“This is wonderful,” I said as I shifted my attention from the courtyard to building before us. I admired the column-connected arches that bordered the veranda of Toby's Tuscan villa. “I like yours even better than Felisa's.”
“Thank you,” Toby said proudly.
Doba barked at us and ran up the steps to disappear into the villa.
“She's excited,” he said. “We just moved in last night.”
“How's Naye taking it?” I asked.
“He's dealing.” Toby shrugged. “He helped me move.”
“He did?” I asked in surprise.
“I think he's beginning to see the perks of living alone,” Toby said. “Besides, it's not as if I've moved far away.”
Toby waved his hand upward, and I followed it to see the mountain looming over us. High up the rock face, there was a promontory that I could just make out. I knew it well; Naye had tortured me on it once. No; Toby hadn't been lying when he said that he had been the cause of my pain as well. He hadn't approved of Naye's methods for swaying me to their side, but he hadn't stopped his brother either. That had been a rough time for both of us. Okay, mostly for me.
“No one will ever hurt you again, if I can help it,” Toby vowed softly.
“I can protect myself,” I said a little sullenly. Then I saw his hurt expression and added, “But thank you; it's nice to have a champion.”
“Any time, my lady,” Toby said as he bowed gallantly.
I laughed as Toby escorted me into his villa, and then oohed and ahhed as he showed me around. It really was more beautiful than the one in Italy. Although, that wasn't surprising; Toby had territory magic at his disposal. All he had to do was find an item to transform and picture it as he wished it to be. He could turn a pebble into a palace if he wanted to. The only limitation was his own imagination. And Toby evidently had a wonderful imagination.
The home wasn't as immense as it could have been. Toby had kept it to a moderate size—for a god—but he'd decorated it diligently. Massive paintings hung on the plaster walls, statues adorned the top of columns—their arms stretching over arched doorways, intricate mosaics were set into the floors—so detailed that it felt as if I were walking over real flowerbeds, and silk carpets lounged around their edges. Chandeliers of blown and stained glass hung from the cloud-painted ceilings; setting a soft mood with their jewel-toned light.
I peered in the rooms as we passed; the scent of citrus and pine pulling me along. The furniture was eclectic; some rooms stuck with the villa feel and boasted heavy, carved wood pieces, while others looked as if they were straight out of Versailles. Toby didn't let his architecture restrain him; he had filled his home with whatever had taken his fancy. I smiled up at a portrait of Doba on the wall.
“And this is the master bedroom,” Toby said as he opened a pair of double doors.
“How did I know you were leading me—whoa,” I said as I stepped slowly into the room. “I've never seen anything like this.”
“Thank you,” he followed me in. “I was hoping you'd like it.”
I just gaped about me; trying to take it all in.
The room felt cool but not uncomfortably so. It was probably due to all the water. Across from the doors, there was a pale stone wall carved with what I assumed were Navajo designs. Water poured down the middle portion of it and into a pond. Lights set within the pond illuminated the carvings and set the water to sparkling. Within the roughly-circular (except where it met the back wall) pond there was a round platform; an island of sorts. Connecting the island to the rest of the room was a narrow bridge. The entire floor, including the platform, was made from a deep indigo stone polished to a glassy sheen. It was so perfectly smooth that it reflected the overhead light and made the stone seem paler than it was.
The island held a regular, square bed, although it was big enough for four. The mattress was set into a stone base that flowed up from the platform seamlessly, and behind it, there was a panel of glass to protect the occupants from any splashes that might come off the wall of water. But that was just the beginning.
The pond had streams branching off it; swirling through the stone floor in delicate curves. Doba leapt over the streams—barking at the colorful fish that swam within them—before running off toward the open balcony on our left. It was to the balcony that all the streams flowed. They cut the balcony into sections with their even lines and poured out over the edge with a lovely rushing sound.
I went to join Doba and stared over the railing. The falling water was caught in a stone trough just below the edge and then appeared to flow back into the wall; doubtless to recycle through the waterfall—or water-wall, rather. I turned around and wandered back inside; my eyes wide with wonder.
There were rugs scattered over the little areas made by the looping streams. One of them had a couple of chairs, a small table, and some potted plants. A book was laid open on the table and one of the chairs was suspiciously covered in pale fur. One night, and Doba had already claimed her spot. Another area only had a few pillows and plants, and yet another connected to the far wall—down a bit from the water panel—where a wardrobe was set into the stone. Above us, a skylight domed up;
