Chapter Five

Homecoming

An ocean of blue-green grass punctuated by narrow miles of asphalt graced the edge of the boisterous Irish Sea. Tucked between two steep hills, a modernized gothic castle’s gray stone gargoyles stared fatuously toward the cobalt horizon. A patch of coral and red lipped flowers surrounded the half-wild garden. Tea rose and ivy crept up the castle walls.

The deep, soft scent of flowers wafted from the heart of the garden and through French doors. Sunlight filtered in through the top of the grand solarium within. A few chaise lounges and oversized sofas were scattered on the opalescent floor. A grand piano claimed the center of the room. A concertina, an oboe, and a flute lay carelessly beneath its clawed feet.

A man with a prickly beard, wearing faded jeans and an unbuttoned white shirt leaned indolently against one wall idly strumming on a sitar. He had long lashes. They were black and curled like a girl’s. His feet were bare, his fingers long and quick. He had the blackest hair and the bluest eyes.

Jonathan Baron built his song the way an architect would build a beautiful house of sweet and sorrow, a house that bled and wept. He raised a brow at the sleepy woman who lay on the lounge chair across from him, the dark chocolate elf with thick long braids snaking about her torso. Her legs were drawn up to her chin and encircled by her arms.

“So what do you think about this song, Anel?”

She seemed so tiny in his sweater. It swallowed her up. God, she seemed so very hollow and thin. For a second he thought his heart would cease beating or burst.

After a long moment she shook her head slowly. “I don’t think I like it,” she whispered. “I think it sounds like death.”

Jonathan bowed his head to the ornate instrument. He re-positioned his fingers on the strings. “Yeah,” he sighed and with a shrug, he started playing the same melody again. “It’s a song for Eloise.”

Mad, beautiful Eloise. Anel had heard about her before. She had lived in the Fogg Island House, this other woman Jonathan might have loved once, the one who liked dead things.

She smiled slightly, drifting off to sleep. “Then I think it’s very fitting. I almost wish…”

Flames and flowers. The image speared its way into Jonathan’s mind. His fingers froze on the sitar’s strings. His eyes shot to Anel, who slept deeply. Too deeply, too quickly.

He flinched slightly at the sound of the great oak front doors flying open.

“The prodigal daughter returns,” he drawled, still lightly twanging on the sitar.

Cassandra stood in the doorway. “Hey Dad.”

“Hey yourself.” He set the instrument down and stood. Pointing to Anel’s sleeping form, he crossed the distance between them.

He tapped one cheek lightly. She’d changed again. She looked older since he saw her weeks earlier. She looked like adult now. The first time Jonathan Baron laid eyes on his daughter she had the appearance of a six year old. That was ten years ago. Would she keep changing? He wondered. One of these days, she’d be unrecognizable.

“I’m not doing this on purpose, you know.” She murmured.

“I know,” he said and deftly changed the subject. “Where and what have you been up to lately?”

“Here and there.” She grinned, following him into the kitchen. “This and that.”

He opened the door to the fridge and grabbed a Heineken. “Don’t be a smartass.”

“I need to ask about your work, Dad.”

He took a sip from his bear and scratched his head. “Aside from the concert in Berlin next month, there’s really nothing–”

“I mean your other work.” Cassandra qualified.

He shot her a shuttered look. “Why are you asking about that?”

“Just curious,” she said. “Do you know anything about the Rath?”

Jonathan set the beer bottle down on the counter. “What business do you have with them?”

“It’s no big deal.” She grabbed an apple from a nearby basket. She bit in, wincing slightly at the tartness. “Just curious,” she mumbled, mouth full.

“Curious.” Her father echoed, unconvinced.

“Uh huh.” She wandered off in the general direction of the stairs.

As soon as Cassandra was out of earshot, Jonathan whipped out his cellphone and dialed a number from memory.

“Solomon,” he uttered as soon as the other party answered. “We have a problem. She’s asking about the Rath.”

“Yeah,” he said after a moment. “My head hurts just thinking about it.”

“Well,” he hung up and stuck the phone back into his pocket. “So much for flying under the radar.” He muttered.

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