Page 59 of Monsters in Love

“So that’s why I didn’t run into you this afternoon while I was cleaning. You were literally out on the eaves, still as a statue.” She giggles, as if this is a clever joke.

“I’m not a statue,” I grumble. “I’m a gargoyle. It’s very different. I wasn’t carved from some lump of stone by a lowly human.”

“Eh, tomato, tomahto.” She absently waves a hand in the air. “I’m going to ignore the ‘lowly’ comment so you can continue the story about the curse.”

“I have told you the story.” Why is she so hungry for information? She knows the gist of what happened. Why is that not enough? Bah, humans.

She makes a face. “Not all of it, you haven’t.”

“What else do you want to know?”

“Uh, like every single detail! What happened, how you failed, why she cursed you, the details of the spell. All of it.” She sips her tea and stares at me expectantly, her cornflower eyes unblinking.

“You’re a chatty thing, aren’t you?”

“I prefer gregarious. Or vivacious. Or just plain friendly.” She points at me. “Now talk.”

“We need to add demanding to that list of adjectives,” I mutter. I do not know what to make of this girl. She is young and too energetic. Her presence here disrupts the peace to which I have grown accustomed.

“How long do you intend to stay at Mabon Manor?” I ask her.

She frowns and fiddles with her teacup. “I’m not sure. I need to talk to some people. I have this wild idea…” She trails off and I wait, but she doesn’t continue the sentence.

“What is your idea?”

“Well, it’s very expensive to maintain a home this size, especially one that needs this much work. If I’m going to renovate it and make it habitable, I’ll need a lot more income than I have now. So I’m thinking I might turn it into a bed and breakfast. I could convert one of the studies on the third floor into my bedroom and use the rooms on the second floor for guests. I’m actually going to the bank tomorrow to see if I can get a loan. That will help me decide for sure what to do.”

I lean back in horror. The idea of strangers constantly roaming about the house is unthinkable. Unfathomable. “You cannot.”

She blinks at me. “What do you mean?”

“The house is for Winslows only. You cannot let a parade of strangers stay here.”

“Uh, I can if I want to. I own the house, remember?”

“That may be, but I live here as well. Surely my opinion counts for something in this matter?”

“Well, I have to admit, I hadn’t planned on factoring in the opinionof the house gargoyle, since I had no idea you existed,” she says, her tone thick with sarcasm. “But if you have a stash of money I can use to cover the cost of renovations, then sure, we can talk about it.”

“I have no money,” I protest. “No one has ever paid me for my work. It is an unappreciated…vocation.”

“Well, if you can’t contribute to the reno, I don’t think you get a vote.”

I inwardly shudder at the idea of workmen swarming around the house, updating it into some soulless modern dwelling. “Why must you renovate? What is wrong with the house as it is?”

She laughs. “Have you seen this place? Like really looked at it? Everything is covered in six inches of dirt. The draperies are moth-eaten, the carpets are shabby, the furniture is old and lumpy. There are cracks in the walls and ceilings, shingles are missing from the roof, and the grounds have gone feral. The electricity is ancient and wonky, which means the utility bills must be a nightmare. The plumbing clunks and clanks. And that’s just the beginning.Everythingneeds to be cleaned, updated, and upgraded.”

“But the manor is beautiful,” I protest.

“It is, and I don’t want to change that. I’m not talking about destroying the character of the house. I love me a neo-gothic mansion. But it needs work.”

I look around, trying to see what she sees, but all I can see is the place I’ve called home for more than 200 years. I can’t imagine altering it.

“No,” I say, and she rolls her eyes.

“We can come back to this later. You’re supposed to be telling me about the curse,” she prompts.

Merde. Humans have not become less irritating in the last few decades. “Very well. As I said, I was shipped here in the late 1700s when Mary Winslow built the house. She was a widow with two daughters. Alice was nine, and Abigail only two. People were a bit suspicious of a woman of means living in such a large home with only two children, but Mary lived a quiet life and the townspeople mostly left her alone.

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