Free The Truth About Love by Stephanie Laurens

pergola, Jacqueline nodded. “It’s the situation, the shelter, and the soil.” She waited while they all looked around, then waved to the three paths diverging before them. “This path”—she pointed to the one to the left, angling back to the house—“leads to the Garden of Poseidon.”
    “There?” Barnaby blinked. “I thought he would be down by the shore, god of the sea that he is.”
    “Ah, but Poseidon was the god of all water—fresh as well as salt—and it was claimed all springs flowed from where his trident struck.” Jacqueline pointed to where, directly ahead, they could see sunlight glinting off the rippling waters of a stream running down the valley. “The stream is fed by a spring that rises in a grotto under the central section of the terrace. Poseidon therefore presides over the point where its waters start to flow freely down the valley, leaving the shoreline to Neptune.”
    “Aha! Very neat.” Barnaby squinted down the valley toward the distant cove, but it was too far away, and there were too many intervening trees, shrubs, and rises and dips in the land to get any real view.
    Gerrard decided he’d waited long enough; the Garden of Poseidon seemed to lie just below the area of thick, dark vegetation he’d noted the previous evening. “Where’s the famous Garden of Night?”
    He was standing beside Jacqueline; she didn’t move, yet he was aware she stiffened. Nothing showed in her face, but it had suddenly become a mask. However, when she spoke, her tone was even, albeit devoid of emotion.
    “The Garden of Night is reached through the Garden of Poseidon, or directly from the terrace via the main garden stairs. It abuts the terrace—in fact the grotto where the spring rises is part of the Garden of Night, more properly the Garden of Venus, who aside from being the goddess of love was also the first goddess of gardens, hence her preeminence here.” Looking down, Jacqueline stepped out of the pergola onto the central of the three paths leading on. “I’m sure you’ve heard about the various plants that grow in the Garden of Night. As it’s closest to the house, we’ll leave it for later.”
    Gerrard held his peace, following her out into the sunshine; the others strolled after him.
    Resetting her parasol, Jacqueline waved up the path to their right; it wended up and then along the steeply sloping north ridge. “That path leads through the Garden of Dionysius—it’s full of grapevines of various sorts. Beyond it, you can see the cypresses of the Garden of Hades, cypresses being the tree of graveyards. That path rejoins this one farther down the valley, at the last viewing stage.”
    She gestured about them. “This area, directly below the Garden of Poseidon, is the Garden of Apollo. It’s one of the gardens that uses statuary—he’s the god of music, hence the once-gilded statue of a lyre.”
    They came upon the statue, an intricate work in iron, on a pedestal in the center of a small circle of lawn. The path wound its way past. They approached the stream; a small wooden bridge spanned it. “Music,” Jacqueline continued, “is also created by the sound of the stream running over the rocks and the small weirs placed along its course.”
    They halted and listened. Watery music did indeed fill the air, tinkling, burbling, almost singing. It was a pleasant, relaxing sound. Gerrard scanned the area; it was rich with lush lawns and burgeoning flower beds.
    Jacqueline stepped onto the bridge. “Apollo was also the god of light, and this area of the gardens has light for the longest time each day. The sundial”—she pointed to it, on the lawn just off the path ahead—“marks the point considered the center of the gardens.”
    They followed her on. The path steadily descended down a bank of verdant growth. Glancing back, Gerrard noted that while the roofs of the house were still visible high above the head of the valley, areas nearer to hand that they’d already traversed were