Page 135 of The Seven Rings
Throughout the manor lights glimmered and shone. Through windows open to what felt like any night in early summer, she heard music.
A male voice crooned.When you were sweet sixteen.
One couple laughed, a gay sound, as they danced over the grass.
Others walked, lit by moonlight and strings of Chinese lanterns. Men wore tuxedos, some more formal tails, while the women shined in sweeping gowns low and fitted at the bodice. Gowns of silks, satins in soft colors they wore with long gloves and the sparkle of diamonds, rubies, emeralds.
“Moira! Moira and Owen Poole. Over there. I recognize them. Do you see them?”
“Yeah, okay. Blue dress? Blue flowers it looks like running down the skirt.”
“Yes! They’re older than when I saw them in the woods. When he proposed. They look happy.”
“Everybody does. Makes me wonder why we’re here.”
“I want to hear what they’re saying.”
She tugged Owen over, ghosts among the ghosts.
A few people applauded as they walked through, as the song ended and the dancers took a bow, a curtsy.
Moira patted her husband’s hand. “We should go in now, Owen.”
“You’re not light-headed?”
“Not in the least. I just needed some air. You know how it is.”
Her hand brushed lightly over her belly.
“She’s pregnant. It’s… I can’t really pinpoint, but I know it’s after Lisbeth’s birth. The fashion. I’ve tried to pay attention to how it evolves. Owen, I think it’s somewhere around the turn of the century, so maybe ah… I think it’s Jack.”
“I have to trust you on that.”
“Why would we need to be here for that? They’re happy. They don’t know what’s going to happen to Lissy.”
“It wouldn’t change anything if they did. They’d just grieve longer.”
“You’re right. I know you’re right. I just—they’re going back in. Maybe we’re supposed to follow them, go in, up to the ballroom.”
As they started to, she froze.
“What? Dobbs?”
“No. No. No.” She lifted a trembling hand.
“Jesus, it’s Collin. Standing right there by the mirror. He had to come through like we did, but from before. He looks, I don’t know, my age maybe.”
“Yes, about your age. But it’s not Collin. It’s my father. Owen, it’s my father.”
She knew it absolutely. They were twins, yet there were small, subtle differences. And she knew the man standing by the mirror, wearing ancient jeans frayed at the hem, a Boston University T-shirt, his hair tousled and in need of a trim, his face stubbled and in need of a shave, was Andrew MacTavish.
Her father.
Breaking away from Owen, she ran.
“Dad. Oh God, Dad!”
Running, her arms open to embrace him, she went right through him.
