Constance snatched a letter opener from the side table and leaped at the man. The attack was remarkable not only for its swiftness, but for its silence. She had done nothing, said nothing, to warn the man of her strike.
To no avail. The man twitched aside at the last instant and the letter opener sank to its hilt in the worn leather of the wing chair. Constance jerked it free and-still without uttering a sound-whirled to face the man, raising the weapon above her head.
As she lunged, the man coolly dodged the stroke and with a flick of his arm seized her wrist; she thrashed and struggled, and they fell to the floor, the man pi
The man’s lips moved to within an inch of her ear. “Constance,” he said in a quiet voice. “Du calme. Du calme.”
“Courtesy!” she cried once again. “How dare you speak of courtesy! You murder my guardian’s friends, disgrace him, tear him from his house!” She stopped abruptly and struggled. A soft groan rose in her throat: a groan of frustration, mingled with another, more complex emotion.
The man continued to speak in a smooth undertone. “Please understand, Constance, I’m not here to hurt you. I’m restraining you simply to prevent harm to myself.”
She struggled again. “Hateful man!”
“Constance, please. I have something to say to you.”
“I’ll never listen to you!” she gasped.
But he continued to pin her to the floor, gently yet firmly. Slowly her struggling ceased. She lay there, heart racing painfully. She became aware of the beating of his own heart-much slower-against her breasts. He was still whispering calming, soothing words into her ear that she tried to ignore.
He pulled away slightly. “If I release you, will you promise not to attack me again? To stay and hear me out?”
Constance did not reply.
“Even a condemned man has the right to be heard. And you may learn that everything is not as it seems.”
Still, Constance said nothing. After a long moment, the man raised himself from the floor, then-slowly-released his grip on her wrists.
She stood at once. Breathing heavily, she smoothed down her pinafore. Her eyes darted around the library again. The man was still positioned strategically between her and the door. He raised a hand toward her wing chair.
“Please, Constance,” he said. “Sit down.”
Warily, she seated herself.
“May we speak now, like civilized people, without further outbursts?”
“You dare speak of yourself as civilized? You? A serial killer and thief.” She laughed scornfully.
The man nodded slowly, as if ingesting this. “Naturally, my brother has taken a certain line with you. After all, it’s worked so well for him in the past. He’s an extraordinarily persuasive and charismatic individual.”
“You can’t presume to imagine I’d believe anything you say. You’re insane-or worse, you do these things as a sane man.” She again glanced past him, toward the library exit and the reception hall beyond.
The man gazed back at her. “No, Constance. I am not insane-on the contrary, like you, I greatly fear insanity. You see, the sad fact is, we have a great deal in common-and not just that which we fear.”
“We haven’t the slightest in common.”
“No doubt this is what my brother would like you to believe.”
It seemed to Constance that the man’s expression had become one of infinite sadness. “It’s true that I am far from perfect and ca
“What you intend means nothing. You’re like a child who befriends a butterfly one day to pull off its wings the next.”
“What do you know of children, Constance? Your eyes are so wise and so old. Even from here, I can see the vast experience written there. What strange and terrible things they must have seen! How very penetrating your gaze! It fills me with sadness. No, Constance: I sense-I know-that childhood was a luxury you were denied. Just as I myself was denied it.”
Constance went rigid.
“Earlier, I said I was here because it’s time we spoke. It is time that you learned the truth. The real truth.”