The Mirror (The Lost Bride Trilogy #2)

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-six

She opted for the gardens. While the sea always enthralled, she decided she needed the peace of the gardens, the simple joy of knowing she’d played a part in adding to them.

She tested the soil on the deck pots, found it—as always—moist. What she and Cleo had planted had already begun to fill and spill.

While Yoda wandered and sniffed, she noted that irises had begun to bloom, some purple, some butter yellow, some tender peach.

And the wisteria dripped from the pergola. A dwarf tree spread an umbrella of snowy white blossoms.

She’d yet to spot a single weed, and found none now as she, like Yoda, wandered and sniffed.

When she couldn’t identify a plant—which was often, even if she’d planted it herself—she used her app. One of these days, she promised herself, she’d know them all.

But now it calmed her, settled her to just walk as the wind chimes they’d hung tinkled or gave their low, muted bong.

She decided to circle around, check Cleo’s herb bed, see if any blossoms—a daily hope—had opened on the tomatoes or peppers.

But when she called to Yoda, who’d wandered closer to the woods than she’d realized, he just kept going.

“Yoda, come back here!” She started jogging in his direction as his stubby legs picked up speed. “Yoda! Damn it, don’t go in there today. I don’t have the bear spray!”

But he ran straight in, and muttering curses, she had no choice but to follow.

Trees had leafed out, so the sun shimmered its way through them. Though she felt the charm of it all—almost like her father’s painting over the fireplace back in Boston—she wasn’t prepared for a walk in the woods.

She heard him barking now as she continued to call. Probably after a squirrel, a chipmunk, a rabbit, whatever.

“Come on, Yoda, this isn’t like you. You’re such a good boy. Come on, and we’ll get you a treat!”

Wildflowers reached up where they could catch the sun, and the deeper shadows showed hints of green.

If she heard rustling, she imagined squirrel, chipmunk, rabbit. And refused to let her mind drift to bear.

She prayed her adventurous dog stuck to the path and didn’t end up getting them both lost.

A rustling—bigger than squirrel, chipmunk, rabbit—made her heart skip. Then a deer leaped across the path and vanished in those green-hued shadows.

Birds sang out; the pines whispered.

And she felt it, that pull. Just a tug at first, but irresistible.

“Oh God. Here? Now? Why?”

Though she slowed her pace, it pulled her forward, a thread she simply couldn’t break. So she went deeper into the shadows and light, deeper yet until all she heard was her own heart pounding.

It stood on the path, dappled in that light and shadow. And here, in the deep woods, the predators framing the glass seemed at home.

Yoda sat at its feet, his head ticking back and forth.

Did he see himself? she wondered.

She didn’t. She saw a blur of light and shadow, the green of trees, the brown of the path. But not a reflection. A continuance.

“How is this even possible? How could it be out here?”

When Yoda wagged at her, she crouched down. “You have to stay because I have to go. I have to.”

She straightened, stared at the mirror as she heard—distantly—the sound of hooves.

“If anything hurts my dog, I swear, I’ll make them pay for it.”

She went through the mirror.

And into the woods, on the path. The same path, she knew it, but different. The air so much cooler, and if she hadn’t felt fall in that air, she saw it in the trees flaming with it.

1805

Arthur Poole slowed his horse from gallop to a light trot. No hurry, after all. He had nothing but time today. And his mood stayed lifted high after the gallop.

He was a contented man, a successful man, and one who considered himself in his prime. As hardly more than a boy, he’d sailed from London and near poverty to the rough and rugged coast of Maine.

With a dream. With ambition. With a strong back and determination.

And with those, he’d built ships, and a thriving business. He’d built a home worthy of a successful man, and soon—after he’d ridden out of woods that belonged to him—he’d sit by the fire in that home—Poole Manor—put his feet up, and have a glass of whiskey.

But now he enjoyed the ride, the solitude, and the time for reflection.

He’d built a family as well, and had such pride in them. More, and it surprised him, even more pride than he had in his business, his great house, the village below that carried his name.

The scrappy boy from London.

And he felt joy that his eldest son—four minutes ahead of his twin—had asked for the hand of Astrid Grandville. Not simply because she came from a good family, a wealthy family, but because she had a spine and mixed it with a sweetness.

And above all, she loved his son, and he loved her. He could see it, feel it, and felt that joy in knowing it.

Collin would marry for love. He hadn’t, Arthur thought. He’d married for need, for ambition, for the wealth that came with the wife.

But he had grown to love, and deeply.

Perhaps it had been the birth of their first children, Collin and Connor, that had opened that part of him. And as years passed, as the family grew, so did his love for the woman who made that family with him.

Now, older and wiser, he was content to—slowly—turn the reins of the business over to his sons. Good, bright, steady young men, both of them. And he could and did trust his eldest to tend to his siblings when the time came for it. To make a home, as he had, in Poole Manor.

But today wasn’t about a far-flung future. He had more ships to build, plans to expand the manor again.

After all, he’d have grandchildren coming before too much longer.

The thought made him laugh at himself.

“Wedding first.” He gave his mount a pat on her long neck. “And we’ll see to it the manor shines like a jewel for it. The most important wedding Poole’s Bay has ever seen.”

The woman stepped onto the path so he had to pull up his horse. The woman dressed in black, her black hair a tumble rather than modestly restrained. And her dark eyes full of uncanny light.

He knew her, Hester Dobbs. He knew her for a witch.

A chill ran through him as she smiled.

“Woman, you have no place here.”

“I will have. I will have my place here, in these woods, in the grand grounds before them, in the manor that rises over the sea. I will have all.”

“Go back to your cottage, woman, and stir your witch’s brew.”

“Oh, I have, Arthur Poole. I have. And your son drank that brew thinking it was no more than a cup of water after a long ride. And when he did, I bedded him in my cottage in the deep woods.”

Rage rose up. “I can have you hanged for it.”

“But you won’t.” She stepped closer to him, laid a light hand on the horse’s neck. “I tell you now, Collin Poole, your firstborn, your heir, is mine. As these woods will be mine. And I will be mistress of the manor for all time.”

“And I tell you, you will have nothing. You will not touch my son again, and I will make certain of it. I will see you dragged from your cottage, banished from Poole’s Bay. You will have nothing of mine, and never will you step foot in my home as long as I live.”

“This is true. This I know. I have seen it, and so.”

She lifted her hands.

“In this place, I call the wind. And as it blows, your life I end.”

The horse shied as the wind swirled, as it moaned like a wounded man and sent leaves spinning.

With a curse, Arthur controlled it.

“Be damned to you, witch!” Arthur shouted it, but Dobbs continued.

“Father to son, the manor will pass, and under my spell, he will do all I ask. With my power your life I take. Now turn and turn and bend and break!”

His head turned at an odd angle on his neck. For an instant, his eyes, Poole green, bulged, and his mouth opened as if to gasp for air.

Then something cracked, a hideous sound. And he fell, limp and lifeless, to the ground.

With a laugh, she gave the horse a swat to send the mare running down the path. Stepping over, Dobbs looked down at Arthur.

“You thought you could stand against me? Keep me from what I desire? Your death only brings me closer to what is mine, what will always be mine.”

She lifted her arms again, turned in the swirling wind. “I am and will be mistress of the manor. All who stand against me will meet death.”

She started to slip back in the woods, then turned her head sharply.

Her eyes looked mad, wild and mad, as they stared down the path. The path where Sonya stood by the mirror.

“No one there. No one. And yet…”

As if in pain, Dobbs lifted a hand to her temple, pressed.

“Seven? Seven? A number of power. Seven. What does it matter?”

She looked back at Arthur’s body, and smiled.

“They’ll find him here, and mourn and grieve. And I will feast on their tears.”

As she gathered the skirts of her dress around her, Dobbs slipped into the trees.

Shivering in the brisk air, Sonya stood as she was. And shed the first tear for Arthur Poole.

“I come from you. You were standing up for your son, your family, your home. So will I.”

She stepped back through the mirror, into the warm where her faithful dog waited.

She crouched down, gathered him to her for comfort, and to wait until the dizziness passed.

It would, she thought. It would pass. Just as the mirror no longer stood on the path.

Still holding Yoda, she rose, walked back to where Arthur Poole’s body had fallen.

“They found you here. Worried, had to be worried, when your horse came back without you. So they looked for you, and found you here. And thought it was an accident. They never knew what she’d done. But I know now. It matters I know now.”

She walked back out of the woods while her head cleared and the leading edge of the horror dulled.

She went inside, splashed cold water on her face. Clover tried Bad Company’s “All Right Now.”

“Yeah, mostly all right now. Need a few more minutes.”

She gave Yoda a treat, and because Pye came out as if to say where the hell have you been , she gave the cat a couple.

Then she sat, texted Trey.

I know you and Owen planned to work on Cleo’s boat tonight, but can you both come? I’m fine. I’m okay, but I went through the mirror again, and saw something. I need to tell you in person. I’m fine, I promise, but I need to tell you.

We’ll be there. Is Cleo with you?

Not right now, but she will be. I’m going back to work. I wouldn’t if I wasn’t okay. And I promise, I wouldn’t tell you I was if I wasn’t. I just need to tell you.

We’ll be there. Tell Cleo not to cook. We’ll bring something. Work if it helps, otherwise, take a break.

I took one. That’s how it started. Don’t worry. Bring pizza.

She added that in hopes it would help ease the worry she knew he felt.

Done. By six, earlier if you need.

Six.

She added a pizza emoji, then a heart.

Back at her desk, Sonya wrote it all out while the details stayed fresh. It seemed to her they’d stay fresh forever, but she documented.

Maybe, someday, she’d put everything she’d documented since moving into the manor into a book. Like Deuce Doyle had done for Collin on the family genealogy.

A kind of legacy, she thought, for those who came after her.

For now, she filed what she’d written, then pushed her mind into work. Work could stand as sanctuary as well as purpose.

Later, when Yoda scrambled out from under her desk to run downstairs, she shut down. She started down the steps as Cleo came in carting her guerrilla box she used for supplies and carrying wet canvases.

“What a day! I nearly finished one painting, then had to stop to sketch this kid—three, maybe four—sailing in a little sloop with, it had to be his mom. I swear he looked like he’d woken up on a day that melded Christmas, his birthday, and Halloween together.

“I haven’t forgotten about dinner,” she continued. “I’ll throw us something together. I lost track of time, which is when you know it’s really going well.”

“Trey and Owen are bringing pizza. About six.”

“Oh.” Cleo pulled the band out of her hair, shook out her curls. “I thought it was just you and me tonight, but pizza sounds… Shit. Something happened.”

“It did. Not Dobbs—or not one of her tantrums. The mirror. I went through again.”

“Damn it, Sonya, why didn’t you call me, or text? I’d’ve come right back.”

“Exactly, and I promise, no need for that. Go on, put your things away. I’m going to go pour us both some wine.”

“This can wait.”

“I need time to get my head out of work mode and into this anyway. It’s nearly six, so by the time you finish they should be here.”

“And you’ll only have to go through it once,” Cleo concluded. “Okay. I won’t be long.”

Case in hand, Cleo jogged up the steps, and Sonya turned to the portrait of Astrid Poole.

“You didn’t know. You, your Collin, his twin, his sisters, Arthur’s widow. You didn’t know he’d been murdered, just an obstacle for Dobbs to remove. If you had, somehow, you might have lived.”

She started back, pausing at the music room to study the portraits. It would all have been different, she thought. But the first domino fell with Arthur Poole.

In the kitchen, she opened a bottle of wine and stood looking back at the woods.

So peaceful just now, and so welcoming in the green of spring. She’d walk there again; she promised herself that. She wouldn’t let Hester Dobbs block her from any part of what was hers.

When she heard dogs barking, she turned back to pour the wine.

Trey came straight back, and after setting pizza boxes on the island, took her face in his hands. He gave her a long, careful study, then nodded.

“Okay.”

“Yes. Okay. There’s beer in the butler’s pantry,” she told Owen.

He took two out of a six-pack, then took the rest to the pantry fridge. “Now there’s more. I can go through the mirror,” he pointed out. “I could be here inside fifteen minutes.”

“I couldn’t wait. I mean that literally. Let’s get started on this pizza. Now that you’re here, I realize I’m starved. And here’s Cleo.”

When she came in, Owen tapped a finger to her hand. “Missed a spot.”

Cleo glanced down at a smear of red paint. “I’ll get it later. Now, Son, you can tell us what happened without interruption.”

By the time they sat, she had the narrative clear in her head, and a lot of appreciation for three people who understood her.

“I’m going to start at the beginning, which has nothing to do with the mirror. Laine and Matt—they own By Design, where I used to work—called. They wanted to congratulate me on the Ryder account. And to let me know word had gotten back to them on the crap Brandon pulled before my presentation, and that he no longer works for By Design.”

“Well, I’ll absolutely drink to that.” And Cleo did.

“He maligned me and my work in his presentation—something Miranda Ryder didn’t care for. Then he lied to Laine and Matt about that, and about what happened between him and me. So, he’s out.”

“If he takes a step toward you, or continues to bad-mouth you, personally or professionally, I need to know about it.”

“And you will,” she assured Trey. “I promise. That door’s been closed and bolted on my side for nearly a year. If he can’t do the same on his side?” She shrugged. “He’s going to end up taking more lumps.

“After, I just wanted to clear my head, and Yoda needed a walk, so I took him out back. Everything looks so good. All the work we did, just so beautiful. So satisfying. I wanted to check out the herbs before I went back to work, and I saw Yoda walking into the woods. I called him back, but he kept going. He always comes when I call him.”

She paused, drank. “He went right in while I’m running back there, calling him. I could hear him barking, and I thought he must be chasing a rabbit or squirrel. Then I felt it.”

She took a breath, closed her eyes a moment. “That tug, then the pull. The path turned, and there was Yoda. He sat in front of the mirror on the path.”

“Something happened in the woods,” Trey concluded. “And you needed to see it.”

“Yeah. The glass was blurred, and I could hear hoofbeats. Distant, but I could hear them. I had to go in. I was worried about leaving Yoda, but it’s irresistible. I told him to stay, and he lay down like: Sure, I’ll wait.

“And I went through.”

“Eat something.” Trey nudged her plate, and the slice she hadn’t touched, closer.

With a nod, she took a bite and felt it ease the stress in her head, the hunger in her belly.

“I was still there, on the path, but it wasn’t spring. Fall, chilly, brisk, leaves gone red and gold and orange. But more than that, I could—like in one of the dreams—hear what he was thinking. Almost like he was telling me.”

“Who?” Cleo demanded.

“Arthur Poole.”

She told them, detail by detail.

“He was thinking of his family,” she continued, “of expanding the manor, as he hoped to have grandchildren before much longer. Then she stepped on the path. Dobbs. They didn’t see me. They were ten or twelve feet away, but didn’t see me. He called her a witch, told her to get off his land. She told him she’d tricked his son, Collin, into drinking a potion. That’s how she got him into bed.”

“She bespelled him,” Cleo murmured. “Then she tried to use that as a claim to the manor.”

“He was the eldest, so he’d inherit. But he’s engaged or maybe about to be, right? That complicates things, so she tries sex.” Owen reached for another slice. “But it didn’t do the trick.”

“It wasn’t an accident,” Trey concluded. “Arthur Poole didn’t die in an accident.”

“He was furious. He looked so formidable. Then she brought the wind. He controlled his horse, but she said these words.”

As Sonya repeated them, Cleo pulled out her phone to note them down.

“And she twisted her hands, like you would when you’re wringing something out. I heard it. God, I heard his neck break, then he fell.”

To give herself a moment to steady again, she lifted her wineglass.

“She slapped the horse, and the mare ran down the path toward the manor. She ran right by me like I wasn’t there. Dobbs looked crazy, she had all along, but now she looked jubilant and crazy. He’d been in her way, now he was dead, and she’d be mistress of the manor forever.

“She started to go back into the woods, but she stopped, looked over where I was standing. She didn’t see me. She said, like a question: ‘Seven?’ She said it again and again, said it was a number of power, but I could see she didn’t understand. And it was like she had a sudden headache.”

Sonya pressed her hand to her temple. “She looked confused, and just stark raving mad. She went back in the woods, and looked at him, at Arthur Poole. I realized his family would never know she’d murdered him. Later I realized Collin probably never knew she’d used witchcraft to get him into bed.”

“So guilt on top of grief played a part in his suicide,” Trey concluded.

“I really think so. I came back through. It was spring, Yoda was waiting, the mirror was gone.”

She picked up the slice, set it down again. “I know it’s important to understand what really happened. But it feels so damn useless when there’s nothing we can do to change it, stop it.”

“It’s always better to know than not,” Trey told her. “I can wish you weren’t the conduit, but that’s the reality of it.”

“You accumulate knowledge.” Owen got up to get himself and Trey another beer. “And knowledge is power.”

“So, accumulated knowledge from this latest adventure.”

Cleo ticked off fingers. “Collin Poole didn’t roll around with Dobbs of his own free will. Dobbs murdered Arthur Poole. For Dobbs, it was always about the manor, not the people. They were just obstacles or stepping stones.”

“Like the day in the library, I was awake, aware. It felt dreamlike on the other side, but I was awake and aware.”

“After Poole was dead,” Trey continued, “and she wasn’t focused on him, she sensed something. Sensed you without knowing what or who.”

“I hadn’t been born yet—but I was there in that time and place, and awake, aware.”

“Exactly. Despite what she’d done, Collin Poole married Astrid Grandville. But that day, on the path, she didn’t know she’d kill Astrid, take her ring, create the curse.”

“I can only think she believed she could force or seduce Collin into marrying her, so she could have the manor. It was and is what she wants. To be mistress of the manor.”

“Forever. You told us she said forever,” Trey added.

“Yes, but…”

“She always intended to have it, to hold it. If it took her death, her blood to do that—forever—clearly she’d do whatever she needed to do. I imagine she didn’t see it happening so soon, but nobody lives forever.”

“She’s batshit.” Owen took another pull of his beer.

“No one can argue that one. But”—Cleo held up a hand—“could she have foreseen that Astrid, and all the ones who came after her, would stay? I don’t think so. This house? It has a power of its own. And it doesn’t want her.”

“It doesn’t,” Sonya murmured. “It doesn’t want her.”

“It must burn for her to know that.” Cleo continued, “To know people, the spirits of them, go on day and night, tending to it, while she’s trapped in a hell of her own making.”

“She can’t break the spell,” Sonya said slowly, “or she’s gone. She tied herself with her own words, her own blood magic. Every generation, and a bride. She sealed that with Astrid’s blood, then her own. She’s as caught in that cycle as the brides she killed.”

“She hopes to scare you out, push you out,” Trey said. “You’re a threat. It may be a hell of her own making, a cycle she’s trapped in, but it’s what she has.”

“Seven—she repeated it. Maybe she got it from me. Maybe I thought of the rings, the women, the brides, and how it started with the murder of Arthur Poole. She sensed me, or something, maybe she sensed that, too. It confused her, and I swear it hurt her.”

“Looks like we have to find a way to hurt her again, and harder.”

Cleo smiled at Owen. “I like the way you think.”

Clover weighed in with Aerosmith and “Don’t Get Mad, Get Even.”

“Words to live by.” Sonya picked up the pizza she’d barely touched, and ate.