Twice Upon Time. Nina Beaumont

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      Sarah felt the short hair at her nape flutter. Startled, she raised her hand to the back of her neck and felt the cool breeze stroke her fingers. A ripple of disquiet had her inhaling a deep, calming breath. A breath that carried the scent of the sea.

      Confused, she looked up and down the beach. It was as it always was, wasn’t it? Then what were the tricks her senses were playing on her? The tricks that made her feel as if she were standing in the middle of her dream instead of watching it from the side?

      She turned in a full circle and saw not only the beach and the sea but the green hills behind her. Something shifted beneath her feet and she looked down and noticed that the toes of her black high-button shoes were buried in pale sand, which was speckled with crushed shells.

      She was not watching the dream tonight. She was in it. Even as the thought brushed her mind, Sarah denied it. No, she told herself, tamping down on the razor-sharp shaft of panic. Of course she was not in it. It was impossible, absurd. It was only a mirage, a flight of fancy. Her image had simply crept into the dream, the effect of nerves overwrought by tales of blood and vengeance.

      A gust of wind blew in from the sea, snapping the dark coat around her ankles, bringing the taste of salt to her lips. Again she felt alarm streak through her. But then the riders recaptured her attention, and the incongruities that had put her off-balance faded.

      The riders had drawn closer, still riding abreast of each other. She could not see their faces yet, but they were close enough now so that she could recognize the colors. It was as it always was, she reassured herself with a small sigh of relief. This was Bianca, her unbound black curls streaming behind her like a banner, her scarlet dress a dazzling contrast to her mount’s white coat. And this was Alessio, his black clothing blending with the glossy black hide of his stallion so that the man and his mount looked like one fabulously pagan, virile animal.

      They drew closer still, the horses’ hooves thundering on the sand as the white horse took the lead by a head. Sarah pressed her hand to her heart, which was echoing the pounding rhythm.

      She wanted to warn them to beware. To beware of each other. To beware of their fate. She wanted to stop them. No, she had to stop them. Now that she knew what lay in store for them, she was responsible. She cried out to them, but no sound emerged from her throat.

      They were close now, so close that she could see their faces. She saw Bianca turn slightly and send Alessio a smile. A smile perfectly calculated to provoke, to arouse. She saw Alessio’s face, dark with annoyance and the promise of passion, and she remembered the heartbreaking beauty of the letters and sonnets he had written for the woman who had not loved him enough.

      How could you do it? Sarah heard her voice in her head, crying out in desperate reproach, but she knew that she remained mute.

      How could I do it? She cried out silently again, and even as she wondered at the bizarre tricks her mind was playing on her, she understood. With all the suddenness of a shaft of bright, strong sunlight piercing a fog, she understood.

      It was she who had lived as Bianca. It was she who had caused death and destruction and so much suffering by putting ambition and a greed for power before love.

      They had almost reached her. Another moment and they would be past. Then it would be too late. The thought shot into her mind like a flaming arrow and quivered there. Too late for what? she cried. And what could she do? What?

      Suddenly Sarah remembered that she had stood at the threshold of the shadowy shop and felt the power that had lain waiting for her inside. She reached for it now and it filled her. Her head high, her step sure, she moved squarely into the path of Bianca’s mount.

      The world tilted and whirled around Sarah as if a giant, invisible hand had picked her up and spun her head over heels like a toy. Then she crashed against something, the impact robbing her of her senses, but only for a moment.

      She lifted her hand to her hair and, instead of a severe bun on the back of her head, she found a mass of wild curls streaming back in the wind. She looked down at her clothing and saw, instead of a threadbare coat of dark wool, a gown of rich scarlet velvet. Beneath her she felt the vibration of the powerful animal as it pounded over the sand.

      Even as panic flashed through her, she told herself that it was a dream. Just a dream. She struggled to awaken, but she was held fast, as if she were bound by strong cords.

      Gradually comprehension seeped into her and her struggles subsided as she understood—and accepted—that the dream had become reality. She understood that in some mystical way her spirit had merged and melded with Bianca’s. And she understood that she had been given the chance to live her life as Bianca one more time. To live it again, knowing the tragedy, the mistakes. She had been given a second chance to do it right.

      In an act that was both surrender and conquest, she let Sarah go, freeing her to pass to some shadowy realm. Sarah slipped away wraithlike, taking her life, her memories with her. But, like a precious gift, she left behind her a vein of knowledge to live in Bianca like the melody of a once heard, never forgotten song.

      April 1528

      Bianca felt a jolt, as if she had collided with something. It left her breathless, but only for a moment. She turned in the saddle and looked back to where, for a moment, she had thought she had seen a thin woman wearing outlandish dark clothes. The figure was gone, but a pile of what looked like rags lay on the pale sand.

      Involuntarily, her hands tightened on the reins. Her mount reared up with an annoyed whinny and, still distracted, Bianca allowed the reins to slip through her fingers. With a cry she tumbled off the saddle onto the sand.

      Disoriented, she lay still for a moment, both arms flung outward. The pounding of hooves on the sand caused her to struggle up onto her knees. Frozen with a sudden terror, she watched the black stallion thunder straight at her. Even when the animal reared to a halt several feet away from her, she felt as if her heart had stopped beating.

      She watched Alessio, his face dark with rage, leap off his mount. Suddenly, the abject, nameless terror of a moment ago changed to a specific fear of this man. She struggled up and stumbled to a nearby rocky outcrop.

      She felt dizzy and helpless. But more than anything else she was annoyed. It wasn’t like her to be so clumsy or to feel such panic as she had a moment ago. She tilted up her chin and turned to face him, bracing her palms against the rocks behind her.

      The taste of the panic he had felt when he had seen Bianca fall still lay on Alessio’s tongue, as bitter and metallic as the taste of blood. Because the desire to take her into his arms was so strong, his hands were rough as they closed on her shoulders.

      “What were you trying to do, damn you?” He shook her so violently that her teeth clacked together. “Break your neck?”

      “No.” She was still breathless, but temper was beginning to burn away the confusion in her eyes as she threw back her head. “I just wanted to see how fast Sultana could go. And I was racing you,” she added with a smile. “And I would have won, too, if that woman hadn’t startled me.”

      “Woman? What woman?”

      Suddenly bewildered again, Bianca glanced toward the spot on the beach where she had thought she had seen the woman. Where she had seen the pile of dark rags. But there was nothing there now but the pale yellow sand.

      “I thought I saw a woman standing right in front of me.” Her voice petered out and she СКАЧАТЬ