Nevermore

He opened the door and handed the bag in. She took it, the heavenly scent of egg rolls, moo goo gai pan, and beef with broccoli filling the car. Hunger awoke within her. A growl like that of a ravenous dog snarled through her stomach, and it came loud enough that she didn’t bother to humor herself with the hope that he hadn’t heard.

“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 here?”

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.