Page 153 of The Seven Rings
“She does that a lot lately,” Cleo told them. “Just that low hum.”
“She slammed some furniture around when I was up here earlier.” As it had become instinct, Sonya closed her hand around the stone in her pocket.
“All right now.” Cleo held up both hands as they turned into her studio. “Four minds, one positive thought. Sonya, open the door.”
“One positive thought,” she repeated, and opened the door. “Oh Jesus! It worked.”
Catherine Poole Cabot smiled quietly, a bit shyly, though her green eyes held joy. Against a backdrop of snow, the sea beyond, she wore white silk. The artist’s skill, Andrew MacTavish’s skill, brought that sheen to the canvas. Stars glittered along the hem of the gown, on its poufed shoulders. White satin sashed the waist of a wedding dress trimmed in ermine.
She wore pearls around her neck, and her hair dressed high under the star-trimmed veil.
She carried roses, the faintest blush of pink against the white. A gold band, as simple as the dress was elaborate, circled the third finger of her left hand.
Catherine Poole Cabot, daughter of Connor and Arabelle Poole, wife of William Cabot, who died in her nightdress and bare feet in a blizzard of snow on her wedding night.
“I watched her mother brush her hair out. It must’ve taken forever to style that way, and nearly as long to take down and smooth out.”
“It’s beautiful work,” Cleo said. “The light, the details. She looks lovely, and all her happiness is in her eyes.”
“You know where we haven’t gone before? The artist,” Trey continued. “Your father, in this case again, had to see her in this.”
“Dreaming, Collin said. Painted in dreams. I’ve had those dreams.”
“And then there were six. We’ll take her down.” Owen stepped in to lift the painting. “Put her up with the others.”
Sonya stepped back. “I know you’re right about the space, the way it would fit seven portraits. And the one of Astrid in the foyer, too large, different style. But if there is one more to find, who painted it? They’ve each done three now.”
“If you count it out, it would be Collin’s turn.” Trey stroked a hand down her back. “I guess we’ll find out when we find out.”
“She’s like the others, painted in detail, with skill. The white dress, the flowers, the ring. Brides didn’t always wear white in her time or Astrid’s. I did some research,” Sonya explained, “hoping for—I don’t know what. Queen Victoria wore a white wedding dress, years afterthis, and that’s when white ruled the wedding day. But both Astrid and Catherine chose white.
“Does it matter?”
“For the series, I’d say yes. It adds to the feel, the tone, the style. And,” Cleo added, “that sense of innocence. I’ll get what we need to put her up.”
When they reached the music room, Cleo peeled off. Owen walked over to lean the painting against the wall.
“I wonder, cutie, if you dreamed this.”
“The painting?”
“All of them. The way you chose this room, this wall, the way you spaced the first two.”
“We switched out what was there, and then… I don’t know. If I did, I don’t remember.”
When Cleo came back, Owen took the measuring tape. He measured from the corner of the wall to the portrait of Marianne, then walked to the other side, measured from that corner to Johanna’s portrait.
He stopped, muttered to himself, eyes closed. Before Cleo could speak, Trey held up a hand, shook his head.
“Do the math?” Owen said. “Factor the space from that corner to the seventh painting, calculate the other side, the size of the paintings, the spacing between? It’s exact. I’m telling you, man, you don’t get exact by accident.”
“If you were hanging seven paintings in a series?” Sonya said.
“You work with space so you know. I’d measure the wall, the paintings, calculate the spacing, do the math. Then I’d do the math again before I put in the first nail. You didn’t do any of that.”
“No. Maybe Collin did. Hell, maybe the manor did. Maybe, because I do work with space, I just saw the potential here. Or maybe I dreamed it.”
“Let’s put her up.” Trey walked over to give Owen a hand.
