"Yeah." Grateful, Malory leaned back, rubbed her hands over her face.
"Why don't you tell me how your date with Flynn went the other night?"
"What? Oh. Good. Fine." She dropped her hands, then stared at them as if they belonged to someone else. "He seems almost normal without his dog. That must be Dana."
"I'll get it. Just sit." Zoe hurried out from the kitchen, heading Malory off before she could rise.
"Okay, where's the fire?" Dana demanded. Then stopped, sniffed. "Coffee. Don't make me beg for it."
"I'm getting it. Go sit with Malory," Zoe added under her breath.
Dana plopped down in a chair, pursed her lips, and gave Malory a long, hard stare. "You look terrible."
"Thanks so much."
"Hey, don't expect hugs and kisses when you get me out of bed and over here within twenty minutes and on one cup of coffee. Besides, it's reassuring to know you don't roll out of bed looking perfect. What's up?"
Malory glanced over as Zoe came back with three thick white mugs of coffee on a tray. "I had a dream."
"I was having a damn good one myself. I think it involved Spike from Buffy the Vampire Slayer and a really big vat of dark chocolate, and then you called and interrupted it."
"Dana." Zoe shook her head, then sat on the arm of Malory's chair. "A nightmare?"
"No. At least… no. As soon as I woke up, I typed it out." She rose now and picked up papers from the table. "I've never had a dream with so much detail before. At least I've never remembered details so clearly after I woke up. I wrote it down because I wanted to make sure I didn't forget anything. But I'm not going to. Anyway, it'll be easier if you both just read it." She handed them the typed pages, then took her own coffee and paced to the patio doors.
It was going to be another beautiful day, she mused. Another beautiful late-summer day with clear skies and warm breezes. People would walk around town, enjoying the weather, going about their business. Their normal, everyday chores in the normal, everyday world.
And she would never forget the sound of that dream-wind, the feel of that sudden, bitter cold.
"Wow. I can see why this shook you up." Dana set the pages aside. "But it's pretty clear where it came from. Flynn told me you guys went up to see the painting again yesterday. All of this is on your mind, and your subconscious just flipped you into it."
"It's scary." Zoe rushed to finish the last few sentences before she got up. Walking over, she rubbed her hands on Malory's shoulders. "No wonder you were so upset. I'm glad you called us."
"It wasn't just a dream. I was there." She warmed her chilled hands on the coffee mug as she turned. "I walked into that painting."
"Okay, honey, take it down a notch or two." Dana held up a hand. "You're overidentifying, that's all. A strong, vivid dream can really suck you in."
"I don't expect you to believe me, but I'm going to say out loud what's been in my head since I woke up."
Woke up, she remembered, shaking with cold, with the sound of that terrible wind still ringing in her ears.
"I was there. I could smell the flowers and feel the heat. Then the cold and the wind. I heard them screaming." She closed her eyes and fought a fresh surge of panic.
She could still hear them screaming.
"And I felt this, this charge in the air, this pressure. When I woke, my ears were still ringing from it. They were speaking Gaelic, but I understood them. How could I?"
"You just thought—"
"No!" She shook her head fiercely at Zoe. "I knew . When the storm came, when everything went crazy, I heard them calling out for their father. Chi athair sinn . Father, help us. I looked it up this morning, but I knew. How could I know?"
She took a steadying breath. "Their names were Venora, Niniane, and Kyna. How would I know?"
She walked back to sit. The relief of saying it all calmed her. Her pulse leveled, as did her voice. "They were so afraid. One minute they were just young girls playing with their puppy in a world that seemed so perfect and peaceful. And the next, what made them human was being torn out of them. It hurt them, and there was nothing I could do."
"I don't know what to think about this," Dana said after a moment. "I'm trying to be logical here. The painting's drawn you from the first, and we know the legend is Celtic in origin. We look like the girls in the painting, so we identify with them."
"How did I know the Gaelic? How do I know their names?"
Dana frowned into her coffee. "I can't explain that."
"I'll tell you something else I know. Whatever locked those souls away is dark, and it's powerful, and it's greedy. It won't want us to win."
"The box and the keys," Zoe interrupted. "You saw them. You know what they look like."
"The box is very simple, very beautiful. Leaded glass, a high, domed lid, three locks across the front. The keys are like the logo in the invitations, like the emblem on the flag flying on the house. They're small. Only about three inches long, I'd say."
"It still doesn't make sense," Dana insisted. "If they had the keys, why hide them? Why not just hand them to the right people, and game over?"
"I don't know." Malory rubbed her temples. "There must be a reason."
"You said you knew the names they called the couple making out under the tree," Dana reminded her.
"Rowena and Pitte." Malory dropped her hands. "Rowena and Pitte," she repeated. "They couldn't stop it either. It happened so quickly, so violently."
She took a long, long breath. "Here's the kicker. I believe it all. I don't care how crazy it sounds, I believe it all. It happened. I was taken into that painting, through the Curtain of Dreams, and I watched it happen. I have to find that key. Whatever it takes, I have to find it."
After a morning staff meeting that included jelly doughnuts and a pissed-off reporter who'd had her article on fall fashion cut by two inches, Flynn escaped to his office.
As his staff consisted of fewer than thirty people, including the eager sixteen-year-old he paid to write a weekly column from the teenage perspective, having one reporter in a snit was a major staff glitch.
He flipped through his messages, punched up a feature on Valley nightlife, approved a couple of photos for the next day's edition, and checked the accounting on ads.
He could hear the occasional ring of a phone, and even with his door shut, the muffled clatter of fingers on keyboards. The police radio on top of his file cabinet beeped and hummed, the television squeezed between books on a shelf was set on mute.
He had the window open and could hear the light whoosh of morning traffic, the sporadic thump of bass from a car stereo playing too loud.
Now and then he heard a door or drawer slam from the room beyond. Rhoda, the society/fashion/gossip reporter, was still making her annoyance known. Without looking through the glass, he could see her in his mind, spitting darts at him.
She, along with more than half the staff, had worked for the paper since he'd been a boy. And plenty of them, he knew, continued to see the Dispatch as his mother's paper.
If not his grandfather's.
There were times when he resented it, times when he despaired of it, and times when it simply amused him.
He couldn't decide which reaction he was having at the moment. All he could think was that Rhoda scared the hell out of him.
The best he could do was not think about it, or her, and settle in to polish his article on the meeting he'd attended the night before. A proposed stoplight at Market and Spruce, a debate over the budget and the need to repair the sidewalks on Main. And a rather spirited argument regarding the highly controversial notion of installing parking meters on Main to help pay for those repairs.