Inheritance (The Lost Bride Trilogy, #1)(83)

In the grate, a log fell; embers flew.

Collin Poole stood beside Astrid and turned the page on her music.

Someone had pushed the furniture back, so three couples formed two lines, weaving back and forth as they danced.

She recognized what had to be Collin’s twin, Connor. And the way he looked at his partner, she knew her for Arabelle, the woman he’d marry. The doomed Catherine’s mother.

But young now, all of them, except the woman by the fire, and she saw the man sitting nearby, smiling, sipping his whiskey as he watched the dancers.

Astrid’s parents, she thought, not certain why she felt so sure of it. She moved through the room, a ghost among ghosts.

She smelled the flowers—roses from the hothouse. The candle wax made by a family in the village, the woodsmoke from the logs a servant named John split and stacked.

It was early April—she knew it—only weeks before Astrid Grandville would marry Collin Poole. The first bride to marry at the manor.

The first to die there.

When the dance ended, Collin took Astrid’s hand, brought it to his lips.

It all froze.

Astrid turned her head and looked at Sonya.

“We were so happy this night. A prelude, Collin said, to all the parties we would host, with friends, with family. We had everything ahead of us.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Find the rings. You’re the last who can.”

“But I don’t—”

“Play, won’t you, Astrid?”

“Of course.”

The six dancers stood in their two lines. Collin stood at Astrid’s shoulder.

She played the same song, exactly as before. Everything moved, exactly as before.

The old woman plied her needle and tapped her foot. The old man smiled and sipped his whiskey. Collin turned the page while the dancers wove.

In the grate a log fell with a shower of embers.

And Sonya woke standing beside the bed.

The dog slept on, so she hadn’t disturbed him. She moved quietly out of the room, down the stairs, into the parlor.

The furniture stood exactly as it should. Then again, she thought, it hadn’t been the same furniture in the dream. Or experience.

No fire burned, no candles flickered, no oil lamps glowed.

She wandered the room, but the only scent she caught came from the Asiatic lilies she’d bought the day before. At the piano, she ran her finger lightly over the keys.

Then she walked into the foyer, looked up at Astrid’s portrait.

“I heard you. I don’t know what it means or what to do about it, but I heard you.”

But the house, and whatever walked in it, stayed silent.

In the silence, she walked back upstairs.

In bed she closed her eyes and waited for sleep.





Chapter Eighteen



In the morning, she documented every detail she could remember. Afterward, she held herself to half a day of work—in her mind to more or less make up for the time she’d taken for personal things during the workweek.

She put an extra hour in compiling a list of invisible companions. Considering her experience the night before, she included Astrid as the second bride to have seen her, spoken to her.

That left her free to handle the few domestic chores her invisible housekeeper left for her. Since the sun beamed, and with weekly laundry in the machine, she took a long walk with Yoda. The thinning blanket of snow lured her and the dog to the edge of the woods.

Then a few steps in.

She couldn’t deny the wonder of it, the mystery of bare-branched trees, the deep green of pine. The light wind stirred pine needles to a kind of rustling, and from deeper in came the sounds of chirping and chittering.

Yoda scented the air just as she did, but the snow lay thicker there where the sun didn’t quite reach.

And she was reasonably sure she saw hoofprints or paw prints, or some sort of animal tracks. While she’d enjoy crossing paths with a deer—getting a closer look—she doubted she’d enjoy crossing paths with anything less benign.

They’d just leave the woods, for now, to whatever wildlife wandered there.

“I’m a city girl, Yoda. And that’s a fact.”

Instead, they walked back to stand at the seawall. Now the wind stirred through her hair and blew cool across her cheeks. With it came the fresh, adventurous scent of the sea.

And under the clear sky, the sea held boldly blue to the horizon. Waves crashed below, and out on that plate of blue, boats glided.

To her delight, she spotted her second whale, even picked up Yoda hoping he’d share the thrill.

But he only wagged and licked her chin.

“This is it, doggie,” she murmured. “This is it for me. Times like last night I get a little shaky, but this is it. Water and woods and whales. Who knew?”

When she took the dog back in, she swore she caught the scent of fresh orange oil.

“She keeps busy,” Sonya muttered, and hung up her coat.

Very busy, Sonya decided when she found her delicates hanging on the rod in the laundry room. A check of the dryer showed it empty, so she had no doubt she’d find what she’d tossed in it folded and put away.

Just as she’d found the dishwasher empty, and the dishes all put away when she’d checked that morning.

How would it feel, she wondered, to spend your afterlife—if that’s what it was—cleaning up after someone else?