It flared for a moment, and then the room fell into darkness again. Locking the door, he prepared to make the rounds to be sure the house was secured. A silly precaution in a house under quarantine, with a sign on the gates announcing it, but Mrs. Cantwell had asked him to see to it and he would. As he came down the passage from the back of the house, he heard a low singing as someone, some woman, a woman who could only be Mia Castellano, passed by the passage and went into the main salon. He recognized the tune, “Greensleeves,” but the words were not familiar. He moved closer for a better look at what mischief she had found. “Midnight, the witching hour,” she sang in an almost charming alto whisper, “when all our dreams are bad ones. Midnight, the wishing hour, when all our dreams are glad ones. Dreams, dreams that blend our world with all we wish and all we fear. Dreams, dreams that blend our world with what we want and all held dear.” She stopped singing but kept on humming as she found the key for the tall clock and carefully wound it.
