The Time Contessa
By
Georgina Young-Ellis
The Time Contessa by Georgina Young Ellis
© Copyright 2015
Second Edition
www.georginayoungellis.com
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No portion of this work may be reproduced by any means whatsoever without the explicit written consent of the author and the author's publisher. This work contains people who have been used in a fictionalized setting for the purpose of historical reference. Any resemblance to persons living or deceased is used strictly for the embellishment of the story to lend creditable influence to the fictionalized work. The copyright laws of 1988, namely the Berne Convention Copyright Laws of 1988, and the Digital Millennium Copy Right Act of 1998, enacted by Congress protect this work from piracy and any transmission, trade, or sale through means electronic, printed, shared, or otherwise is strictly prohibited and will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law.
Cover art Design by Dark Water Arts Designs.
The final approval for this work was granted by the author. This book is a Sci-Fi Time Travel Series released through LTB Publishing.
Preface
I’d like to share a few notes about Italian pronunciation so that, as you read, you will feel comfortable with the Italian words and names used throughout this book.
First, some rules:
The ‘c’ followed by ‘i’ or ‘e’ is pronounced ‘ch,’ as in the word ‘Civico’ (chee-vee-koh – accent on the first syllable).
If followed by an ‘a’, ‘o’ or ‘u’, the ‘c’ has a hard sound like ‘k’ as in the word ‘Cannoli’.
The ‘g’ followed by ‘i’ or ‘e’ is pronounced ‘j’ as in the word ‘Giuliana’ (joo-lee-ah-nah – accent on the third syllable). You see that in this word, as in other combinations of ‘g’+ ‘i’ or ‘e’ + ‘a’, ‘o’ or ‘u’, the ‘giu’ sound is condensed into ‘joo’ NOT ‘gee-oo’.
Just like the ‘c’, if the ‘g’ is followed by a vowel other than ‘i’ or ‘e’, it has a hard sound as in ‘Guerrini’ (gwehr-ee-nee). Notice that each vowel is pronounced, unlike in Spanish where you’d say ‘Gehr-ee-nee.’ The exception to this is when the ‘g’ is combined with ‘i’ or ‘e’ plus other vowels, as in Giovanni – ‘joh-vah-nee’ not ‘gee-oh-vah-nee’ or as we see above with Giuliana.
The ‘ch’ in Italian is also pronounced ‘k’ as in ‘che’ (meaning ‘what’), pronounced ‘keh’.
The ‘gh’ is pronounced as a hard ‘g’ as in ‘good.’ Example: Ghiberti: ‘ghee-behr-tee’
The ‘a’ is always pronounced ‘ah’
The ‘e’ is always pronounced ‘eh’
The ‘i’ is always pronounced ‘ee’
The ‘o’ is always pronounced ‘oh’
The ‘u’ is always pronounced ‘oo’
The ‘qu’ combination is pronounced ‘kw’ as in the English word, ‘queen.’ Therefore, the word ‘cinque,’ meaning ‘five’ is pronounced, ‘cheen-kweh’ accent on the first syllable.
The ‘sc’ combination is pronounced ‘sh’ as in the verb ‘conoscere’ meaning, ‘to know someone’. It’s pronounced ‘koh-noh-sheh-reh’, accent on the second syllable.
The ‘gn’ combination is pronounced ‘ny’ like the Spanish ñ, as in El Niño. Therefore ‘signore’ (sir, or Mr.) is pronounced ‘see-nyor-eh’.
The ‘gl’ is pronounced like the English consonant sound, ‘y’, or like the Spanish ‘ll’ as in ‘calle’ (cay-yeh). Therefore the Italian word ‘tagliatelle’ is pronounced ‘tay-ya-tel-leh’ Notice the ‘ll’ in Italian is pronounced like the English ‘l’ sound.
An ‘s’ surrounded by vowels is usually pronounced like a ‘z’ in English, therefore Pisa is pronounced ‘pee-zah’, accent on the first syllable, not ‘pee-sah’ or ‘peet-zah’ (The word ‘pizza’ is, however, pronounced ‘peet-zah’.) Another example is ‘cosa’ meaning ‘thing’ or sometimes ‘what’, and it’s pronounced ‘coh-zah’, accent on the first syllable.
When speaking Italian, always roll the ‘r’ by flicking your tongue across the roof of your mouth almost like you’re saying a ‘d’ instead of an ‘r’.
Here are some names and words you’ll run into in the book, and their pronunciations:
Lauro Sampieri – ‘Láh-oo-roh Sahm-pee-éhr-ee’ (you can run the first two syllables of Lauro together just a little bit. Do the same with the second two syllables of Sampieri)
Francesco Marino – Frahn-chés-ko Mahr-eé-noh
Ottavia Schiatti – Oh-táh-vee-ah Skee-áh-tee
Jacopo – Yá-koh-poh
Della Quercia – Dél-lah Kwéhr-cha
Piero Guerrini – Pee-éh-roh Gweh-rée-nee
Elisabetta Schapecchi – Eh-lee-zah-béh-tah Skah-péck-ee
Giulia Brogi – Jóo-lya Bróh-gee
Palazzo Pubblico – Pah-láh-tsoh Póo-blee-koh
San Gimignano – Sahn Gee-mee-nyánh-noh
Piacere (‘pleasure’, or ‘it’s a pleasure’) pee-ah-chéh-reh
Buon Giorno (good morning, or good day) boowóhn jóhr-noh
Zia (aunt) tsée-ah
Mangia (eat) mán-jah
Maestro (master, or teacher) ma-éh-stroh
Finally, keep in mind that plural words end in ‘i’ or ‘e’. So you might notice that the word ‘contrada’ (district) sometimes becomes ‘contrade’ when used in the plural, and ‘amico’ (friend) becomes ‘amici’ (pronounced ah-mée-chee) in the plural. (There are some exceptions to the way this rule works, but you’re not likely to see them in this book.)
The word ‘grazie’, meaning ‘thank you’, is pronounced ‘gráh-tzee-eh’, not ‘gráh-tzee’.
Dedication
This book is dedicated to my mother, Patricia A. Young, and our memories of Italy.
Chapter One
Travel Journal, Jacob Grenefeld, June 12, 1506—I wait for Giuliana on a hillside just outside Firenze. I look out across the landscape: the rolling hills, the patchwork quilt of greens, yellows, browns; olive groves, vineyards, farms. The breeze is warm and as I write, I am almost lulled to sleep. The scent of jasmine is in the air. I wait in the shadow of an oak tree, the trunk so thick that when we sit behind it, we are hidden from anyone passing nearby. This is the only place where we can be alone. We have not made love, for she is a faithful Catholic and will be with no one until she marries. This is my agony. I must return to a far-off world in just a few weeks, a world she can never visit and never understand. She is promised to a man her father has chosen for her, an older man she hasn’t even met. Her marriage to him will unite two wealthy families, one Senese, one Fiorentino. I now understand how the tragedy of Romeo and Juliet came to pass. If Giuliana doesn’t marry this Piero Guerrini, there will be war. So why am I here, under this tree, knowing we can share no more than stolen kisses?
She’s coming. I see her walking toward me along the path from her father’s estate. Her thick, black hair flows out behind her on the air, and the sun catches its auburn highlights. She wears it free, in undulating waves. Her gown is lightweight to suit the weather. Transparent sleeves of silk show her arms, and the low neck exposes the tops of her shoulders and breasts, so full that, even from a distance, they have their own movement, independent of her confident gait. The color of her dress is nearly the same as her skin, tan, faintly golden, because she will not heed her mother’s advice to stay out of the sun. The shape of her long legs is just visible beneath her skirts.
She is almost with me now, and I see, as I glance up from my writing, her mocking smile. She thinks I spend too much time with the little portable set of writing implements I creat
ed: quill, ink bottle, and this small, handmade diary. She thinks I am too influenced by Maestro da Vinci. Her large, brown eyes laugh as well. Her full, rose-colored lips part to speak my name. She is all fullness and sensuality. My Giuliana. I ache to have you.
Cassandra’s face grew warm as she read Jake’s intimate thoughts. It had been nearly five years since he’d time - traveled to Florence, and still, his writing seemed too personal, too immediate, for him to be sharing. She set the journal aside.
Her command to open the sensory-net resulted in the holographic blossoming of a piece from the news she’d been following of a collective dream, reported by people all over the world. The living room of Barry Tonns of England appeared in mid-air. The doughy, middle-aged man seemed to be sitting right in front of her on his sagging couch as he spoke.
“I keep dreaming of this picture. It’s a beautiful woman with long, dark hair. The background looks like Italy. I told this guy at work about it and he said he keeps having the same dream.”
Cassandra waved the story of Mr. Tonns away and asked for another. A different hologram appeared of a young woman with black eyes and a prominent nose, her hair covered with a fluttering scarf. She was sitting in a café; a greenish blue sea sparkled behind her. Cassandra could almost smell the salty air and feel the hot wind. The young woman’s name traveled across the bottom of the image—Jasmine Ala, Gaza, Palestine - her words automatically translated into English in Cassandra’s ear: “My mother said she was dreaming of a beautiful woman, like a painting, but didn’t know who it was. She said she had dark brown hair and dark eyes, and thought maybe she was Palestinian. Then I realized I had been having the same dream and thought the woman was Egyptian, but the landscape behind her was not Egypt.”
With another command to the sens-net, Cassandra entered the cluttered, holographic studio of artist Cameron Ralph: “I couldn’t stop dreaming of her so I painted her, recreating the portrait in my dreams as closely as possible.” He gestured to the finished product on a nearby easel. It was a very close replica of the painting Cassandra had dreamt of, but something about it was unsatisfying. He hadn’t quite captured the image that had been haunting her subconscious and that of so many others. These last few weeks, someone on the net always seemed to be talking about the dream.
Her computer emitted a chime, reminding her to wind her watch, as it did every day at three o’clock. She attended to the antique time piece, shut the sens-net, and walked across the hall to her boss’s office, entering without knocking.
She greeted Jake and Professor Carver and plopped down into an old chair that exuded the scent of leather. The familiar office was lined with books, actual books rather than holographic . The professor was seated behind a venerable desk of dark, heavy Rosewood, which still emitted an intoxicating scent on hot summer days despite the antiquity. Though his office was located in the one hundred and twenty-year-old Stata Center at MIT, the building exterior was starkly modern compared to this room.
“I can’t figure it out,” Cassandra said. “Nothing I’ve looked at on the net, nothing I’ve read in your journals, Jake, gets me any closer to understanding why so many people around the world are dreaming about this painting, the painting you swear is of Giuliana.”
“Professor, would you bring up one of the dreamed images of the painting?” Jake asked.
Professor Carver spoke a command and the replicated painting by Cameron Ralph appeared. Using his hands, the professor enlarged the holographic image until it filled the space before them.
After a moment, Jake spoke. “I may have figured out who the original painter was. I was able to determine that the style of this painting is representative of the Senese Renaissance School, even though it’s interpreted by Ralph’s modern eye. I matched it with work from every known Senese artist from around the time Giuliana lived, and it seems it was done by someone named Francesco Marino. He never painted anything of great importance, but a few examples of his work, mostly drawings, are in the archives of the Museo Civico in Siena. Apparently he worked in a studio belonging to an artist and inventor named Lauro Sampieri.”
“I’ve never heard of either of them,” said Cassandra.
“What more do you know about them, Jake?”
“What I just told you is all there is to know about Marino. Let’s see what the net says about Sampieri.”
The bland, female voice of the computer reported: “Lauro Sampieri experimented with light and color, bringing the elements of Renaissance style, which were normally associated with the Florentine masters, to Siena. His work was cut short when he died of typhus in 1511. Some examples of his art still exist in private estates in Siena and in the Museo Civico.”
“This painting of Giuliana by Marino, however,” Jake continued, “simply doesn’t exist in the finished state we see in our dreams, other than this one by Ralph and those that other artists have tried to recreate. The reason I knew without a doubt it was by Marino, though, is because of this.” He called up an image of a charcoal sketch of the forehead and eyes of a woman that almost exactly matched the dreamed painting of Giuliana. “This sketch was in the Museo Civico’s archives with the others by Marino.”
“But where’s the painting?” Cassandra asked.
“There is no painting. Francesco Marino died on July second, 1509, probably before he could finish it.”
“How did he die?” the professor wanted to know.
“There’s no record.”
“I’m so confused.” Cassandra pressed her fingers to her temples.
“To me,” said the professor, “a collective dream on this scale could mean there is a temporal rift, or parallel realities, one in which Marino finished the painting and one in which he didn’t. In the reality in which he completed the painting, it might be so famous we all know it like we know…the Mona Lisa, for instance. We know it so well, if it suddenly disappeared from history, it might still remain etched in our subconscious memories.”
“It’s too coincidental that this is a painting of Giuliana after she moved to Siena. If a parallel reality has occurred, it must be a result of your trip to Florence in 1506, Jake. Something you did must have changed the past to the extent that Francesco Marino died when he shouldn’t have.”
“But how, Cassie? I never knew this Marino, never even met Giuliana’s husband to be… Guerrini.” He spat the name as if it tasted bad in his mouth.
“Maybe Marino was painting Giuliana and they had an affair. Maybe Guerrini killed him out of jealousy,” Cassandra replied.
“No. Impossible. Giuliana adhered strictly to her religious edicts and her moral code. I don’t think she would have cheated, even if she was attracted to someone else.”
“Well, it would make sense,” Carver ventured.
Jake rose and went to stand near the window. Cassandra followed his gaze to the skyline of Boston across the Charles River.
“I didn’t want her to marry Guerrini, but since she did, I’m sure she was a loyal wife.”
“Maybe you didn’t know her as well as you think,” Cassandra gently offered.
“I know she would take her vows seriously, whether in a convent or in marriage.”
“Would you have preferred her to go to a convent?”
He turned and looked at her, running a hand through his thick, brown hair. “Yes.”
“Look, Jake,” the professor said in a soft voice. “I think it’s possible you awakened something in Giuliana that changed her life and that of those around her. I think your presence in her life influenced her more than we thought possible.”
“What do you mean?”
“Maybe she became discontented in her marriage because she knew something better was out there. Maybe this Francesco Marino made her remember that. There’s nothing wrong with it.”
“I suppose,” Jake murmured. “But if it was Piero Guerrini’s jealousy that led to Marino’s death, what do we do about it?”
“We’ll have to build a portal,” said Carver, “and send
you back to before Marino died. You’ll have to try to find Giuliana and discover what happened. Maybe you’ll have to distract her from him, I don’t know, but if the painting disappeared from history, other things may have changed as well. Major things. People may have existed that now don’t. Family lines might have been erased.”
Jake stared at him.
“And Cassandra should go with you.”
The professor’s words slowly sifted into her consciousness. “Wait a minute.” The pitch of her voice rose, and her scalp prickled. “Why me?” The two years since she’d returned from her journey to New York City of 1853 had barely been enough time to process the danger and complications she had faced there.
“Because you need to help Jake not lose himself to Giuliana like he almost did last time.”
“I think I’m capable of controlling myself,” the younger man grumbled.
“But why should I go? We could send Suhan.”
“Suhan has never travelled. You have, and you know what you’re doing. You think quickly and have the clear head that Jake may very well need.”
“I don’t need anyone to go with me! I’m not going to get involved with Giuliana. She’s married; I respect that as much as I’m sure she does.”
“You caught the spell before, Jake. It may very well happen again,” Cassandra said.
“Caught the spell?”
“The spell of the past. It’s what I call the phenomenon you and I have both experienced, as my son did when he was in England with me, and Evie when we were in New York. Me too, I guess.” Her cheeks again grew warm.
“Would you like a glass of water, Cassie?”
“Yes, Elton, thank you. When we become immersed in the time and place we travel to, we are particularly susceptible to becoming more involved with people then we might be if we met them in the here and now. It’s like the past casts a spell on us. We fall in love with it and with the people who cross our paths.” She took the glass and gulped the water.
The Time Contessa (The Time Mistress Book 3) Page 1