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A maid was attending to Constance’s injured arm, wrapping it in linen cloth, but she had recovered her stiletto and was now pointing it at D’Agosta with her other hand. “Before I kill you,” she said in a low, trembling voice, “I want an explanation.”
D’Agosta still couldn’t find the words. As Constance moved closer, he wondered, with strange detachment, if she was about to cut his throat. He heard, as if from very far away, the clatter of a galloping horse—and then, much louder, an abrupt pounding on the door.
“Open the door!” came a cry. “Now!”
It was the voice of Pendergast.
Still staring at D’Agosta, Constance rose, walked across the reception hall, and threw open the front door.
Pendergast stood there, heaving with fatigue.
“You!” was all she said.
Pendergast brushed past her, saw D’Agosta, then quickly came over and knelt beside him.
“Did they get Binky?” he asked.
D’Agosta managed to nod.
As Pendergast patted him gently from head to toe, examining him for wounds, he spoke to Constance through clenched teeth. “You and I were never supposed to meet in this world,” he said. “But since we have, it’s best you hear all—and quickly. Leng knows about the machine. He knows who you are. He knows you’ve come from the future to kill him. He knowseverything.”
Constance stared. “Impossible.”
“Absolutelypossible,” Pendergast said. “We must prepare ourselves. There’s no time to lose.”
“He kidnapped Binky—”
“He’s been one step ahead of you at every turn. At the ball, at tea—and believe me: this is just the beginning.”
Silence filled the marble foyer as Constance, surrounded by a semicircle of house servants, went very pale. She stared at Pendergast, unmoving, while the agent rose and stepped away from D’Agosta. She said nothing, but the expression on her face made it clear she was veering from one unfathomable emotion to the next.
“We’ll have to watch you for signs of subdural bleeding,” Pendergast told D’Agosta. He turned and held his hand out to Constance, who slapped it away.
“You don’t have the luxury of anger right now,” Pendergast told her. “We’ve got to prepare. Your sister is at immensely grave risk. We must—”
He was interrupted by a knock at the door, polite and tentative.
Everyone turned toward the sound.
“It appears to be a delivery, Your Grace,” the butler—who had recovered his composure—said, peering through the eyehole.
Pendergast drew his weapon and stood to one side, aiming at the door. He nodded to the butler. “Open it.”
A young messenger in beautiful livery stood in the doorway, holding a handsomely wrapped gift box, tied up and garnished with fragrant white lilies. “Delivery for Her Grace, the Duchess of Ironclaw,” he said.
Constance stared at the man. “What the devil is this?”
“There’s a note, madam,” said the delivery person, his eyes widening as he took in the scene: Constance bandaged, D’Agosta lying prone on the floor.
She snatched the package from him as he turned and made for the street. Holding it under one arm, she plucked away the envelope that was tucked beneath a gold ribbon, tore it open, and extracted a card, engraved with a black border. As she stared at it, her face drained of all color. Then she dropped the card and tore the gold wrapping from the package, strewing the flowers about the floor and exposing a small mahogany box. She seized the lid and pulled it off. Inside, D’Agosta saw a flash of silver. Reaching in, Constance extracted a silver urn, then let the box fall to the floor. Taking the urn in both hands, she held it in front of her face, staring at the engraved label on its belly. For a moment all was still…and then the urn, too, slipped through her nerveless fingers and struck the floor with a crash, its top flying off and the urn rolling across the floor, spilling a stream of gray ashes behind it.
The urn finally came to rest against D’Agosta’s leg, the engraved label on its upper side. He squinted to read it, his vision still cloudy—but the words etched into the silver were nevertheless deep and clear:
Mary Greene
Died December 26th 1880
Aged 19 Years