Page 205 of The Seven Rings
“Yeah.” Sonya swiped at tears. “We’re so glad you’re in our lives.”
After kissing both Cleo’s cheeks, she stepped back. “It’s beautiful work, you know that. Every detail, Cleo. Every detail of the dresses, and the flowers at their feet from their bouquets.”
“I wanted them physically connected to each other, and the rings part of it. But the flowers are symbolic so I spread them out there.”
“And Clover married Charlie in a meadow. Sisters. Under it all they’re sisters.”
“Like we are. It’s yours, Sonya. Yours and theirs and the manor’s.”
“Cleo. There I go again.” This time she let the tears roll. “Thank youdoesn’t cover it.”
“Living here gave me a summer of painting. Through you I met Owen, and I love the holy hell out of that man. I learned to cook and garden, and more, found out I’m good at both and like it. I’d say we’re more than even.”
“This means so much. I know we can’t frame it yet, but it could finish drying on the wall in the music room, across from the seven portraits.”
“I was hoping we’d have that same take on that. After we have Astrid.”
The doorbell sounded again, doors slammed. What sounded like a wrecking ball hit the wall so the whole room shuddered.
Sonya gripped Cleo’s hand. “She really hates it.”
“I take that as the highest compliment.”
“Is it safe here? Are they safe here?”
“I’ve used every trick my grand-mère gave me, and added more.”
As she spoke, something screamed, something shrill, inhuman.
A shadow, huge and dark, swept by the windows, and screamed again.
It circled, the wide-winged bird, and eyes gleaming red, flew straight at the window.
Still gripping Cleo, Sonya stumbled back. Instinctively, she threwup a hand to protect her face as the creature slammed into the glass that had the half turret shaking.
It left an ugly smear of red-streaked black on the glass.
Cleo closed her free hand over her tourmaline. “It’s circling again.”
“I see it. It’s stronger than it was before. If it breaks the glass…” She pulled the stone out of her pocket. “Will this be enough?”
She couldn’t quite swallow the scream when it bashed into the glass again. It held there a moment, wings all but blocking out the sky, eyes gleaming, its razor-edged beak opening and closing as if to speak.
Then once again it circled.
“It’s going to try again. We’ll take the painting, go out—”
Where? Sonya asked herself as a glance behind showed her fog creeping on the floor in the hall outside the studio.
They braced for the next attack. The rain washed in from the sea, gusting hard in the wind.
And the bird went to smoke.
For a moment, a long, breathless moment, everything shook, walls, windows, floor, ceiling.
In the sudden scream of silence, they heard shouts, running feet, wildly barking dogs.
“Up here!” Because her voice trembled, Sonya called again. “We’re in the studio. We’re okay.”
