Page 9 of Gardening and Gargoyles

“Pine Ridge, New York. In America. And it’s 2026.”

Twenty-twenty-six. She speaks the years, and it takes me a moment to understand them. “Wh-what? No! No, when I went to sleep, it was in the spring, and the old laird and his family had sold the place to an American. We were going to move, possibly take shelter with Clan Davidson if he was not minded to see gargoyles or to treat us well.”

“Uhhh. You might have moved, I guess? My boyfriend— Ex-boyfriend? The new owner, he found you when he was excavating the wine cellar underneath the place. Or like, on the grounds. I really don’t know, and I’m pretty sure I’m hallucinating. Stress can do that to you. I thought I handled stress better, honestly.” The lady shakes her head and runs both her hands through her hair, frowning and muttering.

“Lady, you are unwell.”

“Dude, you’re not kidding.” She laughs, but it is the hysterical laugh I heard too often when Lady Moira’s father was ill andthere was no money to repair the castle or pay the taxes. Not a happy laugh at all. “What did you say your name was?” she asks.

“Duncan.”

“I’m June.” She hesitates, wipes her hand on her short (indecently short) under garments that are now exposed because some ruffian has stolen her skirts, and extends her hand to me. It’s less earthy now, but I’m not sure what she expects me to do with it.

Kiss it, I suppose, like I have seen the laird’s visiting guests do with Lady Moira and her companions.

My wing throbs strangely, and so does my chest. For a gargoyle to interact with a human member of the castle would be frowned upon.

But not in 2026—if that’s where I am.

Like I’m holding a breakable thing, a fragile bird’s egg, I lift the hand and kiss the spot where it meets the delicate wrist. “I have been sent here by the new laird, the owner? Then I am your guardian and protector, Lady June.”

Lady June just stares.

And stares.

“Lady June?” I fear she is going to faint. Or perhaps have a fit.

“Duncan, if you’re my new imaginary friend, you’re a good one. Come on in. I want to show you something.”

LADY JUNE HAS A BOXwith lettered keys, like a flat version of Lady Moira’s fancy new typewriter—but instead of paper at the top, there is a screen—and there are grainy pictures of my home and my family.

But the pictures change, and go from all gray to a stained brown and cream, and then to color. And I disappear from my spot on the battlements, as do my kin.

“Where did I go?” I ask, trying to remain calm.

“Uh. Well...” Lady June pads around in bare feet now, still ridiculously close to naked in tiny garments that show all of her legs and shoulders, to say nothing of her arms and cleavage. She goes to the shining metal box on the wall and opens it, a blast of cold air filling the kitchen—although it looks little like the kitchens I know. She pulls out a bottle of wine and two glasses. Those, at least, are familiar. “So. Uh.”

“Are you faint?” I rush to catch her, big feet kicking into chairs and those odd pink shoes she’s tossed off.

“Oh, I’m pretty sure I’m unconscious somewhere,” she sighs, and pours two glasses, one with a half portion and one full to the top. She pushes the full one towards me with a wry smile. “If you don’t drink that because you’re not really here, that’s fine. I’ll finish it. I could use it.”

I sip the wine, then drain it greedily, unsure why I feel so parched. So hungry. Something... Something in my memory stirs.

A happy place. Of feasting. Talking. No battles, and no one to guard, only ones to love. Old faces I hadn’t seen in ages, new ones I had never met.

Like a heaven—and yet, I don’t fully recall it, and there is a feeling that I never quite entered.

“Like a visitor by the gates,” I murmur to myself, voice low enough that Lady Jane cannot hear it.

“Wanna hear a theory? You know, since you’re my imaginary friend?” she says suddenly.

“I am your true and loyal friend, Lady June, if you are now of the clan of Mackintosh.”

“I’m of the clan of Russo-Mitchell,” June laughs. “Here’s my theory, friend.” She refills my glass. “Actually, first, I need your help. Not to be unpleasant about stuff, but how do gargoyles die?”

“The same way all mortals do.”

“Yeah, well, most mortals don’t turn to stone. What’s the last thing you remember?”