He ate his breakfast while she ate hers and checked her emails.

  “Gotta go to work,” she told him.

  He followed her to the stairs, started up with her. Then stopped by the hidden door, wagged his tail.

  “Something in there?” She shook off a chill. “Maybe, but we’re not going in there. Not today.”

  In the bedroom, she let out a long breath at the bed—freshly made, pillows plumped. Yoda’s dog bed had been nicely smoothed out.

  “Okay. Okay, thanks. It’s not necessary, but thank you. Fine.”

  After she’d changed into sweats, Yoda walked with her to the library.

  He took his place under the desk; she put her mind into the work.

  Twice she heard doors closing. So did he, as he lifted his head.

  “It’s not me,” she muttered, and kept working.

  She decided to consider walking-the-dog time as thinking time. The catering project had some challenges. The packages, the à la cartes, all the images, the pricing. And she wanted it appealing but streamlined so potential clients wouldn’t have to wade through everything.

  By the time she shut down for the day, she’d rejected two designs before settling on one that hit appealing and streamlined.

  And because Yoda paused by the damn hidden door every time she went up or down, she opened it.

  “You want to see, we’ll go see. I’m supposed to work out anyway.”

  He did a lot of wandering, and occasionally stopped, wagged at nothing. At least nothing she could see.

  He seemed entertained by the poor excuse for a workout she managed before she just wanted out.

  This time, as she passed the bells, she heard one ring.

  “The Gold Room. Which one is that? I think that’s on the third floor. It’s closed off.”

  She steeled her spine.

  “We’re going up.”

  She picked Yoda up as much for comfort as to spare his little legs the steps. She wasn’t sure of the room, but she’d start where she had a blurry picture of a large room papered in deep gold. One of the important suites, she thought she recalled.

  When they reached the third floor, she set Yoda down.

  “It’s cold up here. Colder than it was before.” She opened doors one at a time. Draped furniture, floral wallpaper or creamy panels.

  And as she reached for the knob of the door at the end of the long hall, Yoda growled.

  She looked down to see him standing stiff-legged, his teeth bared.

  “I won’t let them hurt you. Or it.”

  Though her stomach clenched, her heart pounded, she pushed open the door. She swore the air flowed like ice. The drapery over the furniture shook with it. At the threshold, Yoda barked like a mad thing.

  “It’s my house.” She scooped him up. “It’s our house.”

  But because the dog trembled—or she did—she shut the door again.

  “It’s all right.” As she walked away, she kissed Yoda’s head. “Everything’s all right. Let’s go downstairs. You can have a treat.”

  He didn’t manage a howl, but more of a whine. Still, she took it as a good sign.

  In the kitchen, all the chairs at the small table lay on their backs on the floor.

  “Somebody’s trying to scare us, but they won’t.”

  She put Yoda down, righted the chairs.

  Then rewarded the dog with a treat, and herself with a glass of wine.

  * * *

  The dog brought comfort, a sweet little warm body to share her space. After their last-round walk, she decided to skip Poole family history for a night, and went back to her novel with Yoda curled in his own bed by the fire.

  And slipped into sleep with the book sliding out of her hands.

  Did she dream?

  She stood in front of the mirror, the mirror from her father’s dreams. The predators framing the glass seemed to snap and snarl.

  But rather than her own reflection, she saw a room beyond, shadowy movements, as if the glass was a window and not a mirror at all.

  The shadows began to shift, and the light grew brighter.

  Firelight, candlelight illuminated a bedroom.

  Hers?

  Not the same bed, no, and the walls were covered with full-blown flowers with pink-tipped petals over a field of the palest gold. But she recognized the room she’d claimed in the manor as her own.

  A woman lay on the bed, obviously in labor. Though Sonya had never seen a live birth, what she saw through the glass was unmistakable.

  Two women attended her—midwives?—one bathing her face, the other kneeling between her legs.

  And through the glass, Sonya heard voices, cries, muted at first, then growing louder and more distinct.

  Not now, Sonya thought, through the glass wasn’t now. The woman who stood at the head of the bed wore some sort of cap on her head, a long gray dress with a kind of apron over it. And she could see the button-type boots on the woman who knelt on the bed.

  A dream, it had to be a dream, she thought as she lifted a hand to the glass.

  And passed through it like she would a doorway.

  They took no notice of her, the three women, as all their focus and energy centered on the work of bringing life into the world.

  “The babe’s coming! You must push! Draw up your strength, Mrs. Poole, and push!”

  The woman in bed braced on her elbows. Her face a mask of exhausted pain as she bore down. Her scream, so primal, so fierce, lanced through Sonya’s bones.

  “There’s the head, and a bonny one. One more push, dearie. One more now.”

  As the mother sobbed, the midwife turned the baby, drawing its shoulders free so the rest of him slid into her hands.

  “You’ve a son, Mrs. Poole. A fine lad. Here we are, here we are now,” the midwife said as she used a cloth to clean the newborn’s face.

  He let out a whimper, then followed it up with an insulted cry that had Sonya clutching her hands to her heart.

  So beautiful. She hadn’t known it could be so beautiful.

  “I want him. I want my son.”

  The new mother, her long, dark hair matted with sweat, held out her arms. And as she wept, she laughed, and took the baby into her arms.

  “He’s Owen. I have a son. Ah, God! Take him, take him. The pain!”

  “Take the young master, Ava. There’s another yet to come. Don’t push yet, dearie. Do the panting now, pant while I see to this.”

  “God help me.”

  So the beauty became pain with the midwife dripping sweat, and the mother begging it to stop.

  So much blood. Should there be so much blood?

  Sonya knew what she dreamed now. Marianne Poole, the third bride.

  The daughter—Jane, Sonya remembered—was born in blood, her mewling cries like sorrow as her mother lay dying.

  “I have to stop the bleeding. Fetch more towels. Fetch the master.”

  But it wouldn’t stop, and as it flooded the sheets, Marianne lay pale as death. “Jane. My daughter is Jane. Owen David, Jane Elizabeth. My children.”

  Sonya’s breath caught when Marianne’s eyes, glazed with shock, met hers across the room. “My children. You come from them.”

  He burst into the room, a man with her father’s eyes, her father’s build, in a loose white shirt and black trousers. He rushed to the bed, took his wife’s limp hand in both of his.

  “Marianne, my love. I’m here.”

  “We have a son. We have a daughter.”

  “They need their mother. Stay for them.” He pressed his lips to her hand. “Stay for me.”

  “I’ll stay for them. I’ll stay for you. I’ll just … rest now,” she said, and slipped away.

  He wept, her hand clutched in his.

  While the sobs racked him, the woman in black came in. She walked to the other side of the bed and took the ring from the dead woman’s finger.

  “No!” Sonya stepped forward to stop her. “You can’t do that.”

  With madness and power in her eyes, Hester Dobbs said, “I can. I have. I will.” She slipped the ring on her finger where another two glinted in the candlelight. “Do you think you can stop me? Stop what I forged in fire and blood? You’re the ghost here.”

  Furious, Sonya lunged forward.

  And woke standing by her own bed with the dog whining at her feet.

  Shaken, she sat on the side of the bed, then gathered the dog up to comfort them both.

  “It’s okay. I had a bad dream. Just a bad dream.”

  But she could smell blood and candle wax.

  She could hear the sound of the voices in her mind. The slight Scottish burr of the midwife’s, the exhaustion in Marianne’s, the grief in Hugh Poole’s.

  And the hard, vicious edge in Hester Dobbs’s.

  Why had she woken up standing by the bed instead of lying in it?

  She’d fallen asleep reading, she remembered. But the light was off now, the book closed and on the nightstand. The mug of tea she’d brought up was nowhere to be seen.

  She knew she’d find it washed and put away in the kitchen.

  So someone looked after her, doing little kindnesses and household chores.

  And someone wanted to scare her.

  Just how many were there in the house with her? And who were they—or had they been?

  She glanced at the clock. Three-twenty-two.

  No piano music, no banging on the door.

  Apparently it was over for the night.

  But when she got back in bed, she took the dog with her.

  “I saw it all so clearly. The mirror, then the room on the other side. The people in it. I think I could draw them. Not my strongest skill, but I think I could draw them.

  “I watched two babies being born—the first so beautiful, the second so tragic—but I saw, and heard, and felt. I saw a woman die, a woman who fought so hard to bring her babies into the world. I saw her just … fade away.”

  She stroked the dog, grateful for that sweet, warm body against hers.

  “I saw Hester Dobbs. I saw that bitch take Marianne’s ring while her husband grieved. And she saw me. She saw me, spoke to me. Marianne saw me, spoke to me as she died. But no one else did.

  “I was the ghost there. Hester Dobbs had that right. On the other side of the mirror—or whatever the hell it is—I was the ghost.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Considering the night she’d had, she might have slept through the morning. But she dragged herself out of bed for the dog. A walk in the brisk wind did a lot to blow the cobwebs away.

  Determined to stick with routine, she sat down at her desk—a little late, and in her pajamas—but she sat down at her desk.

  The first order of business: adding the mirror dream/incident to her log.

  Once done, she got out a sketch pad and did her best to draw the figures in that dream/incident.

  She didn’t have Cleo’s skill with illustration, but she thought she managed decent likenesses.

  Then she set them aside.

  “A girl and her dog still have to eat,” she said, and got to work.

  Nothing and no one disturbed her. She no longer counted the musical iPad greetings, as she’d grown used to them. She shut down at three-thirty.

  “I’m not meeting Trey Doyle—man and/or potential client—in my pj’s and with a naked face.” She tapped Yoda’s nose and made him wag. “Gotta be professional. Plus, he always looks so damn good. You haven’t met him yet,” she added as they walked over to her bedroom, “but take my word on it.”

  She stopped short at the sight of the short, sort of sassy red dress laid out neatly on her bed.

  “Okay, that’s new—not the dress, but the gesture. And, ah, thanks? But this is more for date night than client meeting. It’s a great dress though.”

  And now, Sonya thought, she talked to ghosts as well as to herself.

  Holding it up, she turned this way, that way in the mirror. “And who knows when I’ll have a reason to wear it again. But not today.”

  She hung it back in the closet.

  She hadn’t thought of wearing a dress, but she could. Client meeting and all that. But not anything suit-y. Something casual.

  She pulled out a slim ribbed knit dress in a dark, deep green. Simple lines, long sleeves, and the midi length looked good with booties.

  “And done.”

  When she’d changed, she studied herself in the mirror again. “Okay, this works. It’s like I take my work seriously, but I’m still friendly and easy.” Amused, she pointed at Yoda. “Not that kind of easy.

  “Although, God, I do miss sex. No thinking about sex during a client meeting,” she told herself, and went into the bathroom to deal with makeup.

  Same rules applied. Professional, but casual and friendly.

  As she debated just the right eye shadow, she asked herself if she really intended to carve in a six hour–plus round trip to visit her longtime hairdresser.

  The sensible thing? Give the local salon a try. If they screwed it up, she’d never return.

  She added earrings—just studs—and took a last look.

  “I think I hit the mark, and it only took me three times as long as it would have if I’d tossed on jeans and a sweater like I figured I would. But this is better.”

  Her iPad let out with Roy Orbison’s classic “Oh, Pretty Woman.”

  “Thanks. I’m getting pretty comfortable here, despite everything. It doesn’t hurt to remember how to take some time. The whole self-care thing. Now, I should make coffee.”

  She’d use the coffee service in the butler’s pantry, set it up in front of the library fire. Or would the kitchen suit better?

  No, the library.

  “I’m thinking about it too much. And not,” she admitted to the dog, “just because he’s a potential client. He’s just so damn attractive. The way he looks, yeah, but also the way he is. What I know of the way he is, because I hardly know him really.

  “And this has to stop.”

  She made the coffee, then carried the tray up.

  Professional, she thought. A woman running her own business.

  She plumped the pillows on the sofa, added another log to the fire.

  And decided: Perfect.

  The dog let out a series of barks and raced out of the room seconds before the doorbell sounded.

  “No one’s going to sneak in from outside anyway.”

  She went down, pointed at Yoda, who danced in place by the front door. “You behave. This is business.”

  She opened the door and there he stood, tall, handsome, with his big, adorable dog.

  “Right on time. Come in. Meet Yoda.”

  “Hey there.” Inside the door, Trey crouched right down and gave the dancing Yoda a good rub. “You’ve got Yoda eyes, all right. What do you think, Mookie?”

  In answer, Mookie slapped a long tongue kiss straight up Yoda’s face, which caused the smaller dog to spin in circles.

  “We brought a homecoming gift.” Trey pulled a tug rope out of his back pocket. “Show him how it’s done, Mook.”

  In five seconds flat, the dogs were playing tug-of-war and fake growling.

  “You know the big guy could drag the little guy all over the house with that.”

  “Yeah.” Trey just grinned at him. “And he probably will.”

  “Let me take your coat.”

  As she went to hang it up, Sonya shut her eyes.

  He’d brought a present for the dog. How was she supposed to resist that?

  “So, I’m set up in the library, with coffee.”

  “Appreciate the coffee, and you making the time.”

  “I took a look at your website,” she said as they went upstairs with the dogs behind them. “It’s very serviceable.”

  “I think that’s a dig.”

  “Not at all. Or, okay, not much of one. I can make it better, but we’ll start with what you’re looking for.”

  “It feels dated. Poole’s Bay’s small-town, but we do have clients outlying. We’re family run. I want to play that up. We’ve got people who’ve worked for us for decades, and we do internships.”

  “And there’s the office itself. The house. The family house. It has a feel. A you-can-trust-us-to-look-out-for-you feel.”

  “There you go.”

  “Have a seat.”

  Sonya poured coffee while the dogs played tug.

  She made notes as he laid out what he thought they needed. More as she asked questions and he answered.

  By the time the dogs settled down by the fire, she had the gist.

  Sharing a house with ghosts might have her questioning her sanity. Feeling—no question about it—a sexual buzz for a potential client definitely had her wondering what to do, or not do, about it.

  But when it came to the work, confidence ruled.

  “You want clean, simple, traditional, with an emphasis on the history of the firm. Nothing fancy, no big hype. Doyle Law Offices is an institution in Poole’s Bay for a reason. I’d use a photo of the offices as a banner. It says: When you come into our house, we’re going to help you. Right now you just have the name of the firm. This would warm it up. Doctors and lawyers are very personal choices. So make it personal.”

  “I can’t argue with that.”

  “Add a tab for the staff—photos and short bios. And since you take on interns, another for that. With your success stories. Julie Smith went on to Harvard Law, that sort of thing. And you need a page for each of you. Ace, Deuce, Trey.”

  “I like it, but it doesn’t sound simple.”

  “My job’s to make it simple—for you, and for the potential client shopping for a lawyer. Take your business cards. The one your father gave me is slightly different than yours. They should all have a look, a consistent Doyle Law Offices look. And instead of black on white, I’d suggest a warmer color. Ecru maybe.”

  “Ecru.” His lips curved in that slow, easy smile. “That’s not a word you hear every day.”

  “You do in my line. Coordinate your business cards, letterhead, the works. One cohesive look for one cohesive firm. Right now, your website’s a white background with bright blue font, blue backgrounds on the photos. It’s too staid.”

  “Staid.”

  “And you’re not. None of you are. Let it reflect who you are and what you do. Your father traveled to Boston, sat at my table, and changed my life. And he was so kind, so patient. You came here on your weekend and moved furniture for me.”