Miras - Nora Roberts Apr 2026

He ended up at her shop the next morning, claiming he needed a housewarming gift for his sister. He’d just moved to Havenwood, bought an old farmhouse on the edge of town. He was a carpenter, a restorer of historic homes. He moved through her shop with a quiet reverence, touching the wood of a cradle, the worn leather of a lawyer’s satchel.

He grabbed her wrist. “That’s the name of the woman who built my farmhouse. Isabelle Byrne. My great-great-grandmother. She disappeared in 1918. No one ever knew why.”

But the mirrors, of course, would not be ignored. Miras - Nora Roberts

Two months later, a woman came into the shop. She was elegant, silver-haired, dressed in cashmere that cost more than Mira’s rent. She carried a small, velvet-wrapped object. “I was told you might help me,” the woman said. “You have a reputation for… discretion.”

“Inventory,” Mira said too quickly.

Liza rolled hers. “You need a vacation. Or a man. Preferably both.”

She pulled over. A Nora Roberts heroine always did. He ended up at her shop the next

“She didn’t disappear,” Mira said softly, understanding blooming like a dark flower. “She was hidden. And she’s been waiting a very long time for someone who could see.”

Mira’s throat went tight. “You believe me?” He moved through her shop with a quiet

“My mother gave me this,” the woman said softly. “She told me never to open it at night. I never knew why. But last week, I did. And I saw—I saw a room. A fire. A child screaming.” She looked at Mira with haunted eyes. “I can’t unsee it. Please. Take it.”

Then he stopped in front of the back room. The door was closed, bolted. “What’s in there?”