Twice Upon Time. Nina Beaumont

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СКАЧАТЬ and faster until it was only a blur. But in her mind was a perfectly clear image of the lovers whose passionate lives she knew better than her own—perhaps because she had but a ghost of a life herself. Oh, surely they had not been cursed, her heart cried out. Surely they had found happiness together. Surely fate could not have been so cruel to punish them for their love, no matter that it had been guilty and sinful. And if it had punished them, she did not want to know it.

      “The beautiful Bianca married Ugo.”

      The man’s voice snapped her out of the vertigo as effectively as if he had slapped her.

      “But she took Alessio as her lover. Ugo found them together—”

      “No!” Sarah raised her hands to block her ears.

      “And butchered them with Alessio’s own dagger.”

      Too late. The words penetrated her mind and the knowledge settled around her heart like a lead weight.

      “Are you all right?” The man bent down to her and peered into her face. “Here, sit drown.”

      He shoved a half-open crate that stood on a chest to the side and half helped, half pushed Sarah to sit next to it. “I will get you something to drink.”

      “It’s not nec—” she started to say, but he had already disappeared down the passageway toward the front of the shop.

      Still stunned, she rubbed the heel of her hand against her chest as if she could ease the weight there. At the same time, her rational mind battled with the realization that the dreams that had accompanied her life had been of people who had lived and breathed, loved and died. And died so horribly. She shuddered.

      Her eyes filled, and as the tears spilled down her cheeks, she rocked back and forth and mourned.

      Time passed — minutes or hours, she could not tell. When the tears were spent, she leaned, weak and exhausted, against the crate that stood next to her.

      Its top was half-pried open, and among the jumble of small objects wrapped in newspapers and rags, a twinkle of color caught her eye and she reached inside the crate. With a feeling that bordered on reverence, she picked up a bellied jar made of cobalt blue Venetian glass, its stopper shaped like an open fan, and held it in the palm of her hand. Who had held it as she was holding it now? Bianca or one of the descendants to whom she had bequeathed the Cornaro curse? What had it contained? Medicine? A cosmetic? A love potion? Poison?

      Even as the questions formed in her mind, her own reflection on the dark blue surface dimmed and transformed into the image of another woman, her lovely face framed by a cloud of dark curls as she lifted away the fan-shaped stopper and poured a liquid into a bowl. As the image faded, Sarah could have sworn she smelled the sweet fragrance of jasmine.

      Her fingers trembled lightly as she touched the fan of clear blue glass. She tried to remove it, but the years had glued the stopper and the jar together. Curiosity driving her, Sarah plucked a pin from her hat and carefully, with infinite patience, scratched at the stopper until it loosened and she was able to work it out.

      She hesitated, remembering the brief image of a moment ago. No, her practical mind protested. It would carry no smell. All this was simply too weird, too fantastic to be true. Resolutely she brought the open jar to her nose and took a deep breath.

      When she breathed in the faint scent of jasmine, she cried out softly and her fingers slackened. Horrified, she saw the jar tip over and roll from her hand. Unable to move, she watched helplessly as it fell to the floor and shattered.

      “Signorina?”

      Her head snapped up as she heard the steps of the owner returning. Oh God, she thought as panic rushed through her. What had she done? She would never be able to pay for such a priceless piece. Her fingers trembling, she tore off her hat and swept the shards into it with the hem of her coat.

      She would hide, she thought. Hide until the man was gone, and then she would escape. Escape and pretend this whole evening had been an illusion, a nightmare. Perhaps with time she would come to believe it.

      Even as the thoughts tumbled chaotically through her brain, she grabbed the oil lamp and rushed blindly through the passageway toward the back of the shop.

      “Signorina.”

      Just as she heard him call out again, the passageway widened and she saw a door that stood ajar. Pushing it open, she slipped inside the room. Leaving the door open a crack, she pressed her back against the wall.

      The owner called out again. There was a crash, followed by pungent swearing at the extinguished lamp.

      Sarah glanced at the offending lamp, which she had placed behind the door, and pressed her hands against her mouth as hysterical laughter threatened to erupt.

      She heard a stream of invectives about foreign women who acted like lunatics when they heard an interesting story, and a giggle escaped her.

      Then she heard a door slam, a lock grate, and she knew that she was alone.

      Counting the minutes, she waited. When she was sure he would not return, she took the lamp and crept back through the passageway.

      The door was locked, but she had expected that, she told herself as she suppressed a shiver. Patiently, methodically, she began to search for a spare key.

      She found a key and then another and another, but none of them fit the rusty old lock on the door. When she finally capitulated, she almost gave in to the tears that were pricking her eyelids.

      As she rose from crouching in front of the door, she caught a glimpse of her dirt-streaked face in an old, obscured mirror. She stiffened her back, as if the grime on her face were a badge of honor. She had done what she could, she thought. Now she would wait until morning.

      She was used to dealing with adversity, she reminded herself without bitterness. When you could not change what life meted out, you accepted it and dealt with it as best you could. Was spending one night in a dingy little shop worse than growing up the illegitimate child of a weak, whining woman? Was it worse than being a miserably paid companion to people who thought you were a lower form of life? Was it worse than hiding a soul that was brimming with need and hungry for passion in the body of a spinster?

      Her gaze fell on the unusual casket of metal and velvet and her resignation gave way to a flurry of excitement. Approaching it as carefully as she would a sleeping animal, she ran a cautious finger over the ruby-colored velvet. It had once been richly patterned, but the years had thinned the nap of the fabric so that it was almost bald in places.

      Because no image rose before her, she bravely tilted up the vaulted lid.

      Telling herself that she had no right to be disappointed that the casket was empty, she dipped her hands inside and ran her fingers over the velvet lining, which was of the same wine red color as the decorations on the outside. Her hands began to tingle and she tried to pull them back, but some unseen power held them there.

      Alarm rippling through her, she stared down at her thin, chapped hands. The image blurred and then cleared again to hands that were soft and white and scented with precious oil of jasmine. Hands that were plunged into a fabulous profusion of jewels.

      A chain of square-cut sapphires was carelessly tossed aside. A collar of rubies and diamonds followed. Nimble, capricious fingers plucked out СКАЧАТЬ