"I've killed a man since we've been here, Sterling," Saint Just reminded his friend. "I thought, at the time, that I was being myself, protecting those in my charge, persons for which I feel a responsibility. And if I had to revisit that same situation, knowing now of Maggie's horror at the time, I'd do it again, without compunction. Does that mean I haven't evolved ... or that I am becoming more the twenty-first century man than even I would feel comfortable being?"
"I don't know, Saint Just. Such a discussion requires much more concentration than I feel capable of at the moment. Pardon me for being so shallow, but do you think, if I am truly evolving, that this time, if I try one of those hair-growing miracles as advertised on the television machine, I would have a better chance at success?"
Saint Just shook himself back to the moment. "I can't imagine it would hurt to try, Sterling."
"Oh, capital, Saint Just! And I can exercise on Maggie's treadmill to lose weight, and cultivate a beard if I so chose, and learn how to play the guitar—I've harbored that wish for some time now, you understand. Oh! And I can cease and desist being not in the petticoat way, as Maggie created me. I think I should like to chase a few petticoats, not that the ladies wear them anymore, I suppose."
Saint Just tossed his cheroot toward the street, watching it soar into the darkness and disappear. "You—we—are also going to begin to age, Sterling. We will, if I've been correct all along in my assumptions, begin to grow older. Suffer aches and pains. We will have become ... vulnerable."
Sterling was silent for a few moments, and when he spoke, it was quietly, and in some awe. "What will it be like for you, Saint Just, to ... to go into battle if it becomes necessary, knowing that you could ... well, you know? Die?"
"A very good question, Sterling," Saint Just said, leaning against one of the porch posts. "I am not by nature a cowardly man, I don't believe. But I will say that, over the course of our varied experiences since arriving here, I've taken more than a modicum of solace from the idea that, no matter what I did, no matter what perils I might face, I would prevail. And survive."
"Gives a person pause, don't it?" Sterling asked, biting his bottom lip. "I imagine you feel rather as that super fellow did, when he discovered the existence of kryptonite, hmm? You'd think it would be lowering enough to be forced to fly about in those horrid blue tights."
"I beg your pardon? No, never mind, I imagine we can dispense with an explanation of that last statement for the nonce. Yes, indeed, Sterling, this revelation does give me pause. Which is why, Sterling, Maggie is not to know this. Any of this. Do you understand?"
"I believe so, yes. She won't let you be a hero if she knows you could be hurt, will she?"
"She'd attempt to wrap me in cotton wool and put me figuratively on a shelf, at the very least," Saint Just agreed, frowning. He needed some time now. Time to think about this evolving business. Time to remember why he had thought it so important that he do so, for one.
He would age. Along with Maggie, he would age.
He rather liked that. Maggie would be ecstatic, having more than once complained that she'd be collecting social security and playing shuffleboard in Boca, and he'd still be thirty-five, and vital, virile, chased by all the women who weren't slowed down by arthritic hips and bifocals, like her.
Maggie had such an interesting imagination ...
He would die. Along with Maggie, he would one day die.
He didn't really mind that. Life without Maggie would be a hell on earth, or whatever plane of existence would be left to him once she was gone, once her imagination no longer kept him and Sterling alive.
He could live with all of that. Die with all of that.
But how was he to live with the idea that he was no longer the perfect hero? Indomitable. Indestructible.
Capable of—egad!—failure!
How quick would he be to unsheath his swordstick, knowing that he could suffer a fatal injury as well as inflict one?
And why now? Now, when Maggie needed him more than ever, to save her father? Why did he have to discover all of this now? How could he possibly fail her now?
"Saint Just! We can get the sniffles now! Toothaches! Why, the list is endless, isn't it?"
Saint Just shook himself back to the moment. "And this pleases you, Sterling?"
"Yes, I suppose it does. We're here, my dear Saint Just. We're here, and we're not going back. Not poofing back into Maggie's mind, into the pages of our books." He giggled, actually giggled. "I am Sterling Balder. I am a real person—hear me roar!"
"I'm sure you know just what that means, my friend," Saint Just said, deciding to give up his own less amusing thoughts, as none of them quite pleased him. "Only you must remember, Sterling. Maggie isn't to know."
"I'm not such a booby, Saint Just. My tongue doesn't run on wheels. I've not got loose lips, and all of that. Not a word, I promise. But she will notice, you know. Eventually."
"And eventually is more than soon enough. Now, to get back to the problem at hand. Is that possible for you, Sterling?"
"I suppose so," he said, loosening his belt slightly. "Ah, that's better. Um ... what was the problem at hand, Saint Just?"
Saint Just mentally retraced the conversation, and realized that he hadn't said anything of any importance prior to realizing that Sterling's waistline had expanded, not beyond, at least, a suggestion that they review events since last evening.
"It wasn't really important, Sterling," Saint Just said, pushing himself away from the post. "I believe I'd like to go back inside now, speak with Attorney Spade-Whitaker before their party leaves for Atlantic City."
"I suppose that's a good idea. Although, wouldn't it be better if Attorney Spade-Whitaker was speaking to Evan?"
Saint Just turned just as he was about to open the door, and smiled at his friend. "Yes, Sterling, you are evolving, aren't you? Not that you haven't always had a fine mind, one I admire vastly. But that hint of sarcasm in your voice as you made that last suggestion? That is new, my friend. My felicitations."
"Do I thank you now? Or was that also sarcasm?"
"Don't hurt your head, Sterling. You've nothing to prove," Saint Just told him, and then stood back in the shadows, as Tate and his small party were approaching down the spiral staircase leading to the front door, Tate speaking quietly, almost, one could say, conspiratorially.
Not that Saint Just was an advocate of eavesdropping.
Unless the opportunity fell into his lap.
"So now you've seen all of it, Sean, top to bottom. Five bedrooms, four and one-half baths, the large living and dining area above us, a fully equipped kitchen—with island. And then this smaller, completely equipped apartment down here, on the lowest level, with its own small kitchen. It could be walled off somehow, don't you think, given its own entrance? Make this a two-income property? Oh, and the dumbwaiter. I showed you the dumbwaiter?"
"Yes, Tate, I've seen the dumbwaiter," Sean said, slipping a fur coat Bernice Toland-James would have committed deviant sex acts to acquire, over his wife's shoulders. "A good idea, that, with the building having so many levels. Especially with the kitchen on the second floor. You've got two parking spaces out back, off the alley, but no outside under-cover parking."
"True, true," Tate said, his tone bordering on the defensive. "But it's a two-car garage."
"With no separate storage for body boards, bicycles, strollers. By the time all that paraphernalia is stored away, there's only really a one-car garage. The house sleeps ten—fourteen with the two sofa beds. But, in reality, you only have off-street parking for three cars. At the height of the season, parking is at a premium here. A discerning buyer will notice that."