"No," Mace said. "It's you. Gargoyles have mates, like any shifters. But shifters—other kinds of shifters—simply know. It's not that easy for us. We don't recognize our mates until we admit to ourselves that we love them."
"Oh," Jess whispered. Without her conscious intent, her hand came up and brushed across her chest, as if to touch her heart, where Reive had recently taken up residence.
"But he didn't know before, either?" Mace asked.
Jess shook her head.
"Interesting," he murmured and reached for another book.
Jess followed Mace around the library while he retrieved books from the high shelves, skimmed them, shook his head, and reshelved them. She hadn't yet worked up the courage to shift and try climbing up the way that he did so easily.
"Could you maybe tell me what you're looking for? I could help you find it."
"It's not that simple. I won't know what I need until I see it." He grimaced and put another flaking, leatherbound grimoire aside.
"Don't the two halves of the gargoyle book have all the information we need?"
"It explains the ritual. But it also assumes a great deal of background on alchemical and magical practices of the time. I have studied the topic, but I'm not a practitioner. It is like reading about building bridges, compared to having to build one yourself."
"I'm sorry, but I'm still having a lot of trouble wrapping my head around this," Jess said. She picked up the book he'd put down, opened it and glanced down columns of tiny handwriting in Latin. "I mean, if magic and werewolves and dragons are all real, is everything? Ghosts? Vampires?"
Mace's brief smile flickered. "I haven't met a vampire or seen a ghost, but I can't say for certain that they don't exist." He glanced at her again, a sharp probing of his green eyes. "I have to say that if I came upon you in a dark hallway, dressed like that, I could easily think I was seeing a ghost myself."
Jess looked down at herself. "Do I really look that much like your sister?"
"You could be the absolute image of her. Look."
There was a large rolltop desk near the fireplace. Mace stepped over to it and rummaged through the drawers. He came up with a photo that he handed to her.
Jess took it carefully by the edge. It was an older photo with rounded corners, maybe from the 1960s or early 70s, and she thought of what Reive had said about gargoyles living a long time.
The girl in the photo was looking straight out with intense dark eyes, as if she was staring right at the viewer. She had hair piled up in a beehive hairdo and she was wearing, maybe not the exact same loose peasant-type blouse that Jess had on, but something very similar.
Mace was right, Jess thought, staring at the girl in the photo. She saw that face in the mirror every day, that strong jaw and those intense brows and that dark, serious gaze.
"Mace," she whispered. "Do you think it's possible ..."
"That she was your mother?" Mace asked bluntly. "I don't know." He took the photo back, and she couldn't help noticing that he handled it as reverently as she had.
"Your sister ... did she ...?"
"Have children? Live in Indiana? I don't know, Jess." He gave her a curious look. "Don't you remember your parents at all?"
Jess shook her head. "I was a foundling. In Georgia, originally; that's where I'm from. I know they died, but that's all I know. I never even knew their names." She swallowed again. "What happened to her? Your sister."
"I don't know," Mace said quietly. "I haven't spoken to Margery in years. She left long ago."
"What was she like?"
His smile, this time, was a soft, reminiscing thing. "Bold. Rebellious. Stubborn. Our parents were still alive back in those days, and she clashed terribly with them. They were very traditional and wanted us to stay apart from the world, here in Stonegarden where it was safe. She wanted to travel and see everything there was to see. As you might guess, she won that particular fight simply by leaving. But she had a terrible fight with our parents before she went. There was a great deal of resentment on both sides. She used to write to me for a while, but then her letters stopped coming."
"When?" Jess whispered. It felt like a hand locked around her throat, making it hard to breathe.
"Just about as long ago as the age you look, I would guess. Yes, Jess," he said gently. "I think there is a very good chance you're her daughter. But I don't know. And right now—"
"—We have more important things to focus on," she said, glancing over at Reive on the couch. "Yes. I agree."
Jess
By early afternoon, everyone was dusty and tired, and Mace suggested a break.
"You should go down and explore the village," Mace told them. "I think I have everything I need, so I can make preparations for the ritual while you enjoy a few hours to yourself."
There was an ominous subtext that Jess couldn't help reading into his words, that if this didn't work, it might be the last opportunity she and Reive got to spend together. Still, the idea of leaving the relative safety of Stonegarden's thick walls made her nervous.
"Are you sure we don't have to worry about being attacked?" she asked.
Mace beckoned. "Come here."
They left the library and went out onto a wide stone terrace and down a flight of stone steps into one of the gardens surrounding the house. Then Mace turned back and pointed up.
Jess had been too shell-shocked to notice when they had arrived, and also, it was less obvious when you were up close to the house; you had to back off to appreciate the full effect. But the house was covered in gargoyles. They crouched on the parapets and the rooftops, perched on the balconies. Some were large, some were small, and each one was unique. They were looking off in all directions, silent and alert.
Jess gasped aloud. Beside her, she felt Reive tense. He put his good arm around her, curving protectively around her waist.
"I thought there weren't very many of us," she stammered.
"Look more closely," Mace said.
She did, shading her eyes and squinting up against the sun. The bright afternoon sunshine stripped the gargoyles of a little of their fearful mystique. They would have been terrifying on a foggy night, crouched as if to spring.
"They're not moving," she murmured. "Are they watching us? No ..." A shiver went through her, as if the cool early-autumn air had turned to ice. "They're stone."
Still wrapped cozily in Reive's arm, she turned to Mace, who was looking up at the statues with a reverent expression.
"Who are they?" Jess asked. "What happened to them?"
"You misunderstand. They are a 'what,' not a who. They were created, not born. They are stoneskins, made to guard this place."
"Oh," she said. "Are they alive at all?"
"Not right now." Mace smiled briefly, a sideways tug of his wide mouth. "It is said they will awaken if we are attacked. Their protection extends down to the village. You asked earlier why this place is called Stonegarden. They are one of the reasons."