After several long, nervous minutes I stood motionless in a study. Moonlight, framed by lace curtains, peeked through one of the windows and cast shadows across the wide-planked wood of the floor. Around me, the dark shapes of unfamiliar furniture skulked in the shadows against the floral wallpaper. The ornate frames of several oil paintings gleamed in the moonlight.
All right, Sophia, let’s figure out where you are. I bent to rummage through an oak roll-top desk. A light brown hardcover caught my eye and sent chills down my spine: The Time Machine by H. G. Wells. Someone was interested in time travel. My body still tingled and my head throbbed. I kept from weeping, though a nervousness fluttered in the pit of my stomach. Lifting the literary classic revealed a newspaper: May, 1920. Beside the newspaper lay the familiar dark journal I’d shown Leslie earlier that day—the one with my Gigi’s father’s initials, E. B., on the cover.
Something sounded like twigs snapping outside the window. In the stillness of the night, it might as well have been cannon fire. I froze. Seconds ticked past. Holding my breath, I listened for other noises. Beads of sweat trickled off my brow and down the sides of my face; fearful that wiping them away would make more noise, I allowed them to roll, tickling me as they went. Aside from the tick of the grandfather clock and the whistling of the wind outside, the old Victorian house remained silent. My imagination was getting the best of me. I set the journal down and moved to the front window, swiping the lace curtain back just as a shadow skittered across my toe. Clamping my hands across my mouth and breathing deeply, I regained my composure—it was just a mouse. I peered out into the street where I’d heard the offending brush. In a bright circle of moonlight, something moved.
“Zafira,” a male voice hissed in the night. “What are you doing out of bed?”
Recognizing the name of my great-aunt, I spun around and balled my fingers into tight fists, ready for confrontation. Baseball bat in hand, a man advanced into the room. Rooted to the floor, I found myself strangely mute as I stared into the eyes of my great-aunt Zafira’s killer. Eugene. Finally my scream freed itself, echoing loudly throughout the drafty old house.
EIGHT
I lay in bed, mulling things over as the birds chirped away somewhere outside. I’d jumped into the body of my great-aunt Zafira last night. Would I continue to drop in on the bodies of past lives unless I stopped my killer? I should have asked that psychic medium how many lives I’d lived. It wasn’t easy to blend in when you were suddenly dropped into the past. The first time I’d awoken in the body of the Princess, I’d made enemies and been confined to my chambers within minutes. I bit my lip, silently berating myself. This time you’ll keep your mouth shut. If anyone knows history, it’s you.
Then it hit me, where was the ring? Cullen had placed it on my finger. I closed my eyes, walking back through the memory. Had he pulled it off? I could recall the constriction of the metal vibrating around my ring finger as the room morphed.
A small bubble of panic expanded in my tummy.
Eugene.
If I recalled my last life, then maybe he recalled his, as well. He’d taken the ring, and now I was trapped here in the past.
The thought of never seeing Cullen again overwhelmed me. Closing my eyes, I forced myself to calm down. One breath. Two breaths.
My finger was smaller; the ring could have fallen off. I lifted the quilt to search and was surprised to find I was not alone: a small girl lay next to me. She looked to be about four. She had burrowed under the covers and halfway down the bed. The only other person I knew who did that was my great-grandmother, Gigi.
Oh my! It hadn’t occurred to me that I’d ever cross paths with her again. My first instinct was to wake her—the woman who had raised me, or rather the girl who would grow up to raise me. I’d lost her, and every day since had been heart wrenching. I snuggled in, petting her strawberry-blonde hair, crying tears of joy as softly as I could. And now I knew with certainty that I’d once lived as her sister, just as the psychic had suspected.
This explained the strong bond between us, but why had I returned to this life now instead of the year of Zafira’s murder? I was two years too early.
Carefully I let go of Gigi, sliding out from under the covers. Staying hidden would have been my preference to reality, but chances were good I’d fidget and fuss and wake her and I needed to get used to the house before Eugene, wherever he was, discovered me again. Thinking of Eugene hit me like a ton of bricks. A revelation really—ending the curse would be easy now, unlike last time. I knew who was hunting me. The incantation would sever our bond and I would be free of him. I could be back in Cullen’s arms by bedtime.
I visualized the oval-cut sapphire, trying to picture the words carved into it, but only the warning from the note that had accompanied it came to mind:
This Stone is powerful in every way. Accept its energy and all its power at the risk of your soul. Knowing the bad guy's identity wouldn’t benefit me if I couldn’t remember the spell that would end this curse. I stepped into the hall, glancing from end to end, on the look-out for Eugene. Gigi remained unaffected. Hopefully the rest of the family slept as heavily.
The corridor looked much brighter in the daylight, with its wainscoting and cream-colored Lincrusta Walton wallpaper that touched on the most prominent parts with gold, and in the shadows with ruddy brown. Two candlesticks and an odd boat-shaped card dish of blue-violet lusterware stood on a long table. Above it two oval mirrors, framed in antique oak, hung opposite each other on the wall. I moved down the staircase, noting the grandfather clock that had provided the rhythmic ticking last night. Gigi had loved that clock. It was in storage now with much of her belongings after the sale of the lake house. If I ever got back home, I would have it shipped to Cullen’s Tudor cottage.
I entered the parlor—a large, tidy room, hung with oil paintings around the piano. Children were now playing outside in the morning sunlight. Eager shouts carried along with the thump of a ball. Marjorie looked angelic, just as she had in Gigi’s old photos. She was fast asleep on the rigid sofa. I stepped closer, eyes pervading the corners for Eugene. Then it occurred to me. What if Marjorie wasn’t sleeping? Her body sat positioned funny, almost like a broken rag doll. Was Eugene hiding—waiting to jump out at me? Tears sprang to my eyes. Please don’t be dead. She looked beautiful, garbed in a light, flowered dress and wrapped in a long wool shawl, her head lolling back at an uncomfortable angle. The embers of a dying fire still burned in the hearth in front of her. The grandfather clock released eight loud bongs, startling me from my paranoia.
Marjorie twitched and tugged at the afghan under her head as if burrowing away from the noise.
She opened her eyes. “Zafira,” her voice croaked. “Is everything all right, darling? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” She reached out an arm, beckoning me, and I walked to her. She pulled me down before I could answer, brushing back my hair.
“I must have fallen asleep. Is Veronika up yet?”
I stared for a minute before realizing she meant Gigi.
“It’s eight a.m. She’s usually up with the birds. I guess everyone’s a little off today.”
I looked down, thinking of last night. I’d passed out after being caught by Eugene—but I’d woken in bed.
“Where’s Eu—” I almost said his name but recovered. “Papa.” The word felt strange on my tongue.
“He left for work early this morning. I don’t think he could get back to sleep after you gave him that heart attack. Darling, what were you dreaming about? You woke the whole house.”
That explained it. Marjorie had woken and come downstairs, so Eugene hadn’t been able to do anything sinister to me.
“I hope this sleep walking—night terror phase of yours ends soon,” Marjorie said. “Come along. We’d best get the wee girl up. Oma should be here any moment and we have so much to do to prepare for tonight.”
“What’s tonight?” I asked.
“Your father’s birthday dinner, silly.” Marjor
ie frowned and placed her hand on my brow. “Are you sure you’re feeling all right?”
“Mama,” Gigi said, bounding into the room. “Is today the party day?”
My heart melted at the sight of her in her little emerald green dress. Her strawberry-blonde ringlets were pulled back and fixed with barrettes that looked suspiciously askew and extremely loose.
“Yes, Veronika, dear. Did you get ready all on your own?” Marjorie asked, concealing a smirk.
Gigi beamed with pride.
“Well, young lady, you did an excellent job but how about I fix your hair again in a little bit. You know how those barrettes can fall out.”
Gigi lifted her hand, attempting and failing to pat one of the barrettes back into place. “Who all’s coming?”
“Everyone, honey.”
“Even Aunt Maggie?”
Marjorie nodded.
“Aunt Maggie, whoo hoo!” said Gigi, jumping up on her mother’s lap. “She’s back from London.”
“No, dear. She doesn’t leave for London until next week.” A grin turned up the corner of Marjorie’s mouth.
“Is Uncle John bringing that lady who smokes?” Her innocent little eyes sparkled with hope.
“Yes, but don’t go on about Vickie’s lipstick. I know you think she’s the cat’s meow, but it bothers your opa.” She laughed and scooted the four-year-old off her lap, then moved to stare out the window. “Zafira, you’ll come with me to the store and Veronika, you can watch Oma peel potatoes. Before we know it, your father will be home and the rest of the family will be following.”
“Then everyone can see your new hairdo, Mama,” Gigi said.
Marjorie turned and grinned, rolling her eyes at the small audience before her. “Yes, I’m sure everyone will just love it.”
“Even Opa? Vicky says he’s an ‘ole fashion.’”
Marjorie covered her grin, and I let out a laugh.
“Yes, old fashioned, dear, but let’s not say that to him, all right?” Marjorie turned to me, conspiratorially winking. “She’s right, you know. He’ll hate the bob. I don’t know how I let you talk me into this. Perhaps I’ll have to dust off something demure to wear to soften the old man up. That reminds me, we need to find that floral dress your Oma bought you for your birthday last year.” Marjorie rolled her eyes and I wondered just what this dress looked like. “She’s been asking why she never sees you in it Maybe we’ll get lucky and you’ll have outgrown it.”
NINE
E ugene sat on a bench on the other side of the street, facing my direction when I exited the General Store. Instinctively, I narrowed my eyes and shaded them from the sudden glare of sunlight with the back of my hand. I wasn’t sure why I’d noticed him. In a white button-down and trousers, he wasn’t doing anything to draw attention to himself. The heat shimmered in the air, making him seem wavy and indistinct. Grimacing, I shifted the groceries and, keeping my gaze low to avoid trouble, descended the wooden steps, eager to get back to Marjorie.
At the bottom I looked back up and immediately regretted it. Our gazes locked across the distance. He had the darkest, coldest gaze I’d ever seen and it was trained on me. I tried a tentative smile. Whatever I may have been hoping for didn’t happen. Not a smile. Not a single hint of acknowledgment—just an insistent stare.
Is he upset that I fainted? There’s nothing like a worthy adversary who screams and faints at the sight of you.
His strong jaw clenched in an obstinate pose. Black hair matched the darkness of his expression. A few strands ruffled in the slight breeze.
A nervous fluttering built in the pit of my stomach.
There was a sense that he knew the truth of my time travel. I scolded myself for locking into eye contact. I needed to avoid him at all costs until I found the jewels. He might be Gigi’s beloved father, but to me he was a stranger—a dangerous one.
“Zafira, are you all right?”
I jerked my head up to find Marjorie standing at my side. I peered at her. Her brow furrowed.
“Yes, I think so. It’s just—” I glanced back across the street.
Gone.
I felt her follow my gaze to the empty bench. “Zafira?”
The rest of the scene was unchanged—the children, their parents milling about. But Eugene was nowhere in sight. He’d vanished, as if he’d never been there at all.
The heat was all but forgotten, replaced by a chill that rolled down my spine. He’d been there. Hadn’t he?
Marjorie placed her hand on my arm. “Did you find everything okay? You seem confused…”
“I’m sorry.” Thinking quickly, I muttered, “I bought some taffy for Veronika. You didn’t give me permission, but it’s her favorite.” The excuse sounded weak, but I wasn’t about to tell her I’d been staring at Eugene, who might not be the Eugene she knew and loved at all.
“Oh, honey. Is that all? That’s fine,” Marjorie said, lifting the bag from my arms. “Isn’t my parcel in?”
“No,” I said.
She shifted the sack to one side and took my hand as if I needed encouragement to move. “Let’s head home, shall we, and have a nice cold glass of lemonade with your sister and Oma?”
Halfway down the block, I turned, unable to resist one last glance down the street. Nothing.
Feeling foolish, I turned my back and hurried on, wishing the chill would vanish just as Eugene had.
TEN
S weat trickled down my back as the Nittery-Breathour clan mingled in the enormous dining room. Fourteen strangers I was supposed to be intimately connected to: aunts, uncles, both sets of grandparents, and one woman in bright red lipstick who I assumed was the infamous ‘Vicky’. As the group took their seats around the table, I couldn’t help but study each and every one of them, taking in everything from the glint in their eyes to the cut of their clothes. I was definitely the most overdressed and that was saying a lot, considering both sets of grandparents were present. I chose a seat close to the window and tugged at the high-necked lace collar of my gown, trying to create some airflow. Marjorie hadn’t been kidding. This floor-length floral button-down dress was perfect for a spinster but hardly suited a girl of Zafira’s age and was a terrible choice even for May. Eugene’s father, Opa Johann, sat beside me, a well-groomed man with snowy white hair, a full beard, and broad shoulders that had only begun to stoop.
“Let’s have a toast to our family,” Eugene said, lifting his glass, “for always coming together no matter the occasion.”
“No, let’s have a toast to you, my son, on your special day!” Opa Johann shouted.
My eyes fell on the birthday boy, the man who would eventually murder his own daughter. He looked handsome and happy. His dark hair was slicked back and his bright blue eyes were flanked by crow’s feet. Had he inherited his wrinkles from smiling all the time, just as Gigi had? Glancing at my bare wrist, anxiety clawed at my chest. Granted, it was his celebration and he could be putting on a show, but it didn’t make sense. He hadn’t mentioned seeing us earlier that day and had even smiled at me when he’d come home. Where was the angst and darkness I’d seen that afternoon? Either he could act, or he had a personality disorder and Nico had emerged as an alter ego.
Glasses clinked.
“Wait a minute. Where is that darling wife of mine?”
“I’m right here!” Marjorie exclaimed, entering the room, hands fiddling at her neck, “I almost forgot I wanted to wear my anniversary present.”
The room went silent, or maybe it was just the blood rushing through my ears. I couldn’t take my eyes off her chest where the amulet sat.
“That bloody sapphire,” Oma Gretchen whispered.
“Looks beautiful on you,” Opa Johann said, kissing Marjorie’s cheek as she passed by. “Have I told you the story of the…?”
“Johanne! No! No one will hear that. We’ll have a nice evening, please,” Oma Gretchen chided, looking ever so austere in her high-collared blouse.
“Oh, dumme frau,” Opa Johann said, reve
rting to his native tongue and rolling his eyes. He turned to me and Gigi. “Oma’s superstitious. She thinks it’s the stone's fault that your uncle went missing.”
“You never should have let him touch it,” she said, pulling at the white kerchief that secured her hair.
“Ridiculous!” he countered.
“Tell us, Opa! I want to hear,” Gigi said, bouncing up and down in her seat.
“See, dear.” He winked at his wife.
Oma Gretchen frowned. Wringing her hands, she stared back at him, but said nothing more.
“The jewels in your mother’s necklace are made up of a gem that came from Tandy O’Kelley, a young curator at the National Gallery of Ireland. He called it the Delhi Sapphire.”
O’Kelley… Cullen. My heart ached at the sudden reminder of the man—my love, back home. He had shown me, once, a painting of his great-great-grandparents, Tandy and Bridget. “Zafira, are you listening?”
“Huh? Oh yes. The Delhi Sapphire.”
“Yes, and, it came with a warning. Well, and you know how the Irish are. No offense, Pat. Superstitious as all hell, like Oma there.”
“Harrumph,” Oma Gretchen practically growled, crossing her arms.
Grand-da Pat laughed. “No offense taken. I’m a Scot, or don’t ye ken the difference.”
“Fair enough,” Opa Johann responded. “The curator, concerned by the curse, sealed it with protective charms in seven boxes. Seven! Can you believe it? Er spinnt.”
Marjorie reached for her neck, attempting to undo the clasp as if it burned her.
“Oh now, lass, relax, it’s hog-wash.” Pat, Marjorie’s father, stretched across the table to rub her hand, “The old kraut’s pullin’ your leg, aren’t ye, Johann?”
“The tale is true, but I don’t believe in such bad-luck nonsense. Then again, it was looted from the Temple of Indra, so you never know. After that it was sold to the Prince of Monaco as a gift for his schwester, Princess Sapphira. Unfortunate, really, for the Princess,” Johann went on. “As soon as she touched the stone, it cursed her—or so Tandy said. She died the following week.”
Cruel Fortunes Omnibus: Volumes One to Four Page 28
