Douglas Preston - The Obsidian Chamber

“Where does he live?”

“The gardener’s cottage, through the buttonwood grove across the beach.” He took her hand, briefly, and led her around to the back staircase. “You probably want to refresh yourself after our journey. Let me show you to your rooms.”

She followed him up the stairs. They arrived at a second-floor sitting room that faced the veranda in the back of the house. From here there was a spectacular view northward, past keys fringing the Gulf and to the great expanse of water beyond. The sun was now touching the horizon and sinking fast. The windows were open and a breeze from the sea billowed the lace curtains and flowed through, keeping the room cool.

“You have your own wing,” said Diogenes. “Three bedrooms and a sitting room at your disposal, fireplace, and kitchenette. Accessible by the back stairs. Very private.”

“And where do you sleep?”

“In the front wing.” He hesitated. “The arrangements are, of course, flexible and can be allowed to… evolve.”

Constance understood his meaning quite well.

He set down her suitcase and trunk. “I’ll leave you to choose your room and get settled. I’ll meet you in the library for a drink. Would champagne be suitable?”

That queer feeling of strangeness was almost overpowering. She wondered if she really had the spine to go through with this.

“Thank you, Peter.”

He smiled and took her hand. “On Halcyon, it’s Diogenes. I am myself. There’s only family here.” He paused. “And speaking of family, we should — at some point — discuss what to do about ours.”

“Excuse me?”

“My dear, there’s our son to consider. And, then, of course, there is my brother’s child. Tristram. I want all my blood relatives well taken care of.”

Constance hesitated. “My, I mean our, son is in the care of the monks of Gsalrig Chongg. I can think of no better place for him.”

“And I agree. For now. Circumstances might change.”

“As for Tristram, he’s been told of his father’s disappearance and I suppose, when his death becomes official, he’ll learn of it. He’s fine for now in boarding school, but perhaps we can become his guardians when appropriate.”

“An ideal plan. I know so very little about my brother’s sole remaining son — I look forward to a deeper acquaintance. But for now, adieu.” He began to carry her hand to his lips but she gently removed it. He did not seem to mind. “In the library, at six.”

He left, and she stood in the sitting area, looking out to sea. The sun had now vanished below the limn of the sea and a warm twilight seemed to rise up from the ocean.

Wandering through the three rooms at her disposal, she picked the one facing east — with a view of an archipelago of tiny uninhabited keys — to take advantage of the rising sun. It did not take her long to unpack. None of her clothes were the slightest bit suitable for Florida. She had taken so relatively little from the Riverside Drive mansion, and no keepsake or memento of Aloysius — that would only cause her pain.

She entered the library at six, pausing in the doorway, her breath taken away.

Diogenes, sitting in a wing chair by a small fire, rose. “I’ve worked hard to make the room agreeable to you. It’s the heart of the house.”

Constance took a step inside. It was a sumptuous space, two stories high. The floor was spread with Persian rugs, the walls crowded with bookshelves, with an oak library ladder on brass rails and a red marble fireplace. Instead of books, one wall was covered with small paintings, crowded together in the nineteenth-century atelier style. A gorgeous painted and inlaid harpsichord dominated a far corner.

“What a beauty,” Constance murmured, approaching the instrument.

“The harpsichord is by the Florentine builder Vincenzo Sodi, 1780. Double tongue jacks with soft and hard leather plectra in the manner of the Cembalo Angelico. A lovely tone.”

“I look forward to playing it.”

“And you will find on the shelves all your favorite books, in rare editions, with many, many new titles for you to discover: titles of beauty and whimsy, such as Verga’s Livre de Prierès in vellum, the closest thing one can find to a nineteenth-century illuminated manuscript; or Teague and Rede’s exquisitely rare set of colored woodcuts, Night Fall in the Ti-Tree . Just to name two. Ah, and the paintings! As you have probably discerned already, they’re by Bronzino, Pontormo, Jan van Eyck, Pieter Bruegel the Elder, and Paul Klee.”

Diogenes pirouetted almost like a dancer, gesturing this way and that.

“In the other corner you’ll find an array of musical instruments. And in those cupboards are games, cards, and puzzles; chess and go. That construction in the other corner is an Edwardian dollhouse.”

It was huge and intricate, of almost magical workmanship. She went over to it. It was exquisite, precisely the thing she would have loved above all else to own as a young girl, and as she examined it her feelings of uncertainty and physical enervation faded. She could not help but be enchanted.

“Come, let us enjoy the champagne.”

He ushered her to a chair before the fire. With the setting of the sun, the evening had become slightly cool. The feeling of surrealness overwhelmed her again, seeing him sitting in a leather wing chair, smiling in domestic content as he removed a bottle of champagne from a silver ice bucket and poured two glasses, offering one to her.

“Nineteen ninety-five Clos d’Ambonnay, by Krug,” said Diogenes, raising his glass and touching the rim to hers.

“Good champagne is wasted on me.”

“Only until you develop your taste.”

She sipped, marveling at its flavor.

“Tomorrow I’ll show you the rest of the island. But for now, this is for you.” He took out a small wrapped box from his jacket pocket, with a ribbon tied around it, and gave it to her.

She took it and removed the wrapping, revealing a plain sandalwood box. Unlatching it, she opened it — to find, nestled in velvet, an IV bag, filled with a faintly roseate liquid.

“What’s this?”

“The arcanum. The elixir. For you, Constance. Especially and only for you.”

She gazed into the liquid. “And how do I take it?”

“By infusion.”

“You mean, intravenously?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Whenever you like. Tomorrow, perhaps?”

She stared at the box. “I’ll take it now.”

“You mean, right now?”

“Yes. While we drink the champagne.”

“That’s what I love about you, Constance. No hesitation!” Diogenes rose, walked over to a tall, narrow closet, opened its door, and rolled out a gleaming, brand-new IV rack on a trolley, with all the associated equipment.

Constance felt a faint sense of alarm. This was indeed crossing the Rubicon.

“The infusion takes about an hour.”

He positioned the rack by her chair, plugged in the electronic pump and monitor, fussed with the tubes and valves.

“Roll up your right sleeve, my dear.”

Suddenly Constance had a thought: a very dark thought. Was all this a charade? Was she being played once again? Maybe Diogenes’s love for her was a sham; maybe this was some insanely intricate plot to deliver into her veins some poisonous or deforming drug. But as quickly as this thought came, she dismissed it: no one, not even Diogenes, could pull off a deception as profound as that. And she felt certain she would have sensed something wrong. She rolled up her sleeve.

His warm fingers took the arm, gently palpated it, strapped a rubber tourniquet around. “No need to look.”

She looked anyway as he expertly inserted the needle. Diogenes hung the bag on the rack, turned the stopcock — and she turned back to watch as the violet liquid crept down the tube toward her arm.