“Hope you like Chinese,” he said, and shifted the car into gear.
They pulled off a narrow street, past a sign that read ST. FRANCIS COURT. The purr of the Cougar echoed as they drove down one side of the enormous court, which was composed of two long one-way streets, a single row of cars parked along each. A large grass median separated the two lanes, while beyond a wide sidewalk, towering Victorian homes stood on either side, facing one another like dance partners preparing to waltz.
“You live
A heavy wind rushed by, causing the leafy heads of enormous, ancient-looking trees to swish back and forth. The sun poked through the clouds, lighting the very center of the court where a huge fountain stood, much larger than the one outside her own neighborhood. Isobel cranked her window down. Crisp autumn air flooded in, chilling her face. She leaned out to get a better look at the fountain as they passed. Water poured from all sides of an enormous green basin, creating a curtain around an elevated base surrounded by graceful swans and solemn-faced cherubs. The rushing water of the fountain created a gentle hushing, the only other sound besides the hum of the Cougar’s engine.
At the very top of the fountain, a statue of a voluptuous nude woman looked down on them as they passed. She held a swath of fabric that clung to the lower half of her body and appeared to billow out behind her in a suspended arc.
The car rounded the fountain and headed down the other side of the court. Isobel turned her head, leaning forward to see through his window. A cast-iron lion grimaced at her from atop a stone pedestal. Two rows of ceremonial-looking gas lamps lined either side of the median, all lit with live flames that flickered within their glass holders. Another gentler brush of wind ran through the court, releasing a flurry of a thousand tiny yellow leaves. They fluttered downward, the light catching on their bellies, lighting them up like flecks of gold.
She knew they had to be in one of the oldest parts of town, somewhere in the historic district. It was a part of the city she’d always known existed, but one she’d never had reason to visit before now.
“It’s beautiful here,” she whispered, unable to decide which window of the car held the best view.
The houses themselves were incredible, each practically a castle in its own right, their facades done up in decorative brickwork and tiling, their fronts accented with small porches, porticos, and verandahs, the perimeters of which were set by carved stone pillars. Some of the homes had balconies, while others had rounded turrets with pointed rooftops. As they passed one gray-toned fortress of a home built completely of stone, Isobel thought she could make out tiny faces set into the facade, their mouths open in an O shape, their eyebrows angled down in fearsome scowls.
“What are those?” she asked, pointing.
“The faces? They’re called ‘green men,’” he said, slowing the car to a crawl so she could get a better look. “They’re a type of goblin or gargoyle. Protectors. They’re supposed to ward away evil.”
Isobel focused on one of the stone faces, which struck her as being different from the rest. While this green man shared the stern and foreboding expression of his comrades, his eyes, large and almond-shaped, seemed to convey more of a silent dare than a ward-away glower. And where the other faces had leafy beards, gaping mouths, and distorted features, this face bore a smooth and almost human look.
They picked up speed again, and Isobel looked away.
“I can’t believe you live here,” she said, shaking her head, unable and perhaps unwilling to mask the envy in her voice. He said nothing as they pulled up to an enormous redbrick home, simple only in comparison to the others that surrounded it. Varen shifted the car into reverse and backed into an open slot on the street.
Isobel stared up at the house. It had three levels, the topmost of which she thought might be an attic. The roof met in a peak there, with a little subroof sticking out from underneath the first, framing a rectangular, three- paneled window crosshatched by white Xs.
A small concrete porch led up to the front door, shaded by a simple verandah, which was itself supported by a row of painted white pillars. The front door, done in an opaque gold stained-glass design, shimmered a satiny dim yellow in the late afternoon sunlight.
Varen switched the car off and got out. Isobel got out too, careful not to tip the bag of food. She watched him over the hood of the car as he stepped back to survey the driver’s-side of the Cougar, frowning. Before she could say anything he looked away, walking to the rear of the car to open the trunk. They gathered their things and headed down the sidewalk, Varen picking through his keys.
“So where are your parents?” Isobel asked as he let them in.
“Out,” he said. “Who knows? They won’t be back until late. Some benefit auction event or something.” As they entered, their footsteps echoed against the polished wood floor. Isobel craned her head, awed at the incredible height of the ceiling. Someone must like old-fashioned boats, she thought, her eyes finding first the model of what she thought might be a schooner, perched on a long hallway table, and then a large painting depicting an old-time ship being tossed around on a stormy sea.
Their footsteps went mute as they sank into plush gold and black carpeting, which trailed all the way up a grand staircase tucked against the wall to her left.
To her right was an open living room area with tall, sliding wooden doors. Inside, a gas fireplace played the role of centerpiece. The walls were lined with shelves decorated with colorful glass knickknacks and more boats. Tall floor lamps with fancy Tiffany-like glass shades accented the space. The lamps especially, Isobel thought, gave the room a very “look but don’t touch” feel.
“You want a Coke?” he asked.
Without waiting for an answer, he slipped from the foyer and disappeared down a narrow hallway.
“Uh, sure,” she said. She made to follow, not comfortable on her own, but stopped when she came to a second, larger room to her right. This one was another no-touchy, done in antique gold and soft pinks with hardwood inlay floors, heavy draperies, and fancy old chairs. In one corner, like a squat gentleman in a tuxedo, stood a polished black piano. As she stepped into the room, it felt almost as though she were crossing through a time portal, leaving one century behind for another. She strode toward the piano and set the bag of food down on a low coffee table with spindly legs. She moved to stand behind the instrument, where she let her fingers trail the keys. Picking one somewhere in the middle, she pressed it softly.
The note—out of tune—boomed around her.
Isobel jerked her arm back. Her elbow plowed into the shelf behind her, knocking over a picture frame. She swung around, picked up the photo—and froze when she found herself staring into the intense gaze of a green- eyed, blond-haired boy, ten years old at the most. The photograph, taken from the shoulders up, showed the boy dressed in a gray vest, white dress shirt, and dark blue tie. His gaze seemed to be fixed in an almost-scowl at the photographer, like he was indignant at the idea of having his photograph taken. Faint half circles underlined the boy’s eyes, giving him the look of being prematurely world-weary. Isobel brought the picture closer, searching that small face for traces of the boy she knew.
She started when a set of slender, ringed fingers curled around the frame. Isobel let go and spun, suddenly trapped within those same eyes. Her heart did a triple-step as he gently took the picture from her, reaching across her to place it back on the bookshelf with the others.
“You’re really a blond,” she said, her tone just short of accusatory.
“And if you tell anyone, I will come to you in the night and smote your everlasting soul.”
His eyes fell to her hand, then to the keys. “Nobody. Like everything else, it’s just for show. It’s not even tuned.”
Isobel pulled her fingers away. No, she thought, there was something more here. Something in the way his eyes had traveled over the piano’s polished surface before turning inward in thought.
“Nobody?” she pressed.
“My mom did,” he admitted, catching her off guard.
“You mean, she doesn’t anymore?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “She might.” His eyes returned from their faraway moment, and he handed her a pair of silver forks he must have retrieved from the kitchen. “She left when I was eight,” he said.
She blinked. Was he joking? Sometimes it was so hard to tell. “Then who did I—?”
“You talked to my stepmom on the phone.” He was serious. Definitely no joke.
