The Mirror (The Lost Bride Trilogy #2)

Then she heard footsteps, the distinctive click of high heels on wood.

A woman stopped in the doorway, elegant in her long midnight-blue evening gown. It flowed down her tall, slim body, with a neckline that accented a teardrop sapphire pendant framed in diamonds.

She’d dressed her sandy brown hair up in a sleek and severe French twist that left a face with knife-edged cheekbones unframed. Not a single curl or wave escaped the sparkling comb that held it in place.

Matching sapphire-and-diamond earrings dripped from her ears.

The face was striking, creamy skin, faintly flushed along those prominent cheekbones with the drama of lips painted a bold red. Her eyes, wide-set, a cool pale blue under thin, sharply angled brows, scanned the room.

But passed over Sonya without a blink.

Sonya knew the face. She’d seen pictures.

She’d seen the photo of this woman in this dress. One taken, Sonya understood, on this same night. Decades before.

Patricia Youngsboro walked into the library with the air of a woman who owned it, and everything else she wanted.

As Patricia glided through the room, fingers trailing over furniture, books, flower petals, Sonya heard the music more clearly.

A woman’s throaty voice sang.Long ago and far away, I dreamed a dream one day. The diamond on Patricia’s left hand flashed light as she turned it to admire.

She gave it a satisfied smile. “And now, within the year,” she murmured, “Mrs. Michael Poole of the Poole’s Bay Pooles. Of Poole Ships. Mrs. Patricia Youngsboro Poole, mistress of Poole Manor.”

She crossed her arms in a delighted self-hug. “And all this, when I take the Poole name, is mine. And well-earned.”

She seemed amused as she took a compact out of her evening bag, and in its mirror carefully powdered her nose.

“There, perfect. As Mrs. Patricia Youngsboro Poole of Poole’s Bay, of Poole Manor, must and will be, at all times. In all ways.”

As Patricia turned, as Sonya watched, as the orchestra in the ballroom segued into “That Old Black Magic,” Hester Dobbs stood on the steps leading to the library’s second floor.

Still holding the compact, Patricia jolted, then eyed Dobbs with unfiltered distaste.

“I believe I know all the invited guests, but perhaps we haven’t yet met. Who are you?”

“I am the mistress of the manor. As you will never be.”

Distaste snapped into anger and flooded color into her face. “What nonsense is this! You will leave this house at once, or I will have my fiancé remove you.”

“Ignorant woman. I have ruled in this house more than a hundred and thirty years.” Dobbs came down another step. Her hair, her long black dress flowed as if caught in the wind. “You will have hours only.”

She lifted her hands. Four rings gleamed on her left hand, one on her right.

“Hours to bask in your bride-white gown, to dance and drink champagne. That I’ll give you, for the end is sweeter with it. Then likethese five brides before you who sought to replace me here, you’ll die a painful death in my house.”

Eyes dark, gleaming dark, Dobbs came down another step.

“And the ring, so new and shining on your finger, will shine on mine.”

“Get out!” Though she’d gone pale, red flags of temper flew on Patricia’s cheeks. “How dare you speak to me in such a manner? I’ll have you thrown out. Have you arrested.”

As she turned to stride out, Dobbs sliced a hand through the stirring air. Crying out in shock, Patricia stumbled to the floor. The compact she still held fell with her, and skidded away across the floor.

The glass in its mirror shattered.

“I give you this warning, as I gave none before you, because like me, you seek power for the sake of power. This I respect.”

Dobbs stood over Patricia now as the woman cowered, her face as white as another ghost.