Twice Upon Time. Nina Beaumont

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СКАЧАТЬ she had never, ever felt before. No, she thought, that was not quite right. She felt the lightness in her dreams. That was why all her life she’d waited for the night to fall. Because if she was lucky, the night would bring her the dreams. Dreams of Florence. Dreams of Bianca and Alessio and their illicit love.

      She looked down at the cup she still held. The wine had gone to her head, she thought. Or perhaps it contained something that made her forget all caution, all sense, like the waters of the river Lethe. She felt her blood stir again. “I don’t want to think about whether it is good or bad.”

      Leaning back against the worn red velvet, she sipped her wine and let her gaze wander around the small, windowless shop, crammed full of string instruments in various stages of disrepair. It was then that she saw the lute.

      It was obviously an old instrument. The red-and-blue decorations painted on its pear-shaped body had faded to just a hint of color. It hung from the wall on a braided leather strap cracked with time.

      Sarah rose and went toward it. “May I touch it?” Even before she heard his affirmative answer, she was running her fingers along the smooth wood.

      Guido watched the Englishwoman run her fingers over the lute as tenderly as she would touch a lover. He watched her take it down from the wall and coax a melody from the old catgut strings. And he smiled because now he was certain that she was the one he had been sent for.

      Sarah felt her fingertips tingle as the instrument came to life under her stroking. Raising her head, she smiled across the room.

      “My father brought me a lute once. He put it in my hands and I began to play it.” She laughed softly as she remembered. “It was like a miracle.”

      When she had hung the lute back on the wall, she returned to the sofa but did not sit down. Guido had tilted his head up to look at her, and suddenly she had an insane vision of herself cupping his face, running her fingers through his short black curls. The heated promise of passion rippled through her and she wondered what it would be like, just once, to give in to it.

      “I have to go now.” She linked her fingers tightly.

      “Si.” Guido stood and ran his knuckles over the fingers she had clasped together so cruelly. “You have to go, Sarah Longford.”

      Sarah hesitated for a heartbeat, then she stepped back from the temptation, from the touch she wanted so badly. “I’m staying at the Pensione Bartolini near the Church of San Martino. Can you tell me how to get there?”

      “I will accompany you.”

      “It’s not necessary,” Sarah protested. She had been strong enough to deny herself a moment ago. Would she be strong enough again? “Truly.”

      “But it is.” Picking up a cloak, he slung it over his shoulders. “I must show you the right way.”

      “Is it that hard to find?”

      Guido shrugged. “There are many ways, but only one right way.”

      Sarah shook her head at his cryptic words. “What do you mean?”

      “Don’t you remember? I told you that I would help you find what you are looking for.”

      “How do you know what I am looking for?” she cried out. “How do you know I have not found it yet?” She almost—almost—ceacbed out for him.

      “Lo so. I know it.” He touched his fingers to her cheek. “You have not found it yet, Sarah. But soon, very soon.”

      Sarah fought the fierce desire to turn her face into his hand, just as she fought the feeling of disappointment at his words, telling herself that there was no reason for her to feel like a child at Christmas who opens a beautifully wrapped box and finds it empty. She took a step back and then another.

      He opened the door and a wisp of mist swirled in, dissipating in the warmth of the room. It was a symbol, Sarah thought. A symbol for an hour she had spent. For a precious gift she had been given. She smiled. So the box had not been empty after all.

      Looking up at him, she met his eyes. He gave her a small nod, as if giving approval to her unspoken thought. Together, they stepped outside.

      It had grown completely dark while she had been in the shop, but the rain had stopped. They did not speak as they walked through the narrow streets, but it was an easy silence, as if everything that needed to be said had been.

      They turned down a street bardy wider than an alleyway and found their way blocked by a wagon piled high with goods. A thin, tall man called out while he threw back the sailcloth to reveal a hodgepodge of furniture, paintings, boxes and crates.

      In the light of torches, which had been placed in round metal holders on the walls of a house, several burly men silently began unloading the wagon. The only sound was the sharp, raspy voice of the gaunt, sallow man as he moved from one side to the other, giving instructions, admonishing the men to be careful of the treasures they were carrying.

      The flames of the torches created stunning contrasts of brightness and shadow, making an ordinary scene into a primitive picture of the grotesque and the beautiful that could have been painted by Caravaggio. How different the scene would have been, Sarah mused, viewed by the pale, civilized light of London gas lanterns.

      Strangely drawn by the jumble on the wagon, she moved forward, her hand outstretched to touch. Then she stopped like a well-behaved child and, folding her hands at her waist, looked over her shoulder at her companion.

      “Go ahead.” Guido smiled and gave her a nod of encouragement.

      Excitement gripping her, Sarah took a step forward and then another.

      “Buona fortuna,” Guido whispered, although he knew she did not hear him. He watched her for a moment longer before he stepped back into the mist.

      A corner of a marble-faced cabinet, its surface inlaid with lapis lazuli and amethyst and jasper in a wondrous pattern of flowers and birds, peeked over the backboard of the wagon. Sarah tugged off her glove and reached out to run her fingers over it.

      The cold surface seemed to warm beneath her touch. Then, suddenly, as if the cabinet’s surface had become a mirror, she saw it standing in a large, high-ceilinged room. A woman in a dress of emerald-colored velvet bent over it as she pulled out one of its many drawers, and her waistlength black hair spilled forward to hide her face. Bianca, Sarah thought. She had hair just like Bianca.

      “Buona sera, signorina.”

      The vision disappeared at the sound of the gravelly voice. Disoriented, Sarah focused her gaze on the man who was scrutinizing her through the narrow space between the side of the wagon and the wall. He inclined his head and pulled his mouth into a grin, revealing a set of large teeth that reminded Sarah of yellowed piano keys.

      “Buona sera.” She looked back at the cabinet, half expecting to see the vision again. The vision that had been a reflection of the dreams she had come to Florence to find. But all she saw was the marble surface with its lovely pattern. “You have some very beautiful things here.”

      “Ah, sì,sì. Look at what you will.” He rubbed his hands together briskly at the prospect of business. He had taken note of the young woman’s shabby coat, but then he had seen more than one eccentric Englishman who dressed like a servant to cheapen the price.

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