Douglas Preston - The Obsidian Chamber

He stopped. In the silence, her mind raced.

Much of what he’d said about her was true. After he had so cruelly mistreated her, Constance had ceased to think of Diogenes as a person. He had been merely a focus of hatred, a monochromatic being whose only interest to her was in his death. What did she know about his history — his childhood? Very little. Aloysius had implied he’d been a curious, highly intelligent, withdrawn boy: a budding Captain Nemo, with his private library and arcane interests. Aloysius had also made very veiled references to a certain event: an event he refused to explain, but one that he felt tragically responsible for.

It was all too overwhelming…

Diogenes cleared his throat quietly, intruding on her thoughts. “There’s something else that I must bring up. It will be painful; it will be personal — but it is of the greatest importance to your future.” He paused again. “I know about your history. I know that my ancestor Enoch Leng devised an arcanum, a drug, that extended his life span. He tested that drug on you, and it proved successful. He became your first guardian. And as you know, Leng’s arcanum required the murder of human beings and the harvesting of their cauda equina — the bundle of nerves at the base of the spine. Many years later, science and chemistry advanced to the point where Leng developed a second arcanum. This one was wholly synthetic. It no longer required the taking of human life to concoct.”

He paused, taking another step forward. Constance remained rigid, listening.

“Here is what I must tell you: that second arcanum, the one he gave you for decades, was imperfectly formulated .”

Constance raised a hand to her mouth. Her lips moved, but no sound came.

“It worked for a time. You’re living proof of that. But my research indicates that after a certain number of years, especially if one stops taking it — as you have — it would backfire. The person would start to age— rapidly .”

“Ridiculous,” said Constance, finding her voice. “I haven’t taken the arcanum since Enoch Leng’s death five years ago. Naturally, I’ve aged — but only by those same five years.”

“Constance, please don’t delude yourself. You must have begun to notice the effects of accelerated aging. Especially… the mental effects.”

“A lie,” Constance said. But even as she spoke, she thought back to the changes she’d noticed in herself, minor problems that went back at least to her trip to Exmouth, if not before. Her insomnia; the occasional lassitude; a diminishment of her hyperacute senses. But more than that, she had become aware of a growing sense of distraction and restlessness that she seemed unable to shake. Much of this she’d blamed on the distress of losing Pendergast. And yet, if Diogenes was right: how terrible it would be to sit quietly in the empty mansion, feeling one’s mind slipping away…

But no; this was just another one of Diogenes’s baroque lies.

Again, his quiet voice intruded on her thoughts. “Here’s the heart of the matter. Through a great deal of time and effort I’ve managed to accomplish two things. First, I’ve worked out Leng’s formula for the original arcanum. This is the formula my brother believed he had burned the only surviving copy of. He was wrong; there was one other. I found it. It took longer than I’d care to admit, as well as unique knowledge of this house — but I did it . I did it for you. And then I was able to synthesize, perfectly synthesize, that formula, so its manufacture would not require ongoing human victims. I give this to you, my dear.”

A brief silence descended. Again her head spun: it was all too much — too much. She felt overwhelmed; she could hardly stand. She glanced around, looking distractedly for a place to sit down; remembered who was standing before her; and with a great effort focused her attention once again on him.

“Of course, to do this I needed laboratories, scientists — and money . But that work is done. I have the new, synthetic formula. You don’t need to age prematurely. You don’t need to feel your mind tiptoeing into oblivion. After a brief course of treatment with my arcanum, your physiology will have stabilized; you can live out the rest of your life with no premature deterioration. We will both grow old together — normally. All I want from you is one word: yes.”

But Constance said nothing.

Looking at her, a new urgency came over Diogenes’s expression — as if, having said all this, he was afraid that she would refuse. His voice rose. “What kind of life are you going to have in this huge house, without my brother? Even if you do emerge from this self-imposed isolation, what kind of company do you think Proctor and Mrs. Trask will prove to be, year in and year out? Will they help you during the lonely decline you’re destined to suffer… through no fault of your own?”

He fell silent. If what he said was true, Constance could picture the result all too clearly: a wasteland of boredom and ennui, sitting in the darkened library, moving between books and the harpsichord, while the well-meaning Proctor stood guard at the door and Mrs. Trask served her overcooked pasta. It would be nothing less than standing guard at her own death watch. The thought of losing her mental faculties was almost more than she could bear.

“All those years,” Diogenes said, as if reading her mind. “All those years you spent under the tutelage of my great-grand-uncle Leng — what a shame to see such a mighty intelligence, such deep learning, go gentle into that good night.”

He waited, looking at her intently, as if willing her to speak. But she remained silent.

At last, he sighed. “I’m so sorry. Please know that I’ve risked a great deal for you already. I would never force a choice on you. Once the course of treatment is complete and you found you were not truly happy with me and Halcyon, I wouldn’t stand in the way of your leaving. I believe, I know , a beautiful and happy life awaits us there. But if you can’t see past my terrible misdeeds and your own hatreds, if you can’t believe that a love like mine can transform a man… I’ll have to accept that.”

And then, he turned away from her.

As he spoke these last words, Constance experienced a curious epiphany — one that had been bubbling up during their talk. Diogenes had treated her abominably. She had hated him with a fury that was almost beyond human. But it was also true that… she almost shuddered at the forbidden nature of the thought… here was the Pendergast she could have — a Pendergast who, perhaps, was more a kindred spirit to her than his brother could ever be. If Diogenes had truly changed.

He was slipping on a pair of gloves. She glanced over at the harpsichord, to where he had set down the stiletto. The weapon was still there. It would be the work of a second to snatch it up, bury it between his shoulder blades. Surely, he knew this as well as she did.

“I…” she began, then faltered. How could she possibly express the thought? But she said it: “I need time.”

Diogenes whirled toward her, hope blossoming on his face — an expression so earnest Constance realized, with a shock, that it was impossible to feign. “Of course,” he said. “I’ll leave you now. You must be very tired. Take all the time you need.” And he reached for her hand.

Slowly, self-consciously, she extended it.

He grasped her hand in his; turned it over in a slow, caressing motion; and planted a kiss in her palm. Then — as he drew back — he took the tip of her finger between his lips for the merest fraction of a second. It was like an electric shock to her entire body.

Then, with a smile and a short bow, he was gone.