Page 23 of Gaming with the Gargoyle in Hallow's Cove

“Have a good night, sweetie.” My mom kisses my cheek and wanders off like she didn’t just upend my entire world.

Because weareperfect for each other… and maybe I’ve ruined our chances by telling Gabe it was “just friends.”

Chapter ten

Gabe

TheclocktoweraboveTown Hall sounds, and my blood begins to race. Because it’s time for the children to leave and for everything to get exciting. Normally, at this point, Gwen and I drink a little bit more and then head home. Tonight though, I have other plans. I’ve still written us an adventure, but it is absolutely designed to be sexy. Gwen is blushing when I turn to her. I remember what I talked about with the guys. This has to work. If I don’t want to be miserable for the rest of my life, I need to do whatever it takes to make my mate fall in love with me. Taking Gwen’s hand, I escort her over to the fountain, so that we are overlooking the cove. And clear my throat the way I do before I begin a scene.

“Sister Mary-Gwyneth never wanted to be a nun. Plenty of her sisters had, but it was never something she had dreamed of for herself. Instead, she had been the fourth daughter of a destitute family in the remote country of Genovese. When she’d come of age and her parents had had no money left for a dowry, a convent had seemed the only way to preserve her dignity and that of their noble family. Not that they asked if she had any interest in preserving said dignity, of course, because their own was more important.

“It was a warm night,” I say, beginning to describe the actual weather today. “And Sister Mary-Gwyneth had escaped the sweltering confines of her cloister for the beautiful gardens outside. The gardens were the one joy she found in her confining life, and her only solace. Gwen, would you please describe Sister Mary-Gwyneth." She blushes and rolls her eyes at me. This is nothing new, I have asked her to describe characters countless times, a fair few of them being similar in looks to her. But it feels different. Because tonight, she hasn’t made the character for herself, I have designed it, and dressed her accordingly.

I have every confidence that she will pick up where I’ve left off, and embody the role. In fact, I’m counting on it, but that doesn’t stop the thrill of nerves that passes through me when she smiles. “Sister Mary-Gwyneth,” she says “is a somewhat short, softly-rounded sort, with long brown hair that stays hidden under her wimple by necessity of her calling. This late at night, she is not wearing her full habit, instead she has on what passes for her pajamas. A scandalous skirt ripped up to her thigh, and a white blouse unbuttoned lower than she would ever deign to be caught in public. Her cheeks are flushed from the heat as she ventures out into the night.”

I nod my head, indicating to her through years of experience that I am prepared to take over from there. With one hand, I dig surreptitiously in the dirt and withdraw the D20 I have hidden there. I hold it so she can’t see, and began walking away, deeper into the woods behind Town Hall. “It’s a special day for the small village of open Greefast, one that Sister Mary-Gwyneth hasn’t been able to take part in in years. Over the garden wall, she can hear the revelry of the townsfolk.”

I pause, to give us time to hear the revelry of our own townsfolk. As I speak, I pay attention to the sounds we can hear, and incorporate them into my narration. “Though she has never had a chance to partake, Sister Mary-Gwyneth loves the sound of her neighbors' debauchery. Every moan and sigh speeds her blood, though she has no real idea of what is causing them.”

In the distance, the people of Hallow’s Cove moan and shriek and delight. By now, people will be devouring their mates, or chasing them into the woods outside of town. Some will have commenced their celebrations on Main Street, but to preserve the illusion, Gwen doesn’t look behind us. Her breath is fast now, and her chest heaves in the tight blouse I picked for her. We both know how this night will end, but delaying it is exceedingly delicious.

I place my arms on Gwyneth’s shoulders, and she leans back into me. I revel in her trust. She has always afforded me a great deal of it, but I know that what she gives me now is a trust I can never betray, because if I do, I will surely lose her.

“The gardens feel different tonight, charged somehow by the lusty sounds of the town people over the wall. She can’t let them get to her, though, because she has learned, finally, what it means when she is told not to touch herself. For years, it was confusing. For surely they did not mean she should not touch herself at all? Or if that was the case, how was she to wash? Eventually, though she had learned that she was meant not to touch herself in one specific place. that she should not let her hands linger on the heat between her legs, and that she should ignore when it grew hot and moist, when she could feel her pulse echo there and never satisfy the urge to relieve the building pressure. Those same urges tempted her that night, and for not the first time, she cursed her parents for their poor finances, and the fact that they hadn’t even tried to find her a husband. Surely, they could have found someone to marry her. None of the tenants on their farms paid dowries for their daughters, or received one for their brides, and if she was to end up living a simple, austere life, wouldn’t it have been better if she had been allowed the small mercy of companionship and love? Because surely her life in the convent qualified as simple and austere.”

I pause, allowing Gwen the ability to speak up, should she want. I know that she much prefers to react, at least at first, rather than come up with something to do proactively in these situations, so when she doesn’t speak up, I continue.

“The darkness presses in on her, as does the temptation to explore what secrets the depression between her legs might hold. She proceeds to sit in the little alcove that she thinks of as her own, though she is not allowed possessions. She doesn’t think of herself as owning it, though, more that it is a secret space that occasionally welcomes her. Inside the alcove, sits her silent century, a massive, fierce gargoyle, meant to scare away evil spirits, but one that she has always imagined specifically watching over her. It was, she knew, uncomely of her, to imagine such preferential treatment. But somehow, she’d convinced herself that when she sat down and poured out her heart’s worries to him, the features on her gargoyle’s face would soften, just a bit, and once she had seen it—once she had convinced herself it was true—she could think of him no other way.”

Gwen continued. “‘Good evening, Gabriel,’ she says, sitting down and patting him on the head. She had, of course, named him after that most fearsome angel, a staunch protector who now watched over her. ‘It’s quite the night, isn’t it?’ she asked, and of course, he didn’t reply. He never replied, for that would be ridiculous. She did, however, imagine, as she always did, that his face softened at her words. ‘It is quite the evening.’ She continued. ‘The townsfolk are enjoying their revelry and I can’t help but wish… But no, I can’t wish, that is not for me.’"

“The gargoyle, of course—” I narrate, “sat stoically next to her, a reassuring presence in the unsettling feeling of the night.”

“But then,” Gwen says, her voice raising. “Taken by the madness of the night, or perhaps the sounds of the townspeople, Sister Mary-Gwyneth shakes her head and sets her shoulders. Because while she attempts to adhere to the structure of the life she has been given, she knows it is not one she would have chosen for herself, and what harm could one little wish whispered in the night to a silent, non-living companion do? ‘I wish,’ she whispers, ‘that even if it is only for tonight, you were alive and could keep me company for real.’”

“To her abject surprise, and no small amount of horror, Sister Mary-Gwyneth sees the gargoyle twitch.”

Gwen smiles wide, and takes her cue, switching to first person as she’s wont to do when she gets really into a scene. “I lean closer and squint my eyes.”

I hold the dice in front of her and she knows what to do. She picks it up, and rolls it atop the wall that circles the bridge. I didn’t think this through very well, because if we aren’t careful, that die will end up in the water. I make a mental note to keep an eye on it, and adjudicate her role. A fourteen. “As she leans in closer, Sister Mary-Gwyneth is certain that one side of the gargoyle’s mouth has never been hitched up at the side like that before.”

Gwen turns to look at me, her smile wide. “I want to roll arcana,” she says. “Or whatever our arcana is in this scenario.” I nod my head and hand the dice back to her, gesturing that perhaps she should consider rolling on the ground instead of on the wall. Gwen rolls again. A two.

“Sister Mary-Gwyneth closes her eyes and concentrates, but everything feels exactly as it always has. Even though she is certain Gabriel’s expression has changed.”

Gwen smiles and rolls her eyes, “There is something different about you tonight, Gabriel, and if, somehow, you are truly alive, for this one night or always, I implore you to tell me.”

I roll the dice, concealing the result from Gwen, though I needn’t have. A nineteen.

“Slowly, so slowly that Sister Mary-Gwyneth doubts her own vision, the gargoyle begins to stretch, he rubs his lips together and yawns wide before speaking.

“‘Good evening,’ he says, startling Sister Mary-Gwyneth.”

Gwen shrieks as Gwyneth, and I know that she is fully immersed in our game now. “Gabriel? Is it truly you?” she asks.

“‘Of course, who else should I be?’ The gargoyle asks.”

“Sister Mary-Gwyneth blushes, because she’s worried that she has forced this gargoyle to come to life somehow,” Gwen says. “I am so sorry, Gabriel, if I have ripped you from your slumber to attend to me this night.”