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“And solid as the rock it’s built on,” Owen pointed out. “The floors—ruler level. Sure it’s settled, but you’re not going to have doors open and close on their own.”
“I get that. I’m not pulling a Scully. Not anymore. The day you moved my printer for me, Trey? I’d watched a movie the night before upstairs in the library. I woke up, and I had a throw over me, the TV was shut off, the remote back in its drawer. And when we went up with the printer? The throw was folded again.”
She paused, sipped. “I need to start documenting. I use the fireplace in the library every day, and every day it’s cleaned out and set. I’ll come down and make coffee in the morning, and when I get back, my bed’s made. And at night, turned down like a hotel maid service.”
“I could use one of those,” Owen commented. “Who wouldn’t go for one of those?”
Taking a moment from her search, Cleo glanced back at him. “I know, right?”
“I thought I was just losing it, forgetting things. Oh, the things on my dresser, they’re in different places than where I put them.”
“Piano music,” Cleo reminded her as she began to mince garlic.
“Middle of the night. I thought I dreamed it, or imagined it. But we both heard it last night, and went down. There was light—like candles make—in the music room. Until we got there, and no light, no music.”
“I can’t place the song.” Closing her eyes to bring it back, Cleo waved a finger. “Da-da-da-da, da-da-da-da.”
“‘There was a young maid dwelling’,” Trey sang in a clear, easy tenor. “‘And every youth cried well-a-day. Her name was Barbara Allen.’”
“That’s it! Plus, he sings.”
“An old folk song. The lyrics change depending, but the tune’s the same.”
“I’ve heard it,” Sonya murmured. “It’s sad.”
“He’s dying, but she turns away. He dies brokenhearted, she dies out of guilt and sorrow. So yeah,” Trey agreed. “Pretty damn sad.”
“I think it’s Astrid.” Cleo added the garlic to the pan where she’d melted butter. “Murdered on her wedding day. Doesn’t get much sadder.”
“I’ve come in here, and all the cabinet doors are open, and one day—maybe it was stuck—but I went out for a walk, unlocked the door, but I couldn’t get back in. Not at first.”
“You didn’t tell me about that one.”
“I forgot. And the night before Cleo came, I heard someone pounding on the front door. It woke me up. When I got up, there was a blizzard. I could hear the wind just howling, and see the snow flying. I thought, someone’s had an accident or needs help. But when I went down, opened the door, no one, and it was a clear night. No howling wind, no flying snow.
“I nearly stepped outside, then I remembered getting stuck out there. So I didn’t.”
“That’s not playful. That’s on the mean side.” Trey exchanged a look with Owen. “That’s something I haven’t heard before.”
“No, me neither.”
“Maybe I pissed them off. I don’t have any experience in this area.”
“But you’re sticking,” Trey pointed out.
“I’m sticking. Sometimes, like that night, I don’t know why. But I want to be here. Another I forgot. I got out of the shower, started to wipe the steam from the mirror, and it was like someone wrote on it. Seven—the number. Seven lost.”
“There were seven brides,” Trey told her.
As she stirred in tomato paste, Cleo glanced back. “Like the musical?”
Owen looked blank; Trey laughed.
“No. Seven lost brides. Astrid was the first. Didn’t you read the book?” he asked Sonya.
“I started it. I read about Astrid and Collin, and about his brother, Connor, and… Arabelle? And Hester Dobbs. I started on Connor and Arabelle’s children.”
“Keep reading.”
