“Shall I sit with you a moment, Jane?”
“Oh, please do, Agatha. What a happy day.”
“I’ll fetch you champagne, Agatha. Shall I bring you some, Jane?”
“Thank you, no, Owen. I’m very content. The baby likes the music. He’s dancing.” Her face glowed as she said it. “George went to look in on the children. It was kind of you, Agatha, to open the nursery for them.”
“It wouldn’t do to have bored children underfoot. They have their nursemaid to tend them.”
“Of course, of course. But I wanted to just take a peek, and George wished to spare me the steps.”
The music changed to a country dance as Sonya watched Hester Dobbs slip into the room. In her black dress, her hair loose and free, she walked to where a servant arranged some little cakes on a plate.
She added another to it, frosted in dark red with a gold crown topping it.
Turning, she smiled at Sonya as the servant walked to Agatha and offered her the plate.
“You can’t stop what was, what is.”
Maybe not, but she could try.
Even as Sonya rushed across the room—why did it feel like she swam through syrup?—Agatha lifted the red cake to her lips.
Sonya struggled her way through the dancers. She felt the heat from their bodies, caught the scent of perfume. One of the women stumbled a bit as Sonya pushed by her.
But Agatha was already on her feet, a hand to her throat as she fought for air.
Beside her, Jane levered herself up, called for water.
Water wouldn’t help, Sonya thought. Agatha slid to the floor, eyes wild. Her body shook; the heels of her wedding shoes drummed on the floor.
Owen ran to her, dropped down to pull her into his arms.
No, she couldn’t stop it, Sonya thought as she watched the life begin to drain out of the bride’s eyes.
Women screamed; one fainted.
In the confusion, Hester Dobbs pulled the wedding ring from Agatha’s finger and slid it on her own.
“With my blade I took the first, then by my blood this house was cursed. One by one they wed, they die, because they seek to take what’s mine. And with their rings of gold, my spell will hold and hold.”
Once again, she smiled at Sonya. Then she lifted her hands, flicked her fingers. And vanished.
* * *
Sonya woke standing beside the sofa. She shook—not from fear but rage.
She’d watched another woman die, and had been helpless to stop it.
Could she change what had already happened? Agatha Poole died in … how the hell could she remember? But the fourth bride had been dead over a hundred years.
And yet, Sonya had been there, in the ballroom, at that time, in that place. She’d witnessed what had been another murder.
Yoda whined and shivered. She sat, let him jump into her lap.
“Where do I go? Is it an actual mirror, or just something in a dream? Maybe some kind of … subconscious device rather than an actual mirror.”
And it was too damn late to worry about it now.
“I’m sorry, baby. I fell asleep and didn’t let you out. It’s okay. We’ll take care of that immediately.”
She let him out through the mudroom, stood drinking a glass of water while she waited for him to come back. Though tempted to write it all out then and there, she knew she wouldn’t forget the details.
Morning would do fine, especially since it wasn’t far off.
With the dog, she went upstairs. He got into his bed and she into hers.
In the faint glow of the fire, she lay taking stock.
No, she wasn’t afraid. If her mother had been there, Winter would have recognized her daughter’s determined face.
* * *
Over coffee in the morning, she wrote it all out, added a number of sketches. Then put it aside.
With the caterer’s job completed, she shifted her focus to the Doyle project. Since she wanted photos, she contacted Corrine Doyle.
Enlisting her as photographer proved as simple as asking.
“Check that off.” She made a check mark in the air.
For the rest of the morning, she worked on the design, the structure.
And fell nicely into routine. Work, walk, work.
Because she didn’t want to get too deeply into it before she had the photos, she moved over to the florist.
New photos there, too, which the florist had already sent—following Sonya’s vision. They’d work, she thought as she studied them. And save the client the cost of a photographer.
Clover blasted out with “Devil with a Blue Dress On.”
“Hey, volume.” Sonya started to turn it down herself, then saw the time.