Fever Dream by Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child Page A

proved rather too effective. The very first volley landed directly on that shelf.” Pendergast shook his head. “No cocoa
     for a month.”
    “I recall it only too clearly, sir,” Maurice said, finishing his glass. The sherry seemed to be growing on him.
    Quickly Pendergast made to refill their glasses. “No, no, I insist,” he said when Maurice tried to demur.
    Maurice nodded and murmured his thanks.
    “This room was always the focal point of the house,” Pendergast said. “This was where we held the party after I won top honors
     at Lusher. And Grandfather used to practice his speeches here—do you remember how we’d all sit around, acting as audience,
     cheering and whistling?”
    “Like it was yesterday.”
    Pendergast took another sip. “And this was where we held the reception, after our wedding ceremony in the formal garden.”
    “Yes, sir.” The sharp edge of reserve had dulled somewhat, and Maurice appeared to sit more naturally on the ottoman.
    “Helen loved this room, too,” Pendergast went on.
    “Indeed she did.”
    “I remember how she’d often sit here in the evenings, working on her research or catching up on the technical journals.”
    A wistful, reflective smile crossed Maurice’s face.
    Pendergast examined his glass and the autumn-colored liquid within it. “We could spend hours here without speaking, simply
     enjoying each other’s company.” He paused and said, casually, “Did she ever speak to you, Maurice, of her life before she
     met me?”
    Maurice drained his glass, set it aside with a delicate gesture. “No, she was a quiet one.”
    “What’s your strongest memory of her?”
    Maurice thought a moment. “Bringing her pots of rose hip tea.”
    Now it was Pendergast’s turn to smile. “Yes, that was her favorite. It seemed she could never get enough. The library always
     smelled of rose hips.” He sniffed the air. Now the room smelled only of dust, damp, and sherry. “I fear I was away from home
     rather more frequently than was good. I often wonder what Helen did for amusement in this drafty old house while I was out
     of town.”
    “She sometimes went on trips for her own work, sir. But she spent a lot of time right in here,” Maurice said. “She used to
     miss you so.”
    “Indeed? She always put on such a brave face.”
    “I used to come across her in here all the time in your absences,” Maurice said. “Looking at the birds.”
    Pendergast paused. “The birds?”
    “You know, sir. Your brother’s old favorite, back before… before the bad times started. The great book with all the bird prints
     in that drawer there.” He nodded toward a drawer in the base of an old chestnut armoire.
    Pendergast frowned. “The Audubon double elephant folio?”
    “That’s the one. I’d bring her tea and she wouldn’t even notice I was here. She’d sit turning the pages for hours.”
    Pendergast put down his glass rather abruptly. “Did she ever talk to you about this interest in Audubon? Ask you questions,
     perhaps?”
    “Now and then, sir. She was fascinated with great-great-grandfather’s friendship with Audubon. It was nice to see her taking
     such an interest in the family.”
    “Grandfather Boethius?”
    “That’s the one.”
    “When was this, Maurice?” Pendergast asked after a moment.
    “Oh, shortly after you were married, sir. She wanted to see his papers.”
    Pendergast allowed himself a contemplative sip. “Papers? Which ones?”
    “The ones in there, in the drawer below the prints. She was always going through those old documents and diaries. Those, and
     the book.”
    “Did she ever say why?”
    “I expect she admired those pictures. Those are some lovely birds, Mr. Pendergast.” Maurice took another sip of his sherry.
     “Say—wasn’t that where you first met her? At the Audubon Cottage on Dauphine Street?”
    “Yes. At a show of Audubon prints. But she exhibited little interest in them at the time. She told me she’d only come for