Constance listened intently, feeling her confusion mount. The fact was, she felt she knew so little of the world—nothing, in fact. Her entire life had been a prelude… to what?
“Speaking of color, note the ceiling of this room. What color is it?”
Constance glanced up at the library ceiling. “Wedgwood blue.”
“Was it always that color?”
“No. Aloysius had it repainted during—during the repairs.”
“How long do you suppose it took him to pick that color?”
“Not long, I imagine. Interior decorating is not his forte.”
Diogenes smiled. “Precisely. No doubt he made the decision with all the passion of an accountant selecting an itemization. Such an important decision, made so flippantly. But this is the room you spend most of your time in, isn’t it? Very revealing of his attitude toward you, don’t you think?”
“I don’t understand.”
Diogenes leaned forward. “Perhaps you will understand if I tell you how I choose color. In my house—my real house, the one that is important to me—I have a library like this. At first I thought of draping it in blue. And yet after some consideration and experimentation, I realized blue takes on an almost greenish tint in candlelight—which is the only light in that room after the sun has set. Further examination revealed that a dark blue, such as indigo or cobalt, appears black in such light. If pale blue, it fades to gray; if rich, like turquoise, it becomes heavy and cold. Clearly blue, though my first preference, would not work. The various pearl grays, my second choice, were also unacceptable: they lose their bluish gloss and are transformed into a dead, dusky white. Dark greens react like dark blues and turn almost black. So at length I settled on a light summery green: in shimmering candlelight, it gives the dreamy, languorous effect of being underwater.” He hesitated. “I live near the sea. I can sit in that room, all lights and candles extinguished, listening to the roar of the surf, and I become a pearl diver, within, and as one with, the lime-green waters of the Sargasso Sea. It is the most beautiful library in the world, Constance.”
He fell silent for a moment, as if in contemplation. Then he leaned forward and smiled. “And do you know what?”
“What?” she managed to say.
“You would love that library.”
Constance swallowed, unable to formulate a response.
He glanced at her. “The presents I brought you last time. The books, the other items… have you opened them?”
Constance nodded.
“Good. They will show you there are other universes out there—perfumed universes, full of wonder and delight, ready to be enjoyed. Monte Carlo. Venice. Paris. Vienna. Or, if you prefer: Katmandu, Cairo, Machu Picchu.” Diogenes waved his hand around the walls of leather-bound books. “Look at the volumes you’re surrounded by. Bunyan. Milton. Bacon. Virgil. Sobersided moralists all. Can an orchid flower if you water it with quinine?” He stroked the copy of Akhmatova. “That is why I’ve been reading you poetry this evening: to help you see that these shadows you surround yourself with need not be merely monochrome.”
He picked up another slender volume from the pile beside him. “Have you ever read Theodore Roethke?”
Constance shook her head.
“Ah! Then you are about to experience a most delicious, undiscovered pleasure.” He opened the book, selected a page, and began.
I think the dead are tender. Shall we kiss?—
Listening, Constance suddenly felt a strange feeling blossom deep within her: something faintly grasped at in fleeting dreams and yet still unknown, something rich and forbidden.
We sing together; we sing mouth to mouth…
She rose abruptly from the chair. The mouse in her frock pocket righted itself in surprise.
“It’s later than I realized,” she said in a trembling voice. “I think you had better leave.”
Diogenes glanced at her mildly. Then he closed the book with perfect ease and rose.
“Yes, that would be best,” he said. “The scolding Wren will be in shortly. It would not do for him to find me here—or your other jailers, D’Agosta and Proctor.”
Constance felt herself flush, and immediately hated herself for it.
Diogenes nodded toward the couch. “I’ll leave these other volumes for you, as well,” he said. “Good night, dear Constance.”
Then he stepped forward and—before she could react—inclined his head, took her hand, and raised it to his lips.
The gesture was executed with perfect formality and the best of breeding. Yet there was something in the way his lips lingered just out of contact with her fingers—something in the warm breath on her skin—that made Constance curl inwardly with unease…