Page 4 of Angel of Vengeance

A maid was attending to Constance’s injured arm, wrapping it in linen cloth, but she had retained 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, and he wondered with strange detachment if she was really 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 up!” came a cry from beyond.

Constance started at the voice, then 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 nodded.

As Pendergast examined D’Agosta’s wound, he spoke to Constance in a cold voice. “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 knows everything.”

Constance stared. “Impossible.”

“Absolutely possible. We must prepare ourselves. There’s no time to lose.”

“He kidnapped Binky—”

“He’s been one step ahead of you—and me—at every turn. And this is just the beginning. You don’t have the luxury of anger right now. Your sister is at grave risk. We must—”

He was interrupted by another knock at the door, polite and tentative.

Everyone turned toward the sound.

“It appears to be a delivery, Your Grace,” said the butler, who—having recovered his composure—was now peering through the eyehole.

“Send them away!” Constance shouted.

“No,” said Pendergast, drawing his weapon and standing to one side of the door. He nodded to the butler. “Open it.”

A liveried messenger stood in the doorway with a handsomely wrapped gift box, tied up and garnished with 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,” the messenger said, eyes widening as he took in the scene.

She snatched the package from him. Holding it under one arm, she plucked away the envelope, tore it open, and extracted a card engraved with a black border. As she stared at it, her face drained of color. Then she dropped the note 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. Taking it in both hands, she held it before her face, staring at the engraved label on its belly. For a moment, all was still… and then the urn slipped through her 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. It came to rest against D’Agosta’s leg, label upward. He squinted to read it, his vision still cloudy—but the words etched into the silver were deep and clear:

MARY GREENE

DIED DECEMBER 26TH, 1880

AGED 19 YEARS

ASHES TO ASHES

DUST TO DUST

4

December 27, 1880

Thursday

D’AGOSTA RESTED IN A wing chair, watching the rising sunlight try in vain to penetrate the shutters that wreathed the parlor in gloom.