Serpent's Gate Read online

  With a crude snorting sound, Leo slouched away. Stephen was blotting the mess with a cloth napkin when Roark took his place.

  “What’s with him?” he asked as Leo stomped across the room.

  Stephen noticed that Justin hadn’t exaggerated about his brother wanting to look his best, because Roark had certainly succeeded. His navy suit and matching shirt created an interesting monochromatic effect, and his bright gold tie brought out several different shades of brown in his eyes.

  “I…uh…have no idea,” Stephen muttered. “I think he’s mad about the tablecloth. I didn’t mean to do it.”

  “Well, that should go without saying. Don’t bother trying to appease Leo, though. He can’t tolerate disorder. Part of his condition, I guess. And don’t bother mopping that up. We pay people to do that.”

  “Sorry.” Stephen held the wet cloth napkin in front of him, unsure how to dispose of it. Roark took it from him, his fingers surprisingly gentle, and deposited it on the corner of the drinks table. He watched Justin, who was still at the liquor cabinet refilling Uncle Vernon’s drink. “I see Cousin Malcolm has arrived,” he said. “You met him at your store, I believe.”

  “Yes. Your brother was just telling us about the indispensable services he performs as your family lawyer.”

  Roark nodded. “He looks out for us—or at least he did, when we were younger and needed that kind of protection. And it really is best to have a family lawyer who’s one of the family, I’ve discovered. Malcolm gets his Fairbourne blood from one side of the family tree, but he’s also related to my mother. It’s distant, and goes back a couple centuries, but the two lines have been closely connected since they all sailed over from England together. My parents had an arranged marriage—you could say it was arranged hundreds of years ago, long before your own ancestors started selling books. Heck, long before books as we know them were even invented.”

  “An arranged marriage? In this day and age?” Stephen blurted and then wished he hadn’t. “I mean…um…I didn’t think people did that anymore.”

  “Rich people do. That way they can control where the assets go. Malcolm’s family and mine pass the wealth back and forth whenever two eligible members simultaneously reach marriageable age.”

  “Oh.” Stephen honestly had no idea what to say. Were there eligible young women waiting somewhere for Roark and Justin, too? No matter what the brothers themselves wanted? He didn’t dare to ask.

  “So how was your day in our library?” Roark steered the conversation into less treacherous waters.

  “Fine, I think.” Stephen decided not to mention the strange book he’d discovered, with its unnerving illustrations and indecipherable lettering. For now, it remained on the library table, hidden under some others, awaiting his return in the morning. “I thought maybe you’d stop in and check on us. Justin did.”

  “Did he?” Those dark eyes iced over. Stephen wished Roark had taken an alcoholic drink along with Malcolm and Uncle Vernon. It might have loosened him up. “Why? What did he want?”

  “He just wanted to see what we were doing. We showed him an old drawing someone made of the snake on your front gate. I think he found it amusing.”

  Roark looked anything but pleased at the mention of his brother. “Justin finds everything amusing.”

  “That’s because most everything is.” Justin approached them, drink in hand. His presence felt like a refreshing breeze in a hot, airless room. “You just have to cultivate the right attitude.”

  “I see Malcolm is entertaining Mr. Carlyle.” Roark watched the two men having an animated conversation over their drinks. “I had no idea he was so interested in old books. Just like you are all of a sudden.”

  “Roark asked me how our appraisal was going,” Stephen explained when Justin flashed him a quizzical look. “I mentioned you’d dropped by to see what we’d found.”

  “Why shouldn’t I be?” Justin grew defensive, as though he’d intended to keep his library visit a secret. Stephen wondered why until it occurred to him that the brothers probably concealed even the most trivial information from each other as a matter of course. “I have a right to know, after all. Those books are part of my inheritance, too. I plan to have a say in what you do with them.”

  “That’s something we can talk about later,” Roark replied stiffly. “Maybe I’ll come and take a look tomorrow.”

  “Good plan. Maybe Stephen’s uncle will offer you a job at his bookstore. That would give you something to do besides mope around here while you wait to start law school.” Justin turned to Stephen. “He’s starting in September, you know. Following in Cousin Malcolm’s footsteps. Malcolm couldn’t be more proud. He told me all about it even before he asked me where I’d been hiding for three years.”

  “Law school? That’s impressive, Roark.”

  Justin’s jaw twitched as he struggled not to scowl. Stephen belatedly realized he’d done the same thing as Malcolm—ignored Justin in favor of praising Roark. He hoped Justin understood that he was only trying to be polite. “No one’s ever accused my brother of being a dummy. Don’t know what we’ll do around here without him. He’ll be off having fun while I’m stuck here making conversation with the servants and the village serfs.”

  Stephen saw a look of surprise cross Roark’s face, suggesting that he hadn’t planned for Justin to stay very long. “I’m not sure why that would be a problem,” he said when he had recovered himself. “You seem to know your way to and from the airport just fine.”

  Justin ignored him, his attention still focused on Stephen. “Maybe I’ll go to college after all,” he mused. “Maybe I’ll apply to Oxford or Cambridge so I can go back to England when I get ready for a change of scenery. Mom says hello, by the way, Roark.”

  “Does she?” Roark asked without interest.

  “Your mom’s in England?” Stephen asked. For no real reason, he assumed she had died. Apparently their parents were just divorced. “That seems really far away.”

  “Nothing a jet ride can’t overcome.” Justin shrugged. “The wonders of modern technology and so on.”

  Stephen looked from one bother to the other. Roark remained stone-faced. “How long has it been since you’ve both seen her?”

  “I can think of two ways to answer that,” Justin said, “and neither one really sums up the situation accurately. The first is ‘way too long’ and the second is ‘not nearly long enough.’”

  While Roark rolled his eyes, Mrs. Mulgrave arrived and announced that dinner was ready. Relieved, and hungrier than he’d realized, Stephen drifted along with the rest of the group into a spacious formal dining room. They convened at the long table, already set with a white tablecloth and delicately patterned china dishes. The electric lights dimmed, causing the silverware beside each plate to reflect the glow of several decorative candelabras. Meals at Fairbourne House had probably looked much like this when Olive Simmons and Lucas Hodge had been alive. What had the people at those long-ago dinners discussed? Had the women gossiped about Olive’s ruined reputation and Lucas’s disappearance? Or maybe they had compared their odd literary and artistic efforts, while the white-bearded Silas Fairbourne cast a threatening look across the room?

  Justin started toward the one at the head of the table, but at the last minute he veered off and yielded it to Roark.

  “This is going to be great,” he promised as he settled himself beside Stephen instead. “Fantastic food, the kind I dreamed about while I was away. Even authentic Italian cuisine in the heart of Bologna couldn’t begin to compare. Sit tight and prepare to be transported to culinary heaven. Just make sure you save room for the chocolate cheesecake.”

  Speaking to no one, Roark toyed with a crystal goblet containing ice water and fixed his gaze on his empty plate. Malcolm Argyle and Uncle Vernon settled themselves across from Stephen and Justin.

  The first course consisted of warm potato soup, served by a pretty young woman who seemed only a little older than Stephen and Justin. Her full red lips
turned downward as she set out baskets of homemade bread and then used a silver ladle to dish out Uncle Vernon’s and Justin’s portions. Her manner was even more insolent as she served Stephen.

  “That’s Mrs. Mulgrave’s daughter, Ivy,” Justin informed Stephen as the unpleasant young woman moved away. “The charming Leo, whom you’ve unfortunately become well acquainted with, is her older brother.”

  “That explains a lot,” Stephen whispered back. He noticed that Ivy’s manner brightened when she made her way around the table and stopped beside Roark. At that point a warm, almost flirtatious smile flickered across her face. Stephen felt embarrassed for her when Roark didn’t even glance up. Instead, he focused on tearing apart and buttering a hunk of homemade bread.

  “Maybe the less said about the two of them, the better,” Justin told him. “There’s a reason Leo works outside and Ivy’s confined to the kitchen.”

  Though Stephen pitied Ivy and Leo for losing their father in that gruesome fall from the roof, he privately agreed with Justin. Maybe Ivy suffered from the same social difficulties as her brother. Roark certainly made a point of ignoring her attentions, so there had to be some history there.

  Meanwhile, Malcolm Argyle and his uncle continued their discussion about the value and care of old books.

  “The thing to keep in mind is that ‘old’ does not necessarily mean ‘rare,’” Uncle Vernon explained to them. Stephen had heard the same mini-lecture a dozen times before, so he tuned most of it out. “In the mid-nineteenth century, you see, books were mass-produced using wood-pulp paper for the first time. Before 1850, most books were printed on a blend of linen and cotton, which gives the pages the feel of old money.” He rubbed his fingers together as if testing just such a sheet of paper.

  “Interesting to know,” Malcolm Argyle said between spoonfuls of broth. “Maybe I should get into antiquarian books after all. Old money is something I personally never tire of examining.”

  Uncle Vernon blinked at his impertinence and kept talking. “Therefore, when one comes across a book with brittle pages, it’s generally a sign that it was produced later, when wood-pulp had been established as the cheaper alternative. For the most part, such books will not fetch high prices on the collectible market.”

  “So most of the stuff in our library falls into that category?” Justin ventured. “Not valuable after all?”

  “From what I can see, I fear the answer is yes. There were a few exceptions that Stephen and I will investigate further.”

  “Damn,” Justin said facetiously, earning him a sharp look from Roark.

  “All is not lost, however,’ Uncle Vernon went on, waving his soup spoon. “Books may, of course, be prized for a variety of other reasons, such as their rareness or the unusual quality of their content.”

  Malcolm snickered. “I suppose Mr. Carlyle is seeking a socially acceptable way to describe the pursuits of our more eccentric forebears, Justin.”

  Roark swiped his lips with his napkin. “No need to be subtle about it, Mr. Carlyle. I’ll be the first to admit that my family has exhibited in some rather odd interests over the centuries. Collecting and even authoring peculiar books was only one of many.”

  “The nineteenth century in particular,” Malcolm added. “That’s why most of the books in the library date from that period. Unfortunately for us, certain members of the Fairbourne clan decided to preserve their observations—and dare I say their obsessions—for the ages.”

  “There is nothing to be ashamed of,” Uncle Vernon assured him. “The creation of ephemera was a respected and perfectly respectable avocation for literate Victorian gentlemen and not a few ladies besides. Thanks to the affordable printing I mentioned before, many such volumes were privately published. They turn up now and then at estate sales and the like. They are often sought as curiosities. Historians are especially keen to acquire them.” He paused to frown, and Stephen knew he was thinking about Geoffrey. Hopefully Uncle Vernon felt some guilt at the way he had berated him. Did he even realize he had probably broken Geoffrey’s timid heart?

  Justin spoke next. “In other words, rich fools flooded the market with written nonsense and cockamamie theories. Pretty much like today, when you think about it.”

  “This house held many more artifacts at one time, from what I hear,” Malcolm continued. “Around the turn of the twentieth century, the eldest Fairbourne son orchestrated a huge purge of the most objectionable materials in the house. I would assume that included the library.”

  “Oh?” Uncle Vernon tilted his head in interest. “I wasn’t aware of that.”

  “There’s no real evidence,” Roark said, darting an irritated glance at Malcolm. “Just innuendo and second-hand accounts in family letters and diaries. Malcolm’s great-grandparents claim to have witnessed the master of the house, my ancestor Bartholomew Fairbourne, going off the deep end. He threw all sorts of documents and paintings into a huge bonfire out in the garden. Some fever in the brain, I suspect, assuming the story is true at all.”

  “What a terrible loss to posterity,” Uncle Vernon said, mortified.

  “I have no doubt it’s true,” Malcolm insisted. “And whether old Barty was mad is debatable. For whatever reason, he became convinced that Fairbourne House was possessed by an entity that inspired its inhabitants to do evil. Who’s to say he wasn’t right?”

  “Actually, what we unearthed today tends to confirm that legend,” Uncle Vernon pointed out. “In fact, Stephen and I noticed a certain resemblance between a rather unsophisticated illustration and the sculpture that adorns your front gate. We intended to ask if there were any connection.”

  “I saw that book for myself.” Justin leaned back with obvious amusement. “He’s talking about dear old Istharios. He’s never far from our thoughts, is he? We’re reminded of his presence every time we pass through the gate. Still, he hasn’t caused any trouble during my lifetime. I don’t expect he’ll start up again anytime soon.”

  “Maybe we have Grandfather Bartholomew’s purge to thank for that,” Malcolm suggested, and Stephen felt his pulse quicken. Had the small book with the ribbons been disguised as a mathematical treatise and shoved behind the other books so that Bartholomew wouldn’t find and destroy it? And were his actions connected to the disappearance of the servants years before? The constable had interviewed him, but he had known nothing at the time. Maybe he had continued the investigation on his own—and what he found unhinged his mind.

  But no, that was just silly. Fodder for a silly horror movie.

  “Perhaps Istharios saw no need to show himself,” Justin suggested, apparently not noticing Stephen’s troubled expression. “He’s just been keeping silent watch, waiting until the next generation of Fairbournes needs or wants to summon him. Maybe we just don’t know how to wake him up.”

  “Please don’t say that,” Stephen pleaded under his breath. He hadn’t meant to say it out loud. Justin raised both brows. Luckily, no one else had heard him.

  From there, the conversation moved on to other things that Stephen didn’t bother listening to. Instead, he feigned great interest in the dinner’s second course, which Ivy was now bringing around. It consisted of roast chicken in a sweet-smelling pale yellow sauce.

  “Lemon chicken. One of Mrs. Mulgrave’s specialties. Another dish I used to dream of.” Justin rubbed his hands together as Ivy deposited a heaping plate in front of him. “She went all out for you and your uncle. We usually only get this on special occasions.”

  “How nice of her,” Stephen said. He cut off and tasted a piece of the chicken, not knowing what to expect. At once he realized Justin had been telling the truth. Never had he tasted anything so richly delicious. When he turned to tell him so, he found Justin staring at him, his own long-anticipated meal untouched.

  “Do you believe in the supernatural?” he asked, so casually that Stephen almost choked on the bite he’d just swallowed.

  “Of course not!” he sputtered after drinking some water.

  �
�Why do you say so with such certainty? You might change your mind someday, you know.”

  “Well…because I’ve never seen any evidence that it exists. Hearing other people say so doesn’t convince me.”

  “Why not? Surely they can’t all be crazy or mistaken?”

  “Let him eat,” Roark grumbled. “Give your lame ghost stories a rest.”

  “Ghosts don’t worry me,” Justin shot back. “They’re just wispy remnants of lives already ended. There are much more dangerous things out there, if even a fraction of the accounts turn out to be true.”

  “You’re talking nonsense. Trying to impress Stephen, no doubt. It’s not working.”

  Justin’s neck went crimson all the way down to his collar. “Am I? I never said I believed in that stuff myself. I was asking him.”

  As their voices rose, Malcolm glanced up. “Open-mindedness with respect to the unknown is nothing to be ashamed of. A number of our ancestors dedicated themselves to discovering the secrets of the next world. Some with more conviction than others.”

  “How fortunate that we live in more enlightened times,” Roark said.

  “None of us can deny that. Still…we’d be making a mistake to discount their views because we imagine ourselves intellectually superior. In becoming modern, we may have lost our cultural sensitivity to certain phenomena. Our inability to sense them doesn’t mean they don’t exist.”

  As he spoke, Malcolm held his hands in front of his chest and idly twisted his pinkie ring. When the silver caught a flash of candlelight, Stephen stared. He hadn’t noticed it before, but now he saw that the ring was in the shape of a tiny snake wound around his finger.

  “Well, I for one put my trust in science,” Roark said. “This is the twenty-first century. We all need to educate and train ourselves to distinguish between the possible, the probable, and the outright fantastic.”