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She brought up the contract, sent it, then went back to the photos.
As she worked on layout, she caught herself singing along with the music. “Saturday, Saturday, Satur—”
She broke off, looked back at the tablet.
“That’s weird, isn’t it? Kind of weird that I was thinking about Saturday, and this starts up.”
As her belly jumped, she rubbed her hands on her thighs.
“It’s just a song, a song and a glitchy app. I’m going to work now. I need to concentrate.”
And this time she couldn’t be sure if she talked only to herself.
That night, a clock struck three. And she dreamed she walked the long halls of the manor where somewhere echoed the sound of a woman’s weeping.
She dreamed she stood before a mirror framed with predators that seemed to snap and snarl. But rather than her own reflection in the glass, she saw another.
She dreamed of a woman with hair the color of roasted chestnuts falling nearly to the waist of her long white nightgown.
As she watched, the woman walked out of the great doors of the manor and into a snowstorm. In the dream Sonya heard the crash of the waves, the feral howl of wind, but the woman, smiling, trudged through the snow in bare feet.
Another female waited at the seawall, in a black dress the wind didn’t seem to touch, her dark hair falling in waves.
They spoke, but Sonya couldn’t hear the voices. She only saw the fury in the second woman’s eyes, and the fear in the one with chestnut hair when the dark woman grabbed her hands.
Now, the woman in the nightgown shuddered in the cold, tried to run back to the manor on feet that must have been frozen.
The manor that stood, shadowed against the whirling snow, its grand doors firmly shut.
She fell while the other watched. Her lips going blue as she struggled up, fell again.
Her eyes, green, Poole green, shed tears that went to ice on her cheeks.
She fell a final time with the snow falling over her like a shroud.
In the dream, Sonya walked the long halls, slid back into bed.
She thrashed in her sleep. And wept.
Chapter Ten
By morning, the dream faded from her mind and memory. She woke eager to work.
She began her routine with coffee, sitting at the counter with her tablet.
A check of her email netted her another inquiry: a recommendation from—bless them—Baby Mine.
Fingers mentally crossed, she answered.
Next she found an email from Trey with information on the rescue organization.
They have photos, what they know of the history of the dog. This one’s just dogs. Ages, temperament, breeds—or the best they can determine breeds. Mookie and I found them pretty terrific. It’s county-wide, but Lucy Cabot works with the county group, and fosters dogs in her home in Poole’s Bay. Let me know if you want/need more.
Trey
She hovered the cursor over the link, nearly pressed it. Then pulled back.
Thanks. I’m not going to let myself look yet because I’m weak, and I still need some time to organize myself before I bring home a dog. Which I now find I want desperately. I hope I lasta week without peeking.
