Douglas Preston - The Obsidian Chamber

November 8

P ROCTOR EASED OPEN the double doors of the library to allow Mrs. Trask to pass through with a silver tray laden with a midmorning tea service.

The room was dim and hushed, lit only by the fire that guttered in the hearth. Before it, sitting in a wing chair, Proctor could see a motionless figure, indistinct in the faint light. Mrs. Trask walked over and placed the tray on a side table next to the chair.

I thought you might like a cup of tea, Miss Greene, she said.

No thank you, Mrs. Trask, came Constances low voice.

Its your favorite. Jasmine, first grade. I also brought you some madeleines. I baked them just this morningI know how fond you are of them.

Im not particularly hungry, she answered. Thank you for your trouble.

Well, Ill just leave them here in case you change your mind. Mrs. Trask smiled maternally, turned, and headed for the library exit. By the time she reached Proctor, the smile had faded and the look on her face had grown worried once again.

Ill only be gone a few days, she said to him in a low tone. My sister should be home from the hospital by the weekend. Are you sure youll be all right?

Proctor nodded and watched her bustle her way back toward the kitchen before returning his gaze to the figure in the wing chair.

It had been over two weeks since Constance had come back to the mansion at 891 Riverside Drive. She had returned, grim and silent, without Agent Pendergast, and with no explanation of what had happened. Proctoras Pendergasts chauffeur, ex-military subordinate, and general security factotumfelt that, in the agents absence, it was his duty to help Constance through whatever she was dealing with. It had taken him time, patience, and effort to coax the story out of her. Even now, that story made little sense and he was unsure what really happened. What he did know, however, was that the vast house, lacking Pendergasts presence, had changedchanged utterly. And so, too, had Constance.

After returning alone from Exmouth, Massachusettswhere she had gone to assist Special Agent A. X. L. Pendergast on a private caseConstance had locked herself in her room for days, taking meals only with the greatest reluctance. When she at last emerged, she seemed a different person: gaunt, spectral. Proctor had always known her to be coolheaded, reserved, and self-possessed. But in the days that followed, she was by turns apathetic and suddenly full of restless energy, pacing about the halls and corridors as if looking for something. She abandoned all interest in the pastimes that had once possessed her: researching the Pendergast family ancestry, antiquarian studies, reading, and playing the harpsichord. After a few anxious visits from Lieutenant DAgosta, Captain Laura Hayward, and Margo Green, she had refused to see anyone. She also appeared to beProctor could think of no better way to put iton her guard. The only times she showed a spark of her old self was on the very rare occasions when the phone rang, or when Proctor brought the mail back from the post office box. Always, always, he knew, she was hoping for word from Pendergast. But there had been none.