Page 87 of The Cabinet of Dr. Leng

“You already know where we are. I’ll explain everything else when we return to our own timeline—the how, what, and most importantly,why. The purpose of this jaunt is to, first, convince you I’m not insane and that I actually have a device that can transport us to an alternate time…and second, to give you a taste of 1880s New York, so that when we return you’ll have had the chance to accept the reality of the situation, get over your surprise, and be able to act more naturally. One has to be careful here: after all, no matter what we do, we will never look quite right or speak quite normally.”

The cab turned onto Fifth Avenue and began making its way uptown, revealing a parade of large, gorgeously ornamented mansions on either side of the broad avenue, the windows glowing softly in the gathering dark.

“Welcome to the Gilded Age,” said Pendergast.

D’Agosta stared at the structures of stone and brick, rising four and five stories, in a motley display of architectural styles, with turrets and towers, gables and gargoyles. A few looked faintly familiar, but most were completely unknown to him.

“The Appletons,” said Pendergast. “The Tookers on your left, the Rhinelanders to your right, the Havemeyers, the Stuyvesant Fishes…” His languid fingers flicked left and right as they passed mansion after mansion. Then Pendergast turned to the driver once more.

“Slow down at the next block, please, but don’t stop.” He leaned toward D’Agosta. “Vincent, please direct your attention to that town house there.”

The driver brought the horse into a walk as Pendergast indicated a tall, somewhat narrow mansion of pink marble whose taste and elegance made it stand out from the rest. It was still in the last stages of completion, with a steam hoist raising a block of stone to the roof and workmen scurrying about.

“Who lives there?” D’Agosta asked.

“It belongs to a woman calling herself the Duchess of Ironclaw. Known to you and me as Constance Greene.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“Careful, my dear Vincent—this era is quite intolerant of such language.”

D’Agosta could hardly believe what he was hearing. He peered at the house with renewed interest. “I see a child in a second-floor window. Who’s that?”

“That is also Constance Greene.”

“What the—?”

“There are now two of them, you see—the Constance of the 1880s, who is just a child, and the Constance that we know, who has returned to the past with violence on her mind.”

D’Agosta shook his head wordlessly.

“I learned these facts, and much more, on the first two occasions I used the machine to return to this place. But I’ll spare you those details. The point is, she is playing a most dangerous game, and already she’s in deep—very deep. Her life is at risk—as, my dear Vincent, yours will be, too, should you agree to assist me. But all shall be explained once we’re back in more familiar surroundings.” Pendergast rapped on the roof. “Driver, return us to Longacre Square, if you please.”

55

FOR D’AGOSTA, THEnext half hour passed in a blur: another sensory overload of unfamiliar sights and sounds; another jolting trip in a darkened carriage; and, strangest of all, that feeling of hurtling through a limitless void, ending with the nightmarish sensation of falling. And then they were back in Pendergast’s basement lab, Pendergast standing, D’Agosta lying flat on the floor. He could hear voices as the whine of the machine ran down. He closed his eyes and took several deep breaths, opened them, and rose unsteadily to his feet.

“You may leave us, Proctor,” he heard Pendergast say. “And Dr. Ferenc, once you’ve completed the post-shutdown assessment, you may consider your work done for the evening.”

“The machine registered some unusual readings on this trip,” said the man named Ferenc. “It’s probably due to operating with two persons rather than one, but I’d better stick around to make sure it’s nominal.”

Proctor left. Pendergast helped D’Agosta off with the heavy coat and hat, gave him back his weapon, cell phone, and shoes, then gestured at the still-open door. “Vincent, shall we retire to the library?”

D’Agosta stepped forward, staggered, righted himself. He tried to speak, but his voice came out a croak. “I’m not going anywhere until you explain—no bullshit, no ten-dollar words—what thefuckjust happened.”

For a moment, Pendergast was still. Then he seemed to relent. “Earlier, I told you that I needed your help. But in order to truly make you understand the magnitude of what I’m asking of you, I had to take you back in time: to the place where your help is needed.”

“Back in time,” D’Agosta echoed.

“Actually, that’s not precisely correct. This machine creates a portal to a parallel universe, providing a bridge of sorts to an alternate New York City in an alternate 1880. I’ll spare you the technical details, save to assure you that nothing we do there will alter our own timeline. You could shoot my ancestor in that alternate 1880—which would, in fact, simplify matters considerably—but that would not in any way impact my existence in our own world.”

D’Agosta took another deep breath, got his voice back. “If it doesn’t make any difference, if that world doesn’t intersect with our own…then why should we give a shit?”

“Constance is there.MyConstance.”

“And the other Constance? The little girl I saw?”

“She is a part of the other timeline.” Pendergast hesitated. “It’s complicated, but my Constance felt that using this machine offered her a way to right past wrongs, redress grievances…and perhaps provide a more suitable home for her and her siblings. I used the machine to make sure she was…flourishing.”

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