Constance moved slowly on, passing a wine bar, jeweler, and art gallery, the latter featuring original signed prints by Miro, Klee, and Dali at astronomical prices. Inside the doorway, an ancient woman in a wheelchair was scolding the young blonde woman pushing her. Something about the young woman gave Constance pause: the girl’s downcast eyes and faraway expression, hinting of some private sorrow, could have been her own.
Past the arcade of St. James’s, a set of ornate double doors opened onto the Grand Atrium: a vast eight-story space in the heart of the ship. Constance stepped up to the railing, glanced first upward, then down. It was a remarkable vista of terraced balconies and sparkling chandeliers and countless vertical rows of lights and exposed elevators of stained glass and crystal. Below, at the King’s Arms restaurant on Deck 2, knots of people were sitting around red leather banquettes, dining on Dover sole, oysters Rockefeller, and tournedos of beef. Waiters and sommeliers wound their way among them, one setting down a plate brimming with delicacies, another bending solicitously over a diner to better hear his request. Tiers of balconies on Decks 3 and 4 overlooking the Atrium held additional tables. The clatter of silverware, the murmur of conversation, the ebb and flow of music, all drifted up to Constance’s ears. It was a hothouse atmosphere of luxury and privilege, a huge floating city-palace, the grandest the world had ever seen. And yet Constance remained utterly unmoved. Indeed, there was something repellent to her in all this desperate pursuit of pleasure. How different was this frantic activity, this coarse consumption and anxious attachment to the things of the world, from her life in the monastery. She longed to return.
Turning away from the railing, she walked over to a nearby elevator bank and ascended to Deck 12. This deck was almost entirely given over to passenger accommodations; while still a picture of elegance, with its thick oriental carpets and gilt-framed landscapes in oils, its atmosphere was much more sedate. She moved forward. Ahead, the corridor ended, making a ninety-degree turn to the left. Straight ahead was the door to her suite, the Tudor, situated at the aft port corner of the ship. Constance began to reach for her passcard, then froze.
The door to the suite was ajar.
Instantly, her heart began to beat furiously, as if it had been waiting for just such an event. Her guardian would never have been so careless—it had to be somebody else.
Reaching into her bag, she pulled out a slender box, snapped it open, and removed a gleaming scalpel from its plush nest. The scalpel
had given her.
Holding the blade before her, she advanced silently into the stateroom. The main salon of the suite was oval in shape, ending in a large two-story plate-glass window overlooking the black Atlantic roiling far below. One door to the left led to a convenience pantry, another to the right opened onto the room she and Aloysius used as a study. The room was lit by a dim courtesy light. Beyond she could see moonlight painting a glittering trail across the heaving ocean, throwing jewels into the ship’s wake. It illuminated a sofa, two wing chairs, the dining area, a baby grand piano. Twin staircases curved up the walls to the left and right. The left led to Pendergast’s bedroom; the right to Constance’s. Taking another silent step forward, she craned her neck, looking upward.
The door to her room was ajar. Pale yellow light streamed out from beneath it.
She took a fresh grip on the knife. Then—slowly, and in complete silence—she crossed the room and began ascending the stairs.
During the course of the evening, the seas had steadily grown stronger. The slow roll of the ship, once barely perceptible, was becoming distinct. From above and far forward came the long, mournful cry of the ship’s whistle. Sliding one hand up the banister, Constance took slow, careful steps.
She gained the landing, stepped toward the door. There was no sound from beyond. She paused. Then she violently pushed the door open and darted inside.
There was a startled cry. Constance whirled toward the sound, knife extended.
It was the cabin stewardess, the dark-haired woman who had introduced herself earlier. She had been standing by the bookcase, apparently engrossed in the book she had just dropped in surprise. Now she looked at Constance, her expression a mixture of shock, dismay, and fear. Her eyes fastened on the gleaming scalpel.
“What are you doing here?” Constance demanded.
The shock was slow to leave the woman’s face. “I’m sorry, miss. Please, I just came in to turn down the beds . . .” she began in her thick Eastern European accent. She continued to stare at the scalpel, terror distorting her face.
Constance slipped the scalpel back in the case and returned it to her bag. Then she reached for the bedside phone to call security.
“
” the woman cried. “Please. They’ll abandon me at next port, leave me in New York with no way of getting home.”
Constance hesitated, hand on the phone. She eyed the woman warily.
“I’m so sorry,” the woman went on. “I come in to turn down bed, put chocolate on pillow. And then I saw . . . I saw . . .” She pointed at the book she had dropped.
Constance glanced at it. To her vast surprise, she saw it was the thin volume titled
.
Constance was not quite sure why she had brought this book along. Its history—and its legacy—was painful to her. Just to look upon it now was difficult. Perhaps she’d carried it as a penitent carries a cilice, hoping to atone for her misjudgment through pain.
“You like Akhmatova?” she said.
The woman nodded. “When I came here, I could bring no books. I have missed them. And then, turning down your bed, I saw—I saw yours.” She swallowed.
Constance continued to gaze at her speculatively. “
,” she quoted Akhmatova. “
