Sometime after D'Agosta had departed, after Pendergast had made his intentions clear that he would be staying up late, after Constance had taken a light supper with Proctor for company, strange noises could be heard deep within the old mansion.

It was a throwback to days gone by when wealth was expressed in what some referred to as luxury and others as senseless waste. The house rambled, the property taking up nearly an entire block, with small towers, grand archways, and a general castle or medieval church feel as opposed to say an old country estate. It was imposing despite how it was dwarfed by other nearby structures, a home suitable for a large family of multiple generations plus an entire staff to serve them, nearly unseen. After learning that he had come into possession of the site, Pendergast had spent some time thoughtfully planning on a few interior alterations, which he generally had done when he was not in use of the property. Towards the rear of the structure was a grand hall for entertaining, no doubt designed for whimsical holiday affairs and the occasional ball. With its high ceiling and vast empty footage, the current owner had seen its value as a gymnasium, and installed storage for various types of equipment, rewired more efficient lighting, reinforced the floors, and installed a couple of mirrors along the walls. Where once string quartets or even brass on a merrier day might have occupied a raised corner, long tables full of pastilles, crudités, cold meats, or chilled fruits may have lined one of the walls, where wicker furnishings may have provided rest for those weary of dancing and portable screens had sectioned off areas for more private conversation, there were now only ghosts of festivities past fading into spaces wherever dust managed to evade the housekeeper or the occasional errant cobweb might alight.

Attired in loose black leggings that tied at the waist in an older Asian style, barefooted and shirtless, Pendergast practiced walking on his hands and shadowboxed in a corner where he thought phantom musicians might attempt to dodge his blows and kicks while playing melancholy tunes only other ghosts could hear. He warmed up with a jump rope, and when he felt ready, bowed lightly toward the teenaged girl who stood, bored, idly gazing about, for the most part ignoring him.

He had already asked her to move his equipment about, the huge, heavy Nautilus workout contraptions, the antique medicine ball, his free weights, and she had acquiesced to his every whim without effort, without complaint, lifting stacks of metal discs like they weighed no more than old record albums, so that he actually laughed out loud at the spectacle. No weight seemed too great for her. And it was not even a matter of leverage, for she did not lean far back behind the stacks of weights, did not bend and haul with her lower body when he asked her to reposition his gorgeous aspen wood rowing machine. It was as if everything he owned was made of Polystyrene and balsa wood, Mylar instead of steel. Never did she grunt or break a sweat, never did she hesitate or even breathe a little harder. He took her before one of the mirrored panels and gently prodded her arm, her back, and one leg. Then he had her lie upon his weight bench so he could press against the skeleton he could feel, which felt perfectly normal within her. She said nothing while he put her joints through their full range of motions, eventually bending her backward gently over the bench until she could put her hands down and bridge it.

He helped her upright and knelt on one side of the bench, his right arm raised. "Arm wrestle me." The girl knelt opposite him and set an elbow on the bench before taking his larger, warmer hand in her own. He repositioned her elbow, adjusted his grip, and then said, "Now!" At which point she slammed his arm so deeply into the padded surface that the indentation remained for an unusually long time. He broke free of her and examined his arm, wrist and hand. Everything intact, no harm done. "I cannot believe you are mechanical in any way, because you know precisely how much force to use to achieve your goal without causing me harm." She watched him complacently through half-lidded eyes. "And yet, I believe you could have put your hand right through Vincent's ribcage, or Proctor entirely through the wall had you wished it."

She nodded mutely.

After positioning her more or less in the center of the room with dense, though not especially thick gym mats about them, he had faced her and performed his slight bow. "Your turn," he instructed, and she looked surprised for a moment, but bowed anyway until he told her she could rise again. "I will come at you, and I wish you to deflect my attacks without hurting me."

In a room designated as the security suite Proctor sat in a leather swivel chair with his fingers steepled before his face, a mug of cooling coffee on a coaster on the desk before him. "This should be interesting."

Just behind him, half perched on the edge of a small, sturdy desk that housed a wireless printer, Constance stared past him at the monitor that showed them exactly what Pendergast was up to. "Should he trigger something in her…or should she somehow…malfunction…."

"He didn't join the FBI to overcome meekness."

Pendergast studied the girl. She affected no defensive stance whatsoever. If anything, she appeared as though she might wander off to nap or find a better way to entertain herself. "If I manage to harm you," he began then blinked in surprise as she broke into a huge grin. "All right then." He paused, then ran at her, hands held like knives at his sides, arms working to support the motion of his legs. In the brief span of time it took to reach her, he watched for some sign of her intention. He thought to tackle her, toss her over his shoulder, and prove she was vulnerable because of her small stature. At the last second he dropped his chest, seized her, whipped around her body like he'd tackled a lamppost, his momentum breaking his grip, and landed short of a mat on his hip, sliding.

Proctor slammed a fist on the desk beside a keyboard, unaware he'd made Constance jump. "Did you see that? What happened?"

The pale man rose slowly, making certain he hadn't damaged himself in anyway. Amanda stood nonchalant, peering toward a window shade with interesting shadows upon it from the wind-whipped greenery outside. His hip was sore from the impact and his side ached a little where his bare skin had slid over well polished wooden flooring. He neared the girl, frustrated that her clothing remained perfect instead of half wound around her body. "Are you okay?" he queried sarcastically, walking a circle around her.

"Uh-huh."

"Forgive me," he said, stooping to encircle her lower body in his arms and lifting her from behind. She didn't exclaim or flail. She didn't weigh any more or less than he would have guessed, either. He set her down and her long hair drifted up into his face. "Let me fix this," he said, taking hold of the black strands and dividing them into sections he then quickly braided like a rope. "Hold this," he told her, handing her the thick end. He went to a closet where he located two unsharpened pencils and returned to push them through her hair after coiling the braid up into an impromptu bun. "Better."

Proctor turned and looked at Constance. She was wearing a light robe over her nightgown, satin ballet style slippers on her feet, and a gauzy mobcap over her wavy brown locks. She ignored him, still watching the surveillance screen.

Pendergast turned the girl as though to examine his handiwork, then dropped her, catching her lower spine on his left palm, easing her to his knee, then the floor in one fluid movement. He smiled down at her, then performed an unexpected back flip when one of her vise-like hands seized his ankle and threw him airborne. He landed on his feet in a bouncing crouch, already poised for her next attack while she rolled lazily onto her side and propped her head up on her fist.

"Who trained you?"

"Happenstance."

He chuckled his disbelief. "No one learns techniques like these through mere happenstance." He approached her and offered a hand to help her up. She rose gracefully like a dancer and stood awaiting his next command.

Pendergast turned away from her, then spun, one hand outstretched to smack her in the face like a wooden board. She caught his wrist and elbow, and spun backward into him, sending him sprawling across the floor in a dervish. He corrected himself and launched himself at her in a high, two-part kick. She dodged into his arc, ducked below him, then planted a foot against his lower back so that he staggered across the floor knees bent, shoulders thrown backward. He whirled and couldn't find her. Maintaining a defensive posture, breathing evenly but hard, he stalked a wide circle, seeking her. The room was large and mostly empty. Perplexed, he finally stopped and straightened. Arms caught his neck and he was lifted off his feet and dropped directly in front of her. She smiled at him pleasantly. He whipped his head back and forth toward the mirrors, aware he had not seen her in any of them a moment ago.

"Where did she come from?" Proctor sputtered, as into the event as any hockey game attendee.

Constance had been following the action as closely as possible, and even she had failed to see the teen vanish or the exact moment she had seemingly reappeared. "Track back a few frames."

"Nuh-uh. I'm recording everything. We can watch it all again later. I'm not missing anything."

Pendergast grinned back, relishing the challenge. It had been years since he had sparred with a worthy opponent. His light skin glistened with moisture and his eyes were large and luminous with excitement.

Amanda seemed happy to be pleasing him, though not overly thrilled with the proceedings.

He brought a leg up swiftly to take hers from under her, encountered resistance like the side of a building and half-spun before falling. It had been a long time since he had attempted it, but he rocked himself straight backward, then threw his hips up and forward, landing on his feet in a low crouch, pleased he could still manage the trick.

The nonplussed kid just watched him as though she considered him very run-of-the-mill at best.

"How is it that the laws of physics fail to apply to you?"

"Breaking the law?" she asked.

"Never mind," he said. Pendergast struck forward from the waist with a fist that froze right beside her face. He drew back, throwing out a false blow with the left fist before following through with another direct hit from the right…that again failed to make contact. He kicked with his left leg and she was already out of the way, his right leg swept where hers had been a moment ago, and he followed through by completing the spin, sending his fist toward the side of her head like a freight train. There was no time to duck, to dodge…but there was no contact. His momentum carried him into another half-spin, and he steadied himself to turn toward her in surprise. "You didn't move."

"No."

"I did not pull the blow."

"Okay."

"It is not okay," he said, replaying the details in his mind. He looked at his fist as though it held answers. "I saw…I saw.…"

"A puddytat?" she asked.

He stared at her. "Don't move." And landed a blow in the center of her face. Pendergast spun, clutching his fist, unsure if he could open it.

The girl took his wrist, wrenched it easily from his grip and gently pried the hand open, caressing it from wrist to tips across the palm. He withdrew from her slowly and examined his hand. It felt fine. He looked back at her face. No red mark, no nothing. Curious, he slapped her as he had earlier, to watch the blush rise. She turned his head with a slap of her own, then watched him touch a hand to his face and return his gaze to hers.

"This…is mere play to you."

She nodded.

"I thought so." He walked away from her toward one of the storage closets.

Proctor clapped his hands together once and rubbed them against each other briskly. "He's going to get weapons."

"I don't care for this," Constance murmured softly.

"I'm starting to think he's right…she won't hurt him."

He brought out nunchaku, considered what he was up against, and decided against them. They'd be a wonderful way to acquire a few bruises on himself. He lifted a long katana, hefted it, and then replaced it in favor of a solid wood practice sword. "This is blunt," he told the girl as he approached her, "but it still hurts when it makes contact."

Pendergast placed his feet just so and took a few swings, whistling the length of wood through his airspace in graceful movements, catching the blunt blade against the flat of his palm before raising a leg and dancing with the faux weapon again. When he began his attack he struck her all about the shoulders, arms, back, throat, legs and head. She never reacted at all. "I feel like you're just trying to wear me out," he grinned, taking a towel to wipe the sweat from his features. "Why don't you attack me?"

"Did he just say…?" asked Proctor, quickly turning the volume on the monitor up.

The woman behind him shook her head slowly side to side, barely able to watch.

The girl walked toward him casually, seized the end of the practice sword and gave it a sharp jerk downward. The wood separated, revealing a gleaming blade. Pendergast stood baffled, stooping to pick up the scabbard she had dropped carelessly at his feet. "When did this become an actual sword?" he asked softly, holding it up to watch light play across the flawless steel. From a few yards away, the girl turned to face him and bowed deeply.

"Oh, no," Proctor intoned.

Pendergast had caught movement from the corner of his eye and affected a stance, uncertain if he was prepared to duel her with an actual deadly weapon in his hands.

The girl stood, her shoulders hunched, and began to raise her arms.

The screen on the monitor went screwy and Proctor groaned, "No! Oh, no!" while trying various means to clear the picture.

Down the nearest hallway Constance ran. Should she grab a weapon? Would it make a difference? Perhaps endanger her more?

"There it goes," the chauffer said, relaxing back in the chair again.

The woman used long, ground-covering strides, her slippers barely touching the floor.

In the gym, the girl charged like a rhino, and Pendergast stared at her, wondering if he should really use the blade on her or not. He decided he would step back at the last second and let her momentum carry her by, slapping her with the flat of the blade to let her know he had tagged her. But there was no stepping back or away. She crashed into him and they went flying, the blade sailing end over end toward a far wall. He braced himself for impact and hoped he had perspired enough to let his skin slide easily across the floor. They landed, bouncing enough to elicit a gruff groan from him, upon the nearest mat. The man stared up at the ceiling, breathless, coughing a little as he tried to re-inflate his lungs. If she intended to do him in, the time was now, while he was still attempting to assess his condition. When he could breathe again, he lifted his head slowly and looked at her, lying atop him, her jaw balanced on the heels of her hands, smiling, pleased with herself.

"Gotcha."

He let his head drop backward. "Yes, Amanda…yes, you did."

"Okay?"

"Perhaps if you help me up, I can better determine my status."

She eased a leg down and pushed up from it, hauling him upright by his waistband. The hapless man hung in her grasp for a moment before centering his feet beneath himself and standing upright on his own. He looked himself over and felt the places that might be hurt, but didn't prove to be. "I seem intact," he told her.

"Again?"

"I no longer question your abilities," he said. "I would like a break, if you don't mind? Would you care for a beverage, perhaps some sort of light snack?"

He bent for a towel, wiped himself down, and then draped it across his shoulders. He wandered toward a slatted bench where he'd set a small tray containing bottled water and drank thoughtfully, reminding himself to take small sips. Her defense was elegant, her attack brutish. The female lacked anything resembling fear. But she was as gentle as a mother playing with her child… He watched her work at something that made a crinkling sound. She breathed normally. No sweat stained her clothing or gleamed on her skin. She cannot be something of this world, he thought, vaguely worried by the notion. And yet…this could be a dream…if perhaps I lay in a coma.

"What is that you have there?" he asked suddenly.

She waved the shiny package at him.

"I'd like to see it, please. Where did it come from?"

"Snack," she said simply as he approached, breaking off a piece of it to pop into her mouth.

"That's…a prepackaged pastry," he accused.

"Cupcake," she agreed, licking chocolate frosting from her fingers.

"Where did you get this?"

"Snack time," she told him.

"Yes, but where? Where did this come from? How did you come by this? This is not something we have here…ever."

"Want one?" she asked, displaying a second one atop her other palm.

It looked like something he had seen before, sugar and lard-laden with a faux ganache topping halved by a signature of chained white loops. "I would never," he began then hesitated, contemplating the treat. First he placed the back of one hand against the girl's forehead, her cheek, her throat. Cool as ever. "Do you have more?"

"All you want," she told him, smiling. Dozens of packaged cupcakes fell from her hands to the floor. He had not seen her take them from anywhere.

"Oh, Aloysius!"

They turned to see Constance in one of the doorways, a hand to her heart. "Are you all right?" he called, hurrying to check on her.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

"I am well as ever," he assured her as he approached. "Is something the matter?"

"I thought…we were…."

Pendergast watched her, waiting for her to form a complete sentence. She looked over at the teenager, then back his way twice. He supplied, "You were watching us on camera?" gesturing toward one of the surveillance cameras set high up near a lighting fixture.

"Yes."

"Is it all being recorded?"

"Yes."

"Excellent," he exhaled. "I shall be very interested in studying the footage later. You're certain you're all right?"

She fanned herself a little with one hand. "I am. If…you are."

"Would you like a cupcake?"

"Would I like a cupcake?" she repeated, cocking her head slightly.

"We have plenty," he told her with a wry grin.

"Where on earth did you find cupcakes?"

Turning a circle with his arms raised, he laughed loudly, "I have no idea!"

"I don't believe you are well," she told him.

"I no longer know what to believe!" he said. "Did you see this?" He jogged over to the wooden practice sword and bent, then stopped in place. Constance watched him puzzle over the object before lifting it slowly. He held it before him, turning it this way and that, then began to tug and pull on the blunt, wooden blade. When it failed to part for him, he lifted a knee and broke the piece in two. Then he peered intently at each splintered end, baffled. Pendergast let the pieces droop to his sides as he looked forlornly about the floor for the concealed blade he'd been holding when the teenager had bowled him over.

"You are obsessed with her," the woman accused.

"Of course I am. She's like nothing I've ever heard of or seen before!"

"She may well be the end of us."

"Us?"

"Us all."

"And we could stop her how?"

"You should have let Vincent take her."

"And endanger his life instead? Or that of other innocent police officers?"

The girl continued eating, ignoring them.

"What do you plan to do with her if no one comes to claim her?" Constance asked.

"Keep her? I know that's not the answer you're seeking, but what else could I do? Turn her over to the military? Watch her fall into the wrong hands?"

Nearing him, the woman asked, "And you suppose your hands are the right ones?"

"I am confident in my thought process," he informed her a little coldly, weary of the circular argument.

"You just broke one of your practice swords."

"I own plenty."

"You thought there was a genuine blade within it."

"You did see that!" he beamed.

"It doesn't…make it real."

"How is any of this not real?" He spread his arms and looked over at Amanda who now stood in a drift of empty cellophane and little white squares of waxed cardboard.

Constance shook her head and asked him, "Where did those cupcakes come from?"

"I believe," he began, swallowing, "they are from Hostess."

"So, she's the Hostess fairy?"

"I don't know!" he said, hurrying after her as she stalked away from him. "Please be patient with me, Constance! I'm trying very desperately to make sense of all of this, but it is taking time." He captured her sleeve and slowed her progress. "It is taking precious time, I know, and perhaps I seem a bit manic and perhaps I may seem a bit mad, but wouldn't you be as well? If you had stumbled upon her within a dream, only to find her in your waking life, strange and, and seemingly magical…in some way still not real?"

"I would seek your advice," she told him, her face flush, eyes wet-looking. "And when I was required to continue with my life in the normal fashion, then I would have her sealed away somewhere securely. It would never dawn on me to risk your well-being, nor anyone else's by allowing her to remain free, to-to have free reign of the house and everything in it!"

"Why don't you go to the Dakota?" he suggested.

She set her jaw, her back to him. "Because…I care about you."

"This," he tried to explain, "may be strange—it may be stranger than anything I have ever encountered before, but I do not believe that you nor I nor anyone else who might become involved is in any way in danger!"

She retorted, "You said you didn't know what to believe." When he failed to reply, she broke her glare and stalked off, slamming a door behind her.

Pendergast stared after her, then allowed his shoulders to sag. He turned, and the teenager was there, directly in his path. He nearly clobbered her with the broken lengths of wood he still held.

"Break over?" she asked.

He looked past her and inhaled deeply. "Do you remember me asking you about an IQ test?"

She nodded after a moment's hesitation.

"Let's retire to the basement, shall we? I'd like to shower first and don something clean. Can you dispose of those…wrappers.…" There was no trace of her feast on the floor. He glanced up at the camera high above them. "That will do."