Twice Upon Time

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.

“In a few moments everything will be unloaded and you can look at your leisure.” He gestured toward the shop. “I make a good price for you. An excellent price.”

“Oh, I don’t want to buy anything.” Regretfully Sarah took a step back, although she longed to touch the cabinet again. Longed to see if she could summon the vision once more.

“They all say that.” His laugh did not animate his saturnine features. “Then they look and they buy. You come in and look, signorina, and then —” he raised his bony shoulders in a shrug “— vediamo.”

“Grazie.”

Wanting to share her discovery with Guido, Sarah turned, but all she saw was swirling mist made luminous by the flames of the torches.

“Mercurio?” she called. “Guido Mercurio, where are you?” She turned around in a circle, once, and then again, but he was nowhere to be seen.

“Signore,” she called out to the owner of the shop. “Did you see where the man who was with me went?”

“Man?” He gave her a curious look. “I saw no man.” Perhaps she was pazza, he thought. But then all these foreigners were a little pazzi.

Sarah saw the odd look the shop owner gave her. Had the encounter with the man called Guido Mercurio been a figment of her imagination, she suddenly wondered? A dream? A vision like the image of the woman she had seen when she’d touched the cabinet?

She rubbed her hand over her forehead. Was she going mad? Was all this a dream, perhaps? Would she wake up and find herself back in the wretched little room above a cookshop where she had lived during her last weeks in England?

She looked over her shoulder, but all she saw was the incandescent mist that was closing in on her. Enveloping her. Unnerved, she turned away from the wagon—to look for Mercurio or simply to flee, she was not certain.

But then she looked back one last time. The dull gleam of a small writing desk, its decoration sadly battered by the years, pulled at her as surely as if she were a puppet on a string. Surrendering, she knew that she had been taken captive.

One of the men pulled the desk away just as she stretched her hand out to touch it, but her sound of disappointment turned into one of delight as a small chest, which had been hidden beneath it, appeared. With its vaulted lid and a surface that alternated between metal—intricately patterned with scrollwork and dragons—and squares of wine red velvet, it looked like a treasure coffer. Surely, she thought, it would contain strings of luminous pearls or glittering precious stones or perhaps gleaming gold florins.

Smiling at her fanciful thought, she curved her fingers over the backboard of the wagon, Guido Mercurio and her interrupted flight and fears almost forgotten. It was as if these things, these leftovers of somebody’s life, were calling to her, speaking to her in a language only she and they could understand.

Only a few things remained in the wagon now and she felt an agitation grip her. There was something there, something she could not define, something important. But it was slipping away from her. If she did not reach out for it, hold it, it would be gone.

Her breathing grew uneven. Her palms grew damp. Her nerves vibrated like taut strings being plucked by a rough hand. As she watched the men remove the last crates and the desk she had admired earlier, she drew closer to the wagon and closer still, until she could feel the wooden slats of its side pressing against her chest. Even when the wagon was empty but for some straw and a few blankets, she remained standing there, unable to move. Only when she felt a jolt did she let go, realizing that the men were pulling the wagon away.

Her hands by her sides, she watched the wagon move down the alleyway. As it was swallowed by the mist, she felt some of the agitation drain away. She stood very still, her gaze fixed on the path the wagon had taken. She could go now, she thought. She could find her way back to her pensione, where the fire in the common room would be burning brightly. Where the smells of the evening meal cooking would be welcoming. Where she could have some civilized, boring conversation with the minister from Blackpool and his wife or the widow from some small town in Yorkshire.

But instead of moving forward, she deliberately shifted her gaze toward the shop. The owner stood there, watching her. His spare frame almost filled the narrow doorway, and for a moment Sarah could see him in old-fashioned armor, guarding the entrance to a great treasure—or the throne room of a prince. This time he said nothing, but merely stepped back until he stood in the shadows of the dim interior.

Without knowing how or why, Sarah understood that she was being given a choice. Slowly she turned and moved toward the shop. For a moment she paused. Her gaze fell on the metal-and-velvet casket that had charmed her earlier, and still she did not move.

Then she felt the power. It was there, inside the shadowy shop. It did not pull at her, but she knew that it waited for her.

For the second time that evening, she stepped over a threshold.

Chapter Two

The shop smelled of petroleum and old dust. It must have already been full before the wagon had been unloaded, Sarah thought. Now crates and boxes were heaped one on top of the other, tables stood on cabinets, chest was piled upon chest, leaving passageways between the stacks just wide enough to squeeze through.

She felt a rushing in her ears. Was it wind? Was it a discordant chorus of voices? Was it the sound of her own blood racing through her veins? The agitation she had felt earlier was back, her heart pumping so hard that her breath grew uneven. But she moved forward, drawn into the labyrinth of furniture and bric-a-brac like a hapless wanderer being sucked into quicksand.

“All this belonged to the Cornaro family.”

“What?” Sarah jumped at the man’s words, her reflexive movement jarring a pile of furniture, making it wobble dangerously. She felt a flash of terror as intense as if he had said that it had belonged to the devil. “Cornaro?” she whispered. “Did you say Cornaro?”

“Sì. Some distant relation in France ordered everything sold after the last of the Cornaros threw himself from the top floor of his palazzo.” He smiled grimly. “The Cornaro curse. Now it is over”

“Curse?” Sarah felt her mouth go dry.

“For centuries they have had more than their share of violent death—in every generation. They were rich and powerful, but the curse was in their blood and drove them to be vicious to others and to themselves.

“A woman was the cause.” The man’s lugubrious voice grew animated, as if the bloodthirsty tale gave him pleasure. “The curse began long ago when two brothers wanted the same woman and spilled blood over her.”

Two brothers and one woman! Sarah opened her mouth to ask if their names had been Alessio and Ugo. If they had loved a woman named Bianca. But no sound emerged.

No, she thought wildly, it could not be. It was beyond all reason that the dreams that had visited her all her life had a basis in fact, wasn’t it? She felt a flash of pure terror.

And if it was indeed so? Was this why she had been compelled to come to Florence? Was this why she had been led here, to this street, to this shop, at this very hour?

The questions careered through her mind like stampeding horses, making her dizzy. The world around her spun faster 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 a long rope 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.