Serpent's Gate

by Jade Astor

  “Quite right.” Uncle Vernon nodded his approval. “It’s fortunate that society moved beyond imagining that witches curse livestock and demons live in swamps and forests. Yet ultimately the progress we’ve made came from the same imaginations that encouraged superstition. I find it safe to say that inquiry, not magic, is the basis of knowledge.”

  Malcolm seemed disinclined to argue the point any further, and the discussion veered onto the merits of law school and Roark’s chances for success there. Stephen had nothing to contribute, and he wasn’t especially interested in Roark’s presumably rosy future, so he finished his meal in silence. Eventually, Ivy returned with the famous chocolate cheesecake Justin had raved about, rightly so as it turned out, and the dinner ended without controversy.

  “Let’s go for a walk around the garden,” Justin suggested as Leo helped his mother and sister clear the plates away. Stephen felt uncomfortable at having servants—or was it really more accurate to call them employees?—clean up after him, but Justin seemed to take it in stride. He simply tossed down his dessert fork and napkin and stood. “The grounds look incredible by moonlight. And no ghost stories, I promise. Would your uncle mind if we slipped out?”

  “I don’t see why not,” Uncle Vernon said, overhearing. “We have plenty of work to do tomorrow, so Stephen might as well have fun tonight.”

  Roark fixed Justin with a threatening glare. “I can count on you not to continue with your wild stories once you’re alone, I assume.”

  “Of course.” Justin offered a mock bow while Malcolm laughed. “You can trust me.”

  Frowning, Roark stood up and pushed in his chair. “No need for trust. I’ll come too.”

  “Good idea,” said Malcolm. Justin clearly didn’t share his enthusiasm, but he didn’t object. In a matter of moments, Uncle Vernon and Malcolm had gone off to enjoy another drink in the study, and Stephen was heading out to the darkened grounds with a Fairbourne brother on either side of him.

  As he stole a last glance at the candlelit table, more images from the book he’d found hidden streaked through his mind—the circle of robed figures, the stone slab they gathered around, the serpent-like face leering in triumph. Did the mysterious writing in the book represent what Justin had referred to earlier, something Bartholomew Fairbourne had attempted to destroy—an attempt to communicate with something not human?

  Chapter 7

  The freshly fallen darkness, ornamented with a light floral scent and the winks of flitting fireflies, completely transformed Fairbourne House’s front garden. The glow from the house, along with a few safety lights scattered along the brick pathways that crisscrossed the lawn, left huge pockets of shadows between the shrubs and statuary. Clumps of flowers that looked innocuous and delicate in daylight now took on strange shapes and vaguely threatening silhouettes.

  “My mother once told me every flower in the garden, along with the spot it was planted in, had some kind of symbolic meaning,” Justin told Stephen as they strolled side by side. Roark lagged behind, making no effort to contribute to the conversation.

  “That’s most likely true,” Stephen said. “My grandfather has a couple of old books on that topic in our store. Certain colors stood for love, others for forgiveness, and so on. People got really into it at one time.”

  “Whole books?” Justin asked incredulously. “You’re kidding!”

  “It’s called floriography,” Roark informed him. He trudged along with his shoulders hunched and both hands jammed in the pockets of his suit jacket. Stephen wondered why he had bothered to come, since he wasn’t enjoying their company. “People sent coded messages to their sweethearts in bouquets, and painters used it to give their pictures special meaning.”

  “Seems crazy to me,” Justin continued. “Why use a flower to represent your feelings? If you need to say something, just spit it out—that’s my philosophy. Anything else takes too long.”

  “It’s a highly civilized approach to communication, so I’m not surprised it doesn’t appeal to you, Justin.”

  “Sorry, bro, I had no idea you felt so strongly about it,” Justin said over his shoulder. “Maybe you should skip law school and open a flower shop instead. In the meantime, I’m sure Leo would let you practice here. Seems like he’s fallen behind with the trimming and weeding.”

  “There are worse ways I could spend my time.”

  “I’m sure all the original plants were replaced long ago,” Stephen said in attempt to defuse the rising tension between them. He had a feeling the rest of the weekend would be full of such clashes. “No one but a specialist—or maybe an artist, like Roark says—would be able to decipher the intentions of whoever started the garden.”

  “It goes way back,” Roark confirmed. “At least a hundred years or more, like most everything else here. But you’re probably right that it’s all been dug up and changed around many times since then.”

  Stephen imagined some long-ago mistress of the house strolling the brick pathways in her hoop skirt and enjoying the lush flowerbeds. She, along with her bright and fragrant blooms, not to mention Olive and Lucas, had long ago disappeared and been forgotten. Only Justin’s cynical barbs remained.

  No one spoke as the three of them stepped off the brick walkway, moved away from the house, and started across the vast lawn. A warm, pleasant breeze carried the steady drone of insects, spring peepers, and night birds. Eventually Stephen realized Justin was leading them in the direction of the front gate.

  “Where are we going?” he asked, slowing his pace. “It’s kind of dark out here, and we don’t have a flashlight. Maybe we should stay close to the house.”

  “That would defeat the purpose of taking a walk. Don’t worry. The moon’s pretty bright, and there are safely lights down there—not that you need any with Roark and me to protect you.”

  “Why would he need protection?” Roark asked when Justin didn’t respond. He caught up and fell into step beside Stephen. “What are you afraid of?”

  “I’m not afraid. It’s just that…I don’t know my way around here like you two do. I might twist my ankle or something.”

  “You won’t,” Roark assured him.

  “This isn’t a scary movie on late-night cable,” Justin said, laughing. “How often does that really happen, anyway? I don’t think I’ve ever twisted my ankle in my life. Have you?”

  “Well…no,” Stephen had to admit.

  “If I were running away from a killer, you’d better believe I wouldn’t go stumbling over tree roots,” Justin continued. “Those movies are full of crap. When you’re really afraid, adrenalin takes over. You’d be running so fast you’d sail right over rocks and tree roots.”

  “I hope I never have to find out.”

  They had nearly reached the gate, and even from this distance Stephen could see the outlines of Istharios’s body entwined around the iron bars. Thankfully, the sculpture faced outward, so they couldn’t see his pitiless, staring eyes and hungry iron maw. As promised, a few small lights were strewn along the ground at the base of the fence, and the telephone box he’d used just that morning also sported a glowing blue orb on top. Dapples of color splashed the snake’s muscular coils, raising each triangular scale in stark relief. Beyond the gate, the road stretched off toward an eerily still forest.

  “There, you see?” Justin stroked the pointed tip of Istharios’s tail. “Perfectly well lit, and locked up tight to deter the unwanted. As long as you don’t mind being trapped inside with us, you’re golden.”

  “Should I mind?”

  “I guess you’ll have to decide that for yourself,” Roark said.

  Releasing Istharios, Justin gripped the gate and hoisted himself a few inches off the ground. He used his feet to brace himself against the lower bars. “You know, there’s an old story about this gate and a former lady of the house. She might have been the same one who designed the flower garden. A most unfortunate incident, as they would have said back then.”

  He waited for Stephen to prompt
him. Of course he did. “What incident? What happened?”

  “You might find it hard to believe.” Slowly Justin eased himself back onto the ground. Stephen saw Roark grimacing at the performance. “Still, my father swore it was true, and Mrs. Mulgrave says she heard it from her grandma, too. You see, at the time in question, the mistress of Fairbourne House was what we modern people might call a free spirit. She cared nothing for propriety or decorum or any of those other buzz words our stuffy ancestors used to disguise their own hypocrisy. She believed in doing what she wanted—even if that included carousing with a man who wasn’t her husband.”

  “She was cheating on him, you mean.”

  “Nothing new about adultery,” Roark supplied. “Human nature doesn’t change just because the centuries do. Probably not all that uncommon, either, even in those days.”

  Often the result of arranged marriages, Stephen thought, nodding, but he didn’t say it out loud.

  “Well, no one knows all the details, least of all me. Maybe they shared nothing more than an innocent friendship—but even that would have been frowned upon back then. Anyway, legend has it that she used to meet him here, right by the Serpent’s Gate, and either let him in or slipped out to go off with him under cover of darkness. Night after night, they met here and carried on—however far things actually went—right under Istharios’s all-knowing gaze. He saw it all, believe me, even if no one else back at the house had a clue. Eventually, one night our great-great-granny had enough of this place and decided to go away with her lover. She couldn’t carry much with her, and she couldn’t have the maids pack anything up without arousing suspicion, so she grabbed only what she needed and came down here to wait for him at midnight.”

  “Let me guess,” Stephen said when he fell silent again. “She waited and waited, but he didn’t show up.”

  Justin laughed. “Oh, he showed up all right. Actually, it would have been better for him if he hadn’t. When she saw him, she opened the gate and motioned for him to come through and pick up her bags. What gentleman wouldn’t do that much for the woman who was running away with him?” Justin snapped his fingers. “Like that, he stepped through the gate and rushed toward her, his arms open. She was about to grab him up in a celebratory embrace…and then it happened.”

  He paused, deliberately stretching out the mystery, until Stephen prompted him.

  “What? What happened?”

  “What do you think? The gates closed on him, of course—crushed him to a bloody pulp right on this very spot.” Triumphantly, Justin stomped on the gravel. “Right in front of poor, unfaithful Mrs. Fairbourne. She couldn’t help him and she couldn’t let her husband find out what had happened. The gardener at the time—it might even have been Leo’s ancestor—helped her hide the suitcases until she could smuggle them back to her room. Then he took her back to the house, careful that no one saw her slipping in, before he went off to find help. Nothing they could do for the poor idiot except make up a story to explain his presence there in the middle of the night. I think they told everyone he was a traveler who got lost. When he came to ask for directions, a wind blew the gates shut and he got caught between them. A ridiculous scenario. Who would have believed that? No doubt her husband suspected the truth—but he could scarcely admit it and become an object of gossip among the servants and in the village.”

  “So they just went on, pretending everything was fine, until they either died of a miserable old age or killed each other,” Roark finished for him. “That’s the Fairbourne way, after all.”

  “As usual, you’re missing the point of the story, Roark.” Justin shook his head impatiently. “Istharios protected the house from an intruder—and he protected the family from scandal. He’d do the same for us, I’m sure, if someone or something tried to swoop out of the darkness and hurt Stephen. I was trying to assure him that he has nothing to worry about.”

  “Funny way of doing it,” Stephen muttered. A chill slid through him as he looked up at the stark silhouette of the gate.

  Roark scoffed. “What if someone from inside the house tried to hurt him instead? Would Istharios turn against…say, for example, me? Or you?”

  “I don’t think so. How could he? We’re Fairbournes. And provided Stephen is loyal to us, the ugly old beast will protect him too. I’m sure of that.”

  Stephen watched, unsettled, as Justin to Roark stood facing one another, their postures defiant. Were they really talking about a piece of metal architecture as though it were a living thing? They had to be teasing him.

  “This is totally ridiculous. You guys are just making up stuff to freak me out.”

  “Think that if you like,” Justin said mysteriously. “If I’d really wanted to scare you, I would have told you how the lover’s spirit hangs out here at the gate, waiting for Mrs. Fairbourne to return and run away with him at last. But I promised you no ghost stories. And I always keep my promises.”

  “You’re outrageous,” Roark huffed. “Stephen, just say the word if you want to go back to house.”

  While Stephen considered it, a rustling sound, along with the murmur of voices, reached them. Soon the gleam of the safety lights revealed Malcolm and Uncle Vernon approaching.

  “We thought we’d follow your example,” Malcolm said. His voice sounded thick, and Stephen wondered just how much bourbon he and Uncle Vernon had drunk before, during, and after dinner. “A walk in the moonlight seemed just the thing after a heavy meal like that. Got to hand it to you, Roark, that housekeeper of yours is one in a million. I’d steal her away if I thought she’d ever go.”

  “She is indeed, and she wouldn’t dream of leaving,” Justin assured him before Roark could answer. “Besides, if you took Mrs. Mulgrave, you’d also have to take Leo and Ivy. They’re the tarnish on the trophy.”

  “Enough, Justin,” Roark cautioned. “The Mulgraves have been loyal to this family for years, and we owe them our gratitude. Uncle Malcolm will have to content himself with coming over for dinner when his schedule permits.”

  “I’ll take that as an open invitation,” Malcolm slurred. He turned to Stephen and grinned. “Anyway, I thought I’d escort you and your uncle back to the cottage. Too dark to be stumbling around out here. Never know what could happen. Might step in a hole or trip over a rock.”

  Stephen hid a smile at the irony.

  “Or get caught in the gate?” Justin added. For some reason, Malcolm found his quip humorous. Stephen supposed everything seemed funny when one was in a state like his.

  “Exactly,” Malcolm said, laughing.

  Uncle Vernon sniffed. “He does have a point, in fact. I can tell these grounds might be difficult to navigate if one is not already familiar with them. I take it you had a pleasant time with these nice young gentlemen, Stephen?”

  “Very much so,” Justin answered for him. “We showed him the gardens and even discussed floriography. Stephen knows more about it than I expected.”

  “Stephen is a clever young man. That comes from working in the bookstore. Every bit as valuable as his college education, if you ask me,” Uncle Vernon proclaimed, his voice growing louder. “He’ll inherit the whole business one day, you know. Hope he has the sense to keep it going. So many young people care nothing for books these days.”

  “I’m glad he enjoyed his evening,” Malcolm said. “You boys did a fine job of showing him around. Now, shall we all walk back together?” He gestured, a bit unsteadily, toward the path that led back through the garden, around the side of Fairbourne House, and back to the guest cottage.

  “Let me lead the way,” Roark said, hastily stepping in front of the two older men. “Like you said, Uncle Malcolm, it’s not easy to see, and we wouldn’t want Mr. Carlyle to trip. Just stick close to me and you should make it back fine.”

  “Watch your manners, young man! I may be an old fool, but I’m not a decrepit one,” Uncle Vernon—or rather, the sherry sloshing through him—protested as the three of them moved off together with Roark in the lead. Malcolm’s
wild laughter filled the air, momentarily silencing the night creatures around them.

  Stephen and Justin fell back until Malcolm and Uncle Vernon had moved far ahead of them, engaged in their own conversation. Stephen couldn’t see Roark, either, who was no doubt struggling to keep one or both of them from face-planting in the rose bushes.

  He got the impression that Justin was deliberately walking slowly to buy them some privacy. He didn’t mind at all. Finally, they fell so far behind that they might as well have been alone. Their uncles’ boisterous voices sounded very far away.

  “Was Malcolm right?” Justin asked him, sliding a hand down Stephen’s arm as their pace slowed almost to a standstill. To Stephen’s delighted surprise, Justin laced his fingers through his and squeezed. “Did you really have a good time with us? Creepy snake story and all? You can tell me the truth.”

  “Of course I did. I didn’t take the story seriously. Like tales around the campfire, you know.”

  “Not really. I’ve never been camping. Fairbournes really don’t sleep outside.”

  “You didn’t miss much. Bugs, poison ivy, uncomfortable tents. I hope I never have to go again, either.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.” Grinning, Justin stepped off the brick path and backed into the shadow cast by some tall evergreen shrubs. Stephen followed by unspoken agreement. Nervous now, though in a good way, he cast around for something to talk about.

  “Your estate is incredible. Not just the books, but the rest of the house and the grounds too. I get the sense I could explore it for years and still not see all of it.”

  “That’s true. There are also some parts you wouldn’t want to see.” Justin dropped Stephen’s hand and took a deep breath. “I have to admit something, Stephen. I wish Roark hadn’t come with us. He has a talent for ruining any occasion. It’s amazing that he can’t get the hint that nobody wants to spend time with him.”

  “Nobody? I don’t know about that. Ivy seems to like him pretty well.”

  “Ivy would like to be mistress of the manor one day. Can you imagine? I don’t want to be the one to tell her that will never happen. Roark thinks of her as a servant and nothing more, and to be honest he’s right about that. Anyway, she’s a rare exception, and she doesn’t really care about him. She just thinks he’s rich and hot. Some people like arrogance in a guy. They confuse it with confidence.”