Page 11 of The Seven Rings
Such a jolt, Sonya thought, sipping lemonade, and such a strange joy to find those framed portraits in the studio’s storage closet.
“Some by Collin, some painted by my dad. And we’re back to Marianne Poole now. The third bride.”
“I checked the closet when I got up. No Catherine. Yet.”
“But one day we’ll open that closet and find her. And if Owen’s right, there’ll be one more. Astrid, another painting of Astrid. The one in the foyer isn’t part of the series.”
“More than that?” Cleo plucked a raspberry. “First, Owen’s right. And part of the reason he’s right is one of them has to paint her. Your uncle or your dad, and it needs to be hung with the other six brides.”
“I know—or have to accept—we’ll find them when we’re supposed to. In the meantime, I’m thinking about doing a full-house search—which, considering the size of the place, all the closets, drawers, trunks—all of it—could take frigging years.”
“I’m in.” After selecting a small branch, Cleo nibbled on tart green grapes. “You know that. We can draft the men, so that makes four of us. What are we looking for, Son? Do you think you’ll find the rings that way?”
“No, way too easy. Add we know she’s wearing them, all seven of them. But maybe, if we do a thorough search, we’ll find…”
“A clue?”
Sonya had to laugh at herself. “It sounds veryScooby-Doo, but yeah. The house, the mirror, the residents—past and present—keep doling out pieces. Maybe we’ll find more, and maybe a way to put those pieces together.”
“I repeat, I’m in. This house is full of treasures, and every time we poke around, I find something I adore. But.”
“You’re going to be logical, aren’t you?”
“In my way. We have a houseful of people who lived and died hereover a couple of centuries. And Dobbs has been collecting the rings over that time. If any of them knew how to find the rings, get them back?”
“They’d have found a way to tell us already.”
Clover went with U2 and “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For.”
“It doesn’t mean we won’t,” Sonya murmured. “But yeah, you’re right, the solution’s not going to fall in my lap.”
“But we look. Something may trigger something else. In fact, I say we finish this up, then pick a room and get to it.”
Sonya looked back and up. “Which one?”
Studying the house, Cleo ate another raspberry. “I’m voting for Collin’s office. He was the last person to live and to die here, so that’s one reason. We’ve concluded his death was an accident. He didn’t die by her hand, her will, her damn black magic. That’s two.”
“I’ve gone through it some, but not deep and thorough. It feels intrusive. And that’s silly, I know.”
Cleo gave Sonya’s knee a pat. “It’s sensitive, not silly. We’ll be respectful.”
“It’s a good place to begin. Sort of starting in the more now, then working our way back. And it would give you a sense if you wanted to turn it into your office.”
“It would. So?”
“Let’s get on it.”
“I’ll take my stuff up to the studio, and meet you there.”
Sonya took the tray back in, wrapped it for later, then made her way down the main hall in her labyrinth of a house to Collin’s office.
A lovely room, really, she thought. Roomy, good natural light, a view of the side gardens. A big, beautiful old desk and a good leather desk chair, and a second for visitors. Shelves holding books, mementos, photographs. None of which she’d had the heart to touch.
And the painting of the manor with her father’s signature in the corner.
How often, she wondered, had Collin looked at that painting andthought about their grandmother’s cruelty? Separating orphaned infants, demanding her own daughter claim the child she chose to keep as her own.
Patricia Poole had never paid a price for that cruelty. Maybe her daughter paid it, locked in a world of her own delusions.
