Twice Upon Time. Nina Beaumont

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СКАЧАТЬ of pearls the size of mulberries. Again the image shifted and Sarah saw a figure in a fine white nightgown, the pearls dripping from one hand like oversize drops of water, the woman turned toward a man who stood in the shadows.

      The image faded and Sarah found herself staring down at her own hands again. This time there was no resistance when she lifted them and pressed them against her face. She was going mad, she thought, as the memory of a dream that could only be the continuation of what she had just seen played before her closed eyes.

      She saw Bianca take Alessio’s hands and lead him from the shadows to the bed with its crimson canopy and curtains. She saw her twist the rope of pearls around his hands until they were effectively manacled by the jewels. She saw the lovers tumble onto the bed.

      With a cry she dropped her hands and opened her eyes, unsure of what she would see, where she would find herself. When she realized that she was in the grimy antique shop that was filled to the eaves with the rubble of generations of Cornaros, she was not sure whether to be relieved or terrified.

      She would somehow unravel this knot, she assured herself. If she could just sit down for a little while, surely her methodical mind would find a way to order and explain all this. And once that was done, she would deal with it.

      Gingerly, she snapped the lid of the casket shut. Suddenly drained of all energy, she propped her hands on the desk on either side of the casket. Wondering if this contact, too, would call up an image, she found herself holding her breath. But nothing happened, and she relaxed a little, allowing her damp palms to rest fully on the surface with its exquisite marquetry work in shades of brown from gold to cinnamon. For long minutes she stood there and waited for her breathing to subside enough for her to be able to move.

      As her breathing quieted, she straightened, running her fingers along the delicate scrollwork around the outer edges as she did so.

      The soft click, followed by a louder sound of wood striking wood, had her heart racing again.

      Sarah slid her hand into the narrow space between the right side of the desk and the cabinet that stood next to it, only half-aware of the uncanny sureness of her movements. When her fingers were blocked by an obstruction, she knew instinctively that it was a secret compartment.

      Her hands trembling with terror and excitement, she hooked her fingers under the front of the desk and jerked it forward. As soon as she had pulled the desk free, a drawer sprang from the side.

      Shifting the lamp closer, Sarah looked into the shallow compartment. A thin portfolio lay there, the leather cracked with age, its once rich color bleached to the faded green of winter grass.

      She reached out for it, but pulled her hand back at the last moment, afraid of what new image would lie in store for her. Still her fingers itched to touch it.

      There was only a thin layer of dust on the portfolio. Perhaps it had been here for only a short time, she mused. Perhaps it had belonged to some Cornaro to whom she would feel no connection. Perhaps, perhaps she could just take a small peek inside.

      With only the very tips of her fingers, she undid the crumbling ribbon and opened the cover. The top sheet of thick vellum was yellowed with age, but the black ink was still dark and legible.

      Her hands pressed against her racing heart, she bent closer and began to read.

      Bianca, vita della mia vita, cuore del mio cuore. Bianca, life of my life, heart of my heart. Sarah closed her eyes as the words struck a chord within her that reverberated with a sweet melody. And she knew that she would take the portfolio and read, no matter what images came to badger her.

      Cautiously she picked it up and stood very still as she waited for some image to haunt her. A teasing wisp, a shadowy glimpse of a man and a woman entwined in an embrace, floated by her mind’s eye, but it was gone before she could recognize it. She saw nothing but piles of furniture. She heard nothing but the scurrying of a mouse. Taking the lamp with her, she returned to the back room.

      She had been blinded by fear when she had been in the room before. Now she saw that it was almost filled by a large bed, its canopy awry, the curtains of crimson velvet missing on one side, the stuffing spilling out of the vandalized mattress.

      Horror wound through her and Sarah retreated a step and then another and another until she collided with the door. She wanted to close her eyes, to look away, but she could not.

      This was the bed she had seen so many times in her dreams. The bed where Bianca had given her virginity to the husband who had repulsed her with his malformed body and his cruelty. The bed where she had sought and found solace and passion with her husband’s brother. The bed where—Her eyes widened as certainty told her that the crimson of the curtains had disguised the bloodstains, that the slashes in the mattress had come from Alessio’s dagger wielded by Ugo in his rage of hatred and vengeance.

      Her initial reaction was to flee. But the same stubbornness and pride and irritation at her own fear that had prevented her from fleeing from Guido Mercurio earlier prevented her from fleeing now.

      No, she thought, she would not run. Perhaps this bed was the key to all the bewildering, enigmatic things that had happened to her tonight. The key and the ultimate test of her courage.

      Her movements were as careful and measured as if she were performing a ritual while she placed the portfolio and lamp on a heavy carved chair and pushed it next to the bed. Then, surrendering herself to whatever lay in store for her, she sat down on the mattress and waited for her heart to begin to race, for her breath to grow ragged as harbingers of a bombardment of images.

      But there was none of it. Instead she felt odd vibrations, which transferred themselves to her nerve endings, to her heartstrings. Yes, she felt the violence. Yes, she felt the passion. But, most overwhelmingly, she felt the love.

      Reaching for the portfolio, she turned up the wick of the lamp and began to read the letters and poems of a man who had loved beyond all measure, beyond all reason.

      The lamp was beginning to flicker by the time she was done. Her cheeks damp with tears, she closed the portfolio and set it aside. How would it feel to be loved and desired as Alessio had loved and desired his Bianca? Had her love for him been as great? Perhaps it had, she thought sadly, but her ambition and her greed for power had been even greater.

      The flame of the lamp shot up one more time and sputtered out. Sarah felt no fear. No, she welcomed the darkness. Suddenly unspeakably weary, she lay down. Her eyes closed and she drifted into sleep.

      And for the first time since she had been in Florence, she dreamt.

      Chapter Three

      

      

      The flat, sandy beach and the stretch of calm, azure sea, barely troubled by a breeze, were familiar. Even before she saw the two riders gallop out of the forest of umbrella pines and move toward her like faraway, dark specks against the pale sand, Sarah recognized the dream, which she had dreamt many times before.

      With joyful anticipation she settled down to dream as one settles down in a theater to watch a beloved old play.

      But tonight there was something subtly different about the dream. Oh, everything looked the same. The sunlight was as bright, the water as blue. But something felt different.

      Tonight the dream was even more vivid, even more lifelike than usual. СКАЧАТЬ