The Final Descent (The Monstrumologist #4)(13)

“Indisposed,” I replied curtly, stepping past him and into the room. A nice little fire spat and popped in the hearth. A snifter of brandy and a pot of steaming tea rested on the small table opposite the bed. The window overlooked the spacious grounds, though the view was hidden by night’s dark curtain. I shrugged out of my overcoat, draped it over the chair between the table and the fire, decided a drink would warm me up and steady my nerves, and poured myself a glass from the snifter.

“The doctor has given me discretionary authority over the matter,” I said to him. “The issue for him, as I guessed, is not the price of the thing but the thing’s authenticity. You must understand you are not the first so-called broker who has appeared at his door wanting to sell certain oddities of the natural world.” I smiled—warmly, I hoped. “When I was younger, I used to think of the doctor’s subjects as mistakes of nature. But I’ve come to understand they are precisely the opposite. These things he studies—they are nature perfected, not mistakes but masterpieces, the pure form beyond the shadow on Plato’s metaphorical wall. This is excellent brandy, by the way.”

Maeterlinck was frowning; he was not following me at all. “So Warthrop is willing to reconsider my offer?”

“He is willing to give you the benefit of the doubt.”

“Then let us go to him at once!” he cried. “There is something altogether unnerving about this whole business, and I’m beginning to think I shouldn’t have taken it on. The sooner I get rid of this . . . masterpiece, as you call it, the better.”

I nodded, downed the rest of the brandy in a single swallow, and said, “There is no need to go to him. I have full discretion in the transaction. I believe I explained that, Maeterlinck. All that remains is for me to authenticate the find. Where is it?”

His eyes cut away. “Not far from here.”

I laughed. Poured another glass for myself and one for him. He accepted it without comment, and I said, “I will wait here while you fetch it, then.”

His eyes narrowed. He sipped the brandy nervously. “There is no need,” he said finally.

“I thought not,” I countered, falling into the chair and stretching out my legs. “So let’s pull it out and have done with it. The doctor is expecting me.”

He nodded, but moved not a muscle. I pulled a blank check from my shirt pocket and laid it on the table beside the snifter. He finished his drink. Set the empty glass beside the check. He stepped over to the bed, knelt, pulled out from beneath it a crate constructed of slatted boards, and set it carefully upon the mattress. The color was high in his cheek. I rose and handed him his glass, which I had filled while his back was to me, then addressed the crate. The top was hinged. I undid the heavy clasp on the opposite side and pulled up the lid.

Nestled in a bower of straw was an egg, dull gray and leathery in appearance, roughly the size and shape of an ostrich egg. The shell—though it more resembled human flesh cracked and brown from too much sun—was slightly translucent; I could see something dark moving beneath the surface, a black pulsing something, and my heart quickened.

Behind me Maeterlinck said, “You’ve no idea the trouble it is. New England is not the tropics, and keeping it warm is a constant worry and obstacle. I’m up all night tending to it. Putting it by the fire so it doesn’t get too cold. Pulling it away so it doesn’t get too hot. I am exhausted in mind and body.”

I nodded absently. I could not tear my eyes away from the object in the box. It would be beyond price.

Maeterlinck’s voice rose in consternation. “Well, then? Are you satisfied? I am willing to let you take delivery immediately upon receipt of payment. I usually only accept cash, but in this case I’m willing—”

“You should have brought it, Maeterlinck,” I murmured. It took every ounce of my willpower not to touch the egg, to feel the warmth of its life beneath my hand. “If he had seen it, he would have lost all self-control and forgotten to be stingy.” I closed the lid carefully. “Some men lust for gold, others for power. The monstrumologist is that rare man who covets what others would destroy. But it is not too late. I think we can come to an agreement, you and I.”

I swung away from the bed and returned to the chair between the table and the fireplace. He remained standing for a moment, then sank into the chair across from me with a sigh. He rubbed his eyes. I filled his glass a third time.

“One million dollars,” he said, though I could tell from his tone that the price was not firm. He was willing to negotiate and be done with this unnerving business.

I picked up the check. “Too much and you know it.”

He was losing patience with me. “Then tell me what you’re willing to offer, boy.” He sneered the word. It offended his dignity, being forced to bargain with someone far less than half his age.

I played with the check, turning it over and over in my hands, my heart pounding furiously. Part of me had the strange sense of having been here before, as if he and I were acting out a scene a hundred times rehearsed, the other part that I was a mere spectator to the melodrama, restless, a bit bored, wondering how long till intermission.

“Nothing,” said I, the actor, the onlooker.

He watched, speechless, while I tore the check in two and slipped the pieces into my pocket.

“Get out,” he said when he found his voice.