“Have you spoken of this to her? Your feelings, I mean. It might be good for both of you.”
“I’ve tried. More than once, in fact. But she violently rejects any possibility of a discussion on that topic.”
“Perhaps that will change with time.” Viola shook out her hair. “Where do you plan to go next?”
“We’ve already toured France, Spain, and Italy—she seems interested in the ruins of ancient Rome. I’ve been doing everything I can to take her mind off what happened. Even so, she’s preoccupied and distant—as you can see.”
“I think what Constance needs most is direction.”
“What sort of direction?”
“You know. The kind of direction a father would give a daughter.”
Pendergast shifted in his chair, ill at ease. “I’ve never had a daughter.”
“You’ve got one now. And you know what? I think this whole Grand Tour you’ve been taking her on isn’t working.”
“The same thought had occurred to me.”
“You need healing—both of you. You need to get over this, together.”
Pendergast was silent for a moment. “I’ve been thinking about retreating from the world for a time.”
“Oh?”
“There’s a monastery I once spent some time at. A very secluded one, in western Tibet, exceedingly remote. I thought we might go there.”
“How long would you be gone?”
“As long as it takes.” He took a sip of wine. “A few months, I’d imagine.”
“That might be most beneficial. And it brings me to something else. What’s next… for us?”
He slowly put down the glass. “Everything.”
There was a brief silence. “How do you mean?” Her voice was low.
“Everything is open to us,” said Pendergast slowly. “When I have settled Constance, then it will be our turn.”
She reached out and touched his hand. “I can help you with Constance. Bring her to Egypt this winter. I’ll be resuming work in the Valley of the Kings. She could assist me. It’s a rugged, adventurous life, working as an archaeologist.”
“Are you serious?”
“Of course.”
Pendergast smiled. “Excellent. I think she would like that.”
“And you?”
“I suppose… I would like that, too.”
Constance had drifted closer, and they fell silent.
“What do you think of Capraia?” Viola called over as the girl stepped onto the terrazzo.
“Very nice.” She walked to the balustrade, tossed over a mangled flower, and rested her arms on the warm stone, staring out to sea.
Viola smiled, nudged at Pendergast. “Tell her the plan,” she whispered. “I’ll be inside.”
Pendergast stood and walked over to Constance. She remained at the railing, looking out to sea, the air stirring her long hair.
“Viola’s offered to take you to Egypt this winter, to assist her with her excavations in the Valley of the Kings. You could not only learn about history, you could touch it with your own hands.”
Constance shook her head, still staring out to sea. A long silence followed, filled by the distant cries of the seagulls, the muffled whisper of the surf below.
Pendergast drew closer. “You need to let go, Constance,” he said. “You’re safe now: Diogenes is dead.”
“I know,” she replied.
“Then you know there’s nothing more to fear. All that’s past. Finished.”
Still she said nothing, her blue eyes reflecting the vast azure emptiness of the sea. Finally she turned toward him. “No, it isn’t,” she said.
Pendergast looked back at her, frowning. “What do you mean?”
For a moment, she did not answer.
“What do you mean?” he repeated.
At last Constance spoke. And when she did, her voice was so weary, so cold, that it chilled him despite the warm May sunshine.
“I’m pregnant.”