CHAPTER FIFTEEN

It was said that the driveway to Villa Tuscana had once been topped with crushed marble, imported from Italy. I don’t know how likely that is, but there was no sign of it now. The lane passed between rows of giant hemlocks and was choked with ivy and wild roses, so thick that we couldn’t see beyond the tangle.

I knew what was there, though: one of the most haunting and beautiful places I’d ever seen. My dad had brought me there, twelve years ago, after I heard about it at a party with the Morgans and I’d begged to go see it. We hadn’t told my mother, of course. It was trespassing. Also, we’d get dirty.

My dad had been almost as enamored of the Villa as I was, but in a very different way. I’d seen spectacular architectural beauty reclaimed by nature. Even now, I could feel the pull of it, an intimate, primal mingling of the civilized and the wild that called to me.

To Dad, Villa Tuscana had been a lesson. No matter what you accumulated in life, it meant nothing if no one cared enough to continue your vision. Now, being here and thinking of him, my mind turned to the department store, his life’s work. Yet as soon as I felt guilty for abandoning it, I could hear his voice.

You’ve got a world of choices, Livy. Don’t let anyone make you feel like you’re supposed to do anything you don’t want to do.

I cleared my throat and pointed at the house, now just visible ahead. “Villa Tuscana is considered one of the finest examples of Italian landscape design in America.”

“I . . . see.”

“My dad used to bring me here,” I said. “Lots of memories. That means you have two options: either you let me play tour guide or I collapse in a blubbering blob.”

“Blubbering blob?”

“I could say that I’ll collapse like a grief-stricken Victorian lady, sobbing silently on your loafers, but I’m not a pretty crier, as you may have noticed. Tour guide, then?”

I didn’t wait for him to answer.

“When my dad first brought me here, I was already into architecture, so he got me a book on Italianate and we spent the day, me snapping pics on my new digital camera and him pointing out structures and details for me to identify. Like a reverse scavenger hunt.”

“What’s that?” He pointed at a structure almost hidden on our left.

“Tea house,” I said. “It’s an open pavilion at the end of a promenade terrace. While tea houses are generally considered British architecture, this one was done in Italian style. And thank you for playing.”

We continued the game until we’d crossed the vast lawn to the front of the house.

“It’s very . . .”

“Plain?” I said.

“I was going to say large, but yes, I suppose I would have expected something more ornate.”

“Italianate style in nineteenth-century America was a reaction to the more ornate Gothic Revival and Victorian that you see in Cainsville. Personally, I like ornate. But I can see the appeal of the smooth lines and simple arches. I will point out, though, this grande dame’s face is on the other side, overlooking the lake. And it is amazing.” I inhaled. “Which is not why we’re here at all.”

Gabriel shrugged. “There’s no reason not to enjoy the setting.”

“A point of view I share, which likely means we have been in dangerous situations far too often. Summoned to an abandoned house? Huh, well, let’s do some sightseeing first before all that life-and-death nonsense crops up.”

He smiled, a real and unmistakable one. “A perfectly valid way to look at things.”

“Agreed. But we should at least pretend to be figuring out why we were summoned.”

Gabriel walked along the side of the house. I climbed the steps and poked my head through a hole in the boarded-up door. Inside, it was too dark to see more than walls and shadowy piles of debris.

“Anything amiss?” I asked.

“Nothing I can see.”

“Me neither.”

I hopped onto the thick marble railing as Gabriel murmured, “Careful.” I balanced there and surveyed the grounds, seeing only weeds and rubble.

“Nothing at all?” Gabriel said as I jumped down.

“If you mean omens, no, there isn’t a helpful trail of magpies.”

“Keep looking.”

“It’s not like that. I can’t conjure them up—”

“Then don’t look. Observe.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

He shrugged. When my gaze moved left, he said, “That way, then.”

“I don’t see anything that way.”

“But you feel as if you should.” He strode around the side of the house. “You see, but you do not observe. The distinction is clear.”

“I hate it when you do that.”

“No, I don’t think you do.”

We rounded the side of the house to see a collection of small buildings.

“And this is . . . ?” Gabriel asked.

“The service court. Stables over there and there.” I pointed to the crumbling buildings. “Servants’ quarters around back.”

“And that?” He nodded toward a long narrow building lined with copper doors. “They look like garages.”

“They are. Twenty of them, built in a day when few people could afford cars. An obscene luxury . . . though admittedly, one I can appreciate.”

We walked to the garages. Most of the windows in those fancy copper doors had been smashed and some of the doors themselves were ripped open, revealing only debris inside.

“Not terribly exciting,” I said. “And I’m not picking up so much as a twinge to tell me where to go next. Any more Holmes quotes for me?”

His brows arched. “Is that who I was quoting?”

“You know damned well you were. Not for the first time.”

“It is entirely accidental.”

“Right, so you’ve never read Sherlock Holmes? Or seen any of the endless movies and TV shows?”

His brows shot higher. “That would imply I have time for such frivolities. I don’t watch television or movies, and while I read a fair bit, fiction would hardly advance my education. Data, data, data. I cannot make bricks without clay.”

I crossed my arms and glowered up at him. “Obviously, you’ve made an exception.”

“I never make exceptions. An exception disproves the rule.”

“I hate you so much right now.”

He laughed, and it was a glorious thing to hear, and I wanted . . . I wanted more. I wanted to capture this mood and hold on to it. Abandon any purpose for being here, grab his hand and race around to the lake side, show him the best place to climb up and gaze out over the water, to explore the ruins and not care why we’d come. Seize this playful mood of his and see how far I could take it. To be immature and, yes, childish.

The moment I thought that, I heard a child’s giggle. I spun around.

“Olivia?” Gabriel said.

He stepped closer, shades off as he looked about, frowning slightly, but the good humor lingering in his eyes, along with a warmth and an openness I hadn’t seen there before.

The giggle came again. I wanted to ignore it. Go away and let me have my moment. It might never come again and—

A small figure slipped from the shadows of the garages. It was the blond girl from my dreams and visions. She wore Mary Jane shoes and an organdy party dress covered in roses.

I spun to check on Gabriel.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “He’s still there.”

He followed my gaze, and his frown deepened.

“He doesn’t see me.” She tilted her head, her eyes fixed on him. “Not really. But he senses I’m here.”

I remembered the alley, how we’d been separated and I’d seen Gwrach y Rhibyn washing what seemed to be his shirt. I glanced back at him. “Stay close, okay?”

Another lift of his brows, as if to say, Of course.

“He will,” the girl said. “For as long as you let him. And you must let him. Both of them. It’s when you choose that you are doomed. All of you. All of us.”

“I’m not good with riddles,” I said.

“Olivia . . . ?” Gabriel’s voice was low, as if to avoid frightening away whatever he could not see.

“It’s the girl,” I said.

“The girl?” She scrunched up her nose. “I have a name. Many of them.”

“And they are . . . ?”

“You already know a few. Matilda. Eden. Olivia. I have more, but the others aren’t as important.”

“So you’re . . . me? Some memory of myself?”

“I am you, and I’m not you. I’m all of you. All of them. They are you, and they are not you.”

“More riddles. Great.”

Her nose scrunched again. “They aren’t riddles. They’re facts. You just don’t understand them. I need to tell you the story.”

“Is that why we were summoned here?”

She hesitated. Then she gave a sly smile. “Yes, that’s exactly why—”

“How’d you do it?”

“Summon you? I . . .”

“You didn’t. Someone else did, for some other purpose.”

“Yes, but it’s not important.”

“It is to me.”

“It shouldn’t be. In the larger scheme of things, it’s inconsequential. This is important.” She held out her handful of black and white stones. “The rest?” She scooped up sand from around her feet and let it run through her fingers. “The rest is not. What you find here will be terrible. But, in the end, it is but a distraction luring you from the path.”

“So you know what I’m supposed to find here?”

“Yes.”

“Will you lead me to it?”

“No. I will tell you a story, and then you should leave. What lies here is best not found. Not by you. Not by anyone, if that were possible. It will only interfere. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”

“And if I disagree?”

“Then you’ll have to find it yourself. I’ll not bring you pain.”

I turned to Gabriel. “There’s something here I’m supposed to find, but she won’t help me. She wants to tell me a story.”

I thought his answer would be quick. Forget that and get to work. Find what we were brought here for.

“Hear the story,” he said. “This is the second time she’s tried to tell you. You should listen.”

I glanced at her. “Fine. Go on.”

“Another day.”

“What? Look, if you have something to tell me—”

“I do. A different story. You aren’t ready for the other yet. You don’t understand enough. I see that now.” She spun, her dress belling out, face raised to the sun. “You like it here. Do you know why?”

“I appreciate fine architecture and—”

“Don’t be silly. There are old buildings everywhere. But you’re drawn to this one. As he is.” She darted to the nearest wall and ran her hand over an ivy-filled crack. “It tells a story of our past. Of our revenge.”

“Our . . . ?”

She pointed at Gabriel. “His. Ours. Fae. Our memories. We can hear the laughter here, feel the joy, smell the fire, touch the pain, see the mighty hand of nature taking vengeance for us.”

She fingered the ivy, creeping ever deeper into the stone, those tiny green vines slowly but relentlessly ripping the stone building in two.

“Do you hear them?” she asked.

“No—”

“Because you aren’t listening. Close your eyes.”

I sighed, shut them, and crossed my arms. Gabriel murmured, “Olivia . . .” and I knew what he meant. I know this makes you uncomfortable, but we aren’t getting any answers as long as you resist.

I like my mysteries clear and real, with facts and clues that I can follow. Ego, I suppose. I wanted to solve the mystery myself, not stand before a ruined house talking to a child no one else could see.

I uncrossed my arms and let my mind clear, as I did when I was looking for omens. Shifted to that other state, where the smells and sounds of the real world faded and—

Laughter. Voices, too, speaking in a tongue I didn’t recognize. It didn’t sound like Welsh, though it had similar notes. I caught the strains of strange music, unlike any I’d heard, and I started toward it—

Gabriel caught my arm, and I jolted from that other place.

“Tell him what’s happening,” the girl said. “He’s trying hard to be patient, but he isn’t very good at it. He needs information.” Her voice rose to a singsong. “Data, data, data.”

“That was a quote,” I said.

“Perhaps, but it’s also him. Tell him what’s happening.”

I did. Before I finished, the girl took off, racing around the garages.

“Hey!” I said.

“The next part is over here,” she said. “Hurry or you’ll miss it!”