“You say you love me,” she said after a moment. “How absurd for you to think I could possibly believe that.”
“It’s true,” he said. “And I think you already know it — even if you can’t admit it to yourself.”
“And do you really think, after what you’ve done, that I’d reciprocate?”
Diogenes spread his hands. “Those in love are full of irrational hope.”
“You mention the feelings I had for your brother. Why, then, should I have any interest in his inferior sibling — especially after the way you abused my innocence?”
This was said scornfully, sarcastically, with intent to wound. But Diogenes answered the question in the same mild, reasonable tones he had employed all along.
“I have no excuse. As I’ve said, my treatment of you was unforgivable.”
“Then why seek forgiveness?”
“I don’t seek your forgiveness. I seek your love. I was a different person then. And I paid for my sins — at your hands.” He motioned, briefly, toward the scar on his cheek. “As for my being inferior to Aloysius, I can say only this: you and he would never have been happy together. Don’t you realize that? He’d never love anyone after Helen.”
“While you, on the other hand, would be an ideal partner.”
“For you—yes.”
“Thank you, but I have no interest in a union with a psychotic, misanthropic, imperfectly socialized killer.”
At this, the faintest of smiles crossed his face. “We’re both killers, Constance. As for being a misanthrope — is there not a similarity there, as well? And are not both of us imperfectly socialized? Perhaps it would be best if I simply described the future I envision for us. Then you can make your own judgment.”
Constance started to make another cutting remark, but stifled it, feeling her responses were beginning to sound shrill.
“You’re a creature of another era,” Diogenes said.
“A freak, as you once called me.”
Diogenes smiled wistfully, waved a hand as if to concede the point. “The simple fact is: you don’t belong in the here and now. Oh, you’ve made valiant efforts to integrate yourself into the twenty-first century, into today’s quotidian, vapid society — I know, because I’ve observed some of those efforts at a distance. But it hasn’t been easy, has it? And at some level, you must have begun to wonder if such an effort is even worth it.” He paused. “I don’t belong in this time, either: for a very different reason. You couldn’t help what happened to you — Enoch Leng intervened in your life, murdered your sister, took you under his… care. Just as you said, I, too, am imperfectly socialized. We are two peas in a pod.”
At this trite observation, Constance frowned.
As he’d been speaking, Diogenes had been toying with the stiletto. Now he placed it on the harpsichord, took a step forward. “I own an island, Constance — a private island in the Florida Keys. It’s west of No Name Key and northeast of Key West. It’s not a big island, but it’s a jewel. It is called Halcyon. I have a house there; a breezy mansion furnished with books and instruments and paintings; it offers both sunrise and sunset views; and it has been stocked with all the rare wines, champagnes, and delicacies you could ever wish for. I’ve been preparing this idyll over the years with painstaking, excessive care. It was to be a bastion; my last and final retreat from the world. But — as I was recovering in that hut in Ginostra — I realized that such a place, no matter how ideal, would be unbearably lonely without another person — the one, the perfect person — with whom to share it.” He paused. “Need I name that person?”
Constance tried to formulate a reply, but found the words wouldn’t come. She could smell his faint cologne. The unique and mysterious scent brought back a memory of that single night…
He took another step forward. “Halcyon would be our escape from a world that has no need for or interest in us. We could live out the forty or fifty years allotted to us, together, in mutual discovery, pleasure… and intellectual pursuits. There are certain problems of theoretical mathematics I should like to tackle, problems that have defied solution for centuries — such as the Riemann Hypothesis and the distribution of prime numbers. And I’ve always wanted to decipher the Phaistos Disc or work out a full translation of all the Etruscan inscriptions. These are of course massively difficult puzzles that would take decades to solve — if they can be solved at all. For me, Constance, it’s the journey, not the destination. It’s a journey we will make together. That we are meant to make together.”
He fell silent. Constance said nothing. This was all too much, too quickly: the protestation of love; the vision of an intellectual utopia; the allure of a sanctuary from the world… despite herself, some of what he had said struck deep.
“And you, Constance, will have all the time in the world to undertake your own odyssey of the mind. Think of the projects you could complete. You might take up writing or painting. Or study a new instrument. I have a lovely Guarneri violin that would be yours to play. Think about it, Constance: we could live in absolute freedom from this dull and corrupt world, indulging our dearest pursuits and desires.”
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…