Attic air was charged with repressed energy as Sarah pushed aside a moth-eaten tapestry to reveal a narrow strip of gilt frame glinting in the sun. Dust motes swirled like bothersome spirits as she drew the heavy portrait into the light.

Her breath was caught.

Emily Bennett gazed back at her, oils so vivid they seemed to ripple over her reddish-blond hair as if alive. Her every detail had been rendered—the set of her jaw, determined and stubborn, the scattering of freckles beside her left eyebrow, the strain in her fingers holding a silver locket around her throat. Their locket.

It was the man beside her who made Sarah's knees go weak.

Thomas stood one hand proprietarily on Emily's shoulder, the other holding a paintbrush. Not the stiff stance of formal portraits, but a private moment frozen in time. His thumb touched the skin above Emily's collar, his storm-gray eyes—Lucas's eyes—smoldering with inner passion.

Sarah's fingers caressed the painted faces. A jolt shot up her arm—

—Thomas's laughter hummed against her as he drew a swathe of cerulean down her cheek—

—"You're my masterpiece," he breathed, lips on her temple—

—the wet canvas before them: two figures embracing under the hawthorn tree—

The vision faded as the door to the attic creaked open.

"You weren't taking your calls back." Lucas stood in silhouette in the doorway, his black sweater speckled with snowflakes from the sudden gust outside. His eyes landed on the portrait, and his face turned white. "That's."

Sarah watched the movement of his throat as he came nearer, his artist's hands held before Thomas's face. "I finished a commission today," he grated. "A bride in white. Except when I stepped back." He pulled out his phone, holding a photo of his painting. The bride's wedding dress had transformed into Emily's blue dress, her face merging into Sarah's.

The house groaned around them, floorboards trembling as though awakened by some specter power. The portrait frame tapped against the wall.

Sarah's grip on Lucas's arm tightened. "We have to—"

A parched crack resounded through the air. The glass of the portrait exploded down its middle, the fissure gliding with hideous accuracy between Emily and Thomas.

Lucas's hand wrapped over hers in the dim light, their palms closing with ghastly accuracy. "It's happening again," he whispered.

And from the darkness under the eaves, a forgotten clock started to ring thirteen times.