Twice Upon Time

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.