The Mirror (The Lost Bride Trilogy #2)

“It does, and I’ve missed him. We can invite them to dinner tonight. I could do that scallop-pasta thing. It’s actually quick and sort of easy.”

“We can pick up the scallops on the way home, so part two of a plan. I’m going up to get to it.”

Before she did the same, Sonya checked the recipe. And remindedherself it sounded harder than it was. Mostly. She’d made it for her mother, so she could make it again.

Satisfied, she headed upstairs. As she and Yoda settled in, Clover used Def Leppard’s “When Saturday Comes” to communicate.

“Just a couple hours’ work. Then Cleo and I are going out for a while. And this Gigi’s job is going to rock just like Def Leppard.”

At just after one, thoroughly satisfied, she shut down to do her makeup. Then wandered up to Cleo’s studio.

“Perfect timing. I’m going to send these last six, and unless my editor has issues with them, I’ll be officially on sabbatical.”

Sonya came around the desk to study the work.

“Oh, Cleo, no one’s going to have an issue with this group of mermaids.”

“Gossip.”

“About what?”

“Anything at all works for me. But that’s what you call a group of mermaids. A gossip. Sexist, I know, but that’s the term.”

Cleo studied them herself, and smiled. “I liked the idea of them getting together, like a girls’ night out.”

“I love it, and this one, a family unit—the way he’s holding the little girl, and she’s cradling the baby. Oh, and this one! I swear you can see her hair moving in the current. Fire and water.”

“They’re going. When you know you’ve done the best you can do, you stop.”

“They’re amazing, and yes, send them.” She wandered to the windows. “I think we’re doing our best work here, Cleo. And I’m happier doing it.”

“I don’t disagree. I was happy in Boston, and fulfilled, too. But I’m happier and more fulfilled here. I’m going to paint my ass off, Son. I’ve got so many ideas.”

“Speaking of paintings, have you checked today?”

“Right before I sat down to look these over.”

“I might as well take another look before we go. Oh, and we need to pick up angel hair pasta. I think we have everything else. Maybe—”

She broke off when she opened the door. Her heart kicked up its beat until it pulsed in her throat, in her ears.

“Cleo, it’s Agatha.”

“And they’re off! What? But—”

She jumped up from her chair, rushed over. “Well, Jesus! Two—maybe three—hours ago, that wasn’t there.”

“It’s my dad’s work.” Now tears wanted to clog her throat. “I’d know that even without the signature. My father painted this, Cleo.”

“It’s like they’re taking turns.”

“I don’t know how this could be, but there it is. There she is. Agatha Winward Poole. The fourth bride.”

“It’s beautiful work. She’s… more stately than beautiful. The gown’s amazing. Look at that train, and the detail of the lace. A tiara over the veil. The diamonds actually sparkle.”

“She’s different from the others we’ve found. More regal, I’d say. But more than that, Johanna looks serenely happy, Clover almost giddy, and Lisbeth, well, sparkles like those diamonds. But she looks—”

“Smug.”