on the overhead light, flooding the town house living room with a sudden glare. Bree shaded her eyes with her hand and said crossly, “For Pete’s sake, Antonia.”
“Why are you sitting here in the dark?” Antonia dropped onto the opposite end of the couch and swung one leg over the armrest. “I didn’t wake you up, did I?”
“No.”
“Well, what have you been doing here in the dark?” She was fretful. She’d planned to leave the party at five, to go on to handle the Sunday evening show at the Rep, and Bree assumed she’d done just that. “You got something to eat, didn’t you? You haven’t been sacked out here for six hours!”
Had she? Maybe she had. Bree dropped her hands in her lap. “Thinking about my new client.”
“That is so awesome , that you’re going to represent Tully O’Rourke.”
Bree didn’t say anything. She hadn’t been thinking about Tully O’Rourke. She’d been thinking about Russell’s skeletal hand clutching at her from the depths of God-knew-where. Hell, probably, given what the media said about him, and as close to the core of the Dark Sphere as it was possible to be. Her appeals cases came from all nine circles of the afterlife; those condemned to the periphery paid penance for lesser sins in milder ways. Surely greed, fraud, and outright theft carried grave and terrible punishments. Although, come to think of it, lying to the SEC had been the only provable charge. His death had stalled further investigations.
But the pitiable desperation in those fragile, shadowy bones had pulled at her as surely as chains. And that led to turning over the hundreds of questions she had about her law practice, about the exact nature of her inheritance from her great-uncle. Then there was the unsettling visit from opposing counsel; her difficulty sleeping; the recurring dreams, at night, of death and worse.
With a faint brush of unease, she realized she had been sitting here in the dark for six hours.
She got up and walked restlessly to the fireplace. The family town house had been built before the Civil War, when the Savannah River had been a busy port channeling cotton across the Atlantic to Europe and hemp to the mills up North. The lower half of the building had been offices for the warehouses on each side, with living quarters up top, at the street level of Factor’s Walk. Winston-Beauforts had always lived here, since 1813, warming themselves at this same fireplace. The bricks, the mantel, the wrought-iron grate of this fireplace had endured through a lot of family history. Bree ran her thumb along the pine mantel and looked into the depths of the elaborately carved mirror that hung above it.
Shadows moved there. She reached up and laid her hands flat against the cold surface. It seemed to pulse, faintly, under her palm, as if it breathed.
Antonia’s voice cut into her thoughts. “I said, where’s Sasha?”
Bree brought herself back to the present with an effort and turned around. “Sorry. He’s curled up asleep right over there.”
“No, he’s not.”
“He most certainly is,” Bree said. “Right by the rocking chair.”
“Where?” Antonia leaned forward, hands on her knees, and then said, “Oh.” Her voice dropped a few decibels. “That’s funny. I could have sworn . . .” She rubbed her face with both hands and shook her head violently. “I swear I’m going nuts. He was there all the time? Sasha? Sash?” She patted the sofa. Sasha got up and ambled over to her. He put his head on her lap and sighed as she rubbed his ears. A handsome golden retriever/mastiff mix, he was the only canine member of Beaufort & Company.
“Honestly, Tonia.” But Bree looked at her dog reprovingly. He rumbled a little—which she took for an apology. There were times when you could actually see Sasha, and times when you couldn’t. It was all part of her Company’s way of operating in the temporal world. Generally speaking, Petru, Lavinia, Ron, and even the imperious and
“Why are you sitting here in the dark?” Antonia dropped onto the opposite end of the couch and swung one leg over the armrest. “I didn’t wake you up, did I?”
“No.”
“Well, what have you been doing here in the dark?” She was fretful. She’d planned to leave the party at five, to go on to handle the Sunday evening show at the Rep, and Bree assumed she’d done just that. “You got something to eat, didn’t you? You haven’t been sacked out here for six hours!”
Had she? Maybe she had. Bree dropped her hands in her lap. “Thinking about my new client.”
“That is so awesome , that you’re going to represent Tully O’Rourke.”
Bree didn’t say anything. She hadn’t been thinking about Tully O’Rourke. She’d been thinking about Russell’s skeletal hand clutching at her from the depths of God-knew-where. Hell, probably, given what the media said about him, and as close to the core of the Dark Sphere as it was possible to be. Her appeals cases came from all nine circles of the afterlife; those condemned to the periphery paid penance for lesser sins in milder ways. Surely greed, fraud, and outright theft carried grave and terrible punishments. Although, come to think of it, lying to the SEC had been the only provable charge. His death had stalled further investigations.
But the pitiable desperation in those fragile, shadowy bones had pulled at her as surely as chains. And that led to turning over the hundreds of questions she had about her law practice, about the exact nature of her inheritance from her great-uncle. Then there was the unsettling visit from opposing counsel; her difficulty sleeping; the recurring dreams, at night, of death and worse.
With a faint brush of unease, she realized she had been sitting here in the dark for six hours.
She got up and walked restlessly to the fireplace. The family town house had been built before the Civil War, when the Savannah River had been a busy port channeling cotton across the Atlantic to Europe and hemp to the mills up North. The lower half of the building had been offices for the warehouses on each side, with living quarters up top, at the street level of Factor’s Walk. Winston-Beauforts had always lived here, since 1813, warming themselves at this same fireplace. The bricks, the mantel, the wrought-iron grate of this fireplace had endured through a lot of family history. Bree ran her thumb along the pine mantel and looked into the depths of the elaborately carved mirror that hung above it.
Shadows moved there. She reached up and laid her hands flat against the cold surface. It seemed to pulse, faintly, under her palm, as if it breathed.
Antonia’s voice cut into her thoughts. “I said, where’s Sasha?”
Bree brought herself back to the present with an effort and turned around. “Sorry. He’s curled up asleep right over there.”
“No, he’s not.”
“He most certainly is,” Bree said. “Right by the rocking chair.”
“Where?” Antonia leaned forward, hands on her knees, and then said, “Oh.” Her voice dropped a few decibels. “That’s funny. I could have sworn . . .” She rubbed her face with both hands and shook her head violently. “I swear I’m going nuts. He was there all the time? Sasha? Sash?” She patted the sofa. Sasha got up and ambled over to her. He put his head on her lap and sighed as she rubbed his ears. A handsome golden retriever/mastiff mix, he was the only canine member of Beaufort & Company.
“Honestly, Tonia.” But Bree looked at her dog reprovingly. He rumbled a little—which she took for an apology. There were times when you could actually see Sasha, and times when you couldn’t. It was all part of her Company’s way of operating in the temporal world. Generally speaking, Petru, Lavinia, Ron, and even the imperious and
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