Her hat was no longer in her hands. Blindly, irrationally, she searched for it, still kneeling. If she could only find the hat . . . if she could just determine where the floor was, the wall, the steep stairs—
Layering. It was a mistake to have forgotten it. There was real danger here, and just when she thought it was all behind her.
“Clara, what are you doing?”
It was Hannes, halfway up the staircase, gazing at her on her knees with her bonnet in her hand. Her vision cleared when she saw him, and she tried to laugh. “Oh, Hannes, so silly of me. I just—I dropped my hat.” She swallowed her nausea and gave him a shaky smile. She got to her feet, shaking out her skirts. “I’m ready now, I think.” She tried not to see the image of Kristian North, wavering in his position at the top of the stairs.
How would she get past him? And get away? If she could just reach the cart, it would be done. Kristian couldn’t do what she could. He couldn’t move outside the zone. He would hover in the garden, uselessly, helplessly, watching her make her escape. The possibility energized her.
She had only to get down those stairs, to slip out into the garden. Hannes was watching her, waiting for her. She put on her bonnet and adjusted the veil before she dared to step toward the landing.
Kristian’s heart thudded in his chest as he tried desperately to hold on to the transfer. When Frederica tried to walk through him, he felt as if his brain turned upside down. For one terrible moment he saw Chiara’s face instead of that of Clara Schumann. Chiara was bending over him, frowning. She was speaking, but he couldn’t hear her voice.
He closed his eyes. That wasn’t right. Chiara was in the wrong time. It was Clara’s face he needed to see. Clara’s almond eyes. Brahms’s fair hair. A narrow staircase, with a wooden banister, a black straw bonnet with a thick veil that . . .
Slowly, tentatively, he opened his eyes. With relief, he saw he was still in Casa Agosto, hovering at the top of the stairs. He was weak, though, his presence as tenuous as morning fog. He fell back a little, struggling to steady himself. How fragile the transfer really was! The veil between past and future was like gossamer, all too easily torn. He fought to focus himself, to secure his foothold. To stay on the right side of the veil.
Frederica recovered more quickly. She had crossed the landing while he found his balance. She was already on the stairs, one foot on the top tread. One hand held the black straw bonnet. The other gripped the banister.
Brahms was at the foot of the stairs, looking up. He held a valise in one hand, and wore a tall hat as well as the coat Kristian had seen in the kitchen. His blond hair curled over the high collar of his shirt. He said, “Clara, are you all right? Claudio is here with the cart.”
They were going! If Frederica climbed into that cart, if it carried her beyond the zone, she would win. She would go free, the murderess, the usurper.
It wasn’t just about Clara anymore. It was about justice. He had to try.
Kristian thrust himself forward with all his strength. Frederica, shying away from him like a skittish filly, missed the stair with her soft boot. She tried to catch herself with one gloved hand on the wall, but she missed that, too. She lost her grip on the banister, and started to fall.
Brahms cried out, but he was too far down to catch her. Kristian, in horror, stopped his forward movement. If she fell on the stairs, she could break her neck. She could kill herself, and he wouldn’t care, but Clara—
She can’t be dead. She can’t be! If she is, I’ll throw Frederica down these stairs myself.
Frederica caught at the banister with both hands, and Kristian heard the crack as its base tore loose. Brahms dropped his valise and leaped up the stairs, two at a time. He reached her just before the banister broke free. He caught her around the waist and she sagged against him. The straw bonnet was crushed between them.
Brahms said, “Clara! What happened?”
“The banister, Hannes. Look at it!”
It lay in pieces, the upright broken from its base, the handrail angled across the stairs. “Good God,” Brahms said, shaking his head. He straightened, and settled her on her feet again. “I suppose we’re lucky that didn’t come loose before.”
Nuncia had come out of the kitchen, and she exclaimed in Italian as she saw the broken banister. Brahms led Frederica down the stairs, one arm around her waist.
The moment she set her feet in the entryway, she bolted for the front door.
Nuncia was in the doorway, holding out a napkin-covered basket. Frederica pushed past her, and she had to fall back a step. Frederica ignored the basket in her haste to get out into the garden.
“Wait, Clara!” Brahms called. “Nuncia has something for us.”
Frederica didn’t stop. Nuncia stood staring after her, open-mouthed. The basket sagged in her hands, nearly forgotten in her bewilderment. Brahms said again, “Clara!” and followed her out into the sunshine.
Kristian, his heart in his throat, moved as swiftly as he could, trying to keep up with them. He was still shaken. He couldn’t move as easily as he had before, when a mere thought propelled him to where he wanted to be. He tried, slipping past the cook, out the door, down the little walk past the painted bench and the olive tree.
He wasn’t in time. Before he could reach her, Frederica had stepped through the scrolled gate. Brahms was at her heels, remonstrating with her, but keeping pace. They both turned left, toward the cart waiting just where the road met the cobbled street of the village. Claudio stood at his donkey’s head. When he saw Frederica approaching, he stepped forward to give her a hand up into the cart.
Kristian, collecting himself as best he could, leaped after them, but just outside the gate he stopped. He had no choice. He felt that electric shiver, and he knew. He could have shouted with frustration. He had reached the limit of the zone, and she, with a swish of her wide plaid skirts, was already climbing up into the donkey cart. She had escaped him.
Claudio handed Frederica up into the carriage. She took the step carefully. She was still trembling, but it was as much from excitement as from the shock of nearly tumbling headlong down the stairs. With a little laugh, she managed to seat herself and arrange her skirts. As she tried to smooth the bent straw of her bonnet, Hannes touched her arm and looked up into her face with concern.
“That could have been a terrible fall.” There was a crease between his brows she was sure she had not seen before. It made her feel just a little bit sad, that he should look that way.
It would be all right. She would soon restore him to his old ebullience. She just needed a bit of time—and now she had time, as much as she wanted. There was nothing—nothing!—to stand in her way.
She feared her eyes must blaze with triumph. She passed her hand over them to hide it, and took a trembling breath. “Oh, yes, dearest, I’m all right. It was just—goodness, just so foolish to almost fall down the stairs that way. Like a careless child! Mein Gott, it is a good thing you were there, Hannes!” She gave up on the hat and laid it on the wooden bench beside her.
He settled his valise behind the bench. She held out her hand to him, but he turned away.
She said, “Hannes?”
“Nuncia has a lunch for you. I’m going back for it.”
“Hannes, no! I don’t need it. There will be something—a dining car. We can eat there. Let’s go, or we’ll miss our train.”
He looked up at her, unsmiling, an odd expression on his face. She feared it was a look of doubt. Or—though she hated to admit it—of disappointment. “Nuncia has worked hard to make it for you, Clara,” he said. “Why hurt her feelings? Why would we not take it?”
She busied herself with her bonnet, hiding her face from him. “Of course you’re right, dearest. I don’t know what came over me. Of course we must take it.”
He regarded her with slightly narrowed eyes for a moment before he turned and walked back toward the house. Frederica watched him, twisting the ribbons of the crushed straw hat in her hands. Impatience had mad
e her reckless. She must be more careful. She was just so eager to be on her way, to be gone from Castagno, and Casa Agosto—and the memory of Clara Schumann, of how it had felt to pinch out that last spark, to put an end to her spirit. She was eager to be on the train, to be safely on her way to Hamburg, and her future with Hannes.
His coat flapped around his long legs as he turned into the gate of Casa Agosto. His fair hair shone like gold in the sun as he covered the distance in three strides. Nuncia smiled now, stepping forward, the basket held out in her two hands.
Frederica caught a breath. She could see the hazy image that was Kristian North, hovering just at Nuncia’s shoulder. He moved with Nuncia as she extended her hands to give Hannes the basket. He floated past her as she said something, nodding, folding her hands in her apron. Hannes, who couldn’t understand a word she said, nor make himself understood, made a small, elegant bow of thanks. He took the basket, and tucked it under his arm.
Kristian moved toward Hannes.
“Oh, my God,” Frederica breathed. “Oh, no.”
Hannes was strolling, no longer hurrying now that he thought they were on their way. He looked up into the clear sky, then turned to tip his hat to Nuncia and take a last, lingering look at Casa Agosto.
“Hurry, Hannes, hurry!” Frederica moaned. “Hannes, come!”
Hannes turned, with agonizing deliberation, and walked back toward the gate. Kristian North was behind him. Then he was beside him, his image clearly visible to Frederica, his silhouette like a shadow at Hannes’s shoulder. Hannes put his hand on the scrolled iron, pushed it open, began to step through.
“Hannes, hurry!” Frederica called. “For God’s sake, hurry up!” He looked up at her, frowning, but it didn’t matter what he thought now. It didn’t matter that Claudio, at the donkey’s head, turned in surprise at her shrillness. None of that was important. She had to get Hannes beyond Kristian’s reach, and it was too late for her to jump down from the cart and run to him.
Almost as if he meant to torment her, he turned back to close the gate and push its latch into place. Panicked, she started to rise. She had to do something, to stop this disaster. She didn’t know what action she could take, but she couldn’t just sit here!
As she put her foot on the step, Hannes lifted his hand once more to Nuncia, pointed to the basket, nodded to her. She took one hand out of her apron to wave farewell.
Hannes, with Kristian at his side, turned away from the house. As he did, Kristian disappeared.
Hannes, in midstride, stiffened suddenly, horribly. His eyes widened, and his hands flew to his head as if some terrible pain had clutched his brain. It was as if someone had struck him. The basket fell to the cobblestones and rolled on its side.
Frederica’s hands flew to her mouth. She knew all too well what Hannes’s stricken look meant. Clara must have looked just like that when she . . . when she had—but that had been different! Her need had been different! This was not fair.
“Oh, no!” she cried. Her voice tore at her throat. “Hannes, no!”
18
There was something obscene about slipping into Brahms’s body. Kristian was acutely aware that it was a violation. It was an insult to someone he wholly admired. He loathed doing it, but he had run out of options. It was a move of desperation.
Frederica was urging Brahms to hurry. Kristian was hovering at his shoulder, reluctant to take that final step. He was powerless to stop her, helpless to vanquish the glitter of triumph that shone in her eyes. She had almost won this final battle, almost triumphed despite everything.
He couldn’t let it happen. His only weapon was the one she herself had shown him.
With a shiver of revulsion, he slid into the unsuspecting Brahms. He pushed him aside, forced him down as he forced down his own distaste for the act. He took command of what was not really his, and he felt his victim’s jolt of surprise and fear. He had to hold on, hard, as Brahms resisted, fought for control of his own body, his own eyes, his own mind. It was demeaning to them both.
Kristian—an unlikely warrior in a bizarre conflict—persisted. He staggered as he tried to find balance in the unfamiliar body. Brahms’s hands and arms were different, finer boned, less muscular, than his own. His legs were longer, his torso more slender. Kristian had endured a growth spurt in his early teens, when he grew six inches in eight months. He felt now as if he were that adolescent again, learning to deal with a body that had transformed, seemingly overnight, into that of a stranger. He gripped the curlicue of iron at the top of the garden gate with both hands, and pushed himself up with an effort. He was panting. Perspiration ran down his neck beneath the unfamiliar stiff collar. The heavy coat smelled of tobacco and sweat. Beneath it his shirt clung to his armpits and his back. His hat had fallen off, and he had dropped the cook’s basket.
For a long moment he couldn’t move. He stood leaning on the gate, trying to integrate himself with Brahms. He was stunned for a moment by the sensation of knowing things he had never known, that he couldn’t know. He had Brahms’s thoughts as well as his body, and it was more than he could process.
P dolce . . .
He heard Frederica cry, in Clara’s voice, “Hannes, no!” and he thrust himself away from the gate. He bent to pick up the hat and the basket, though he had to grope for them, his hands refusing to obey his impulse. He turned left, toward the waiting cart, but he stumbled, one foot landing too hard on the cobblestones, the other sliding away, as rebellious as his hands. Was this how Erika felt, on her bad days? It was awful, and it was frightening.
But he had to hurry. He didn’t think he could keep this up for long, not with Brahms flailing inside him, striving to regain himself.
Frederica was standing in the cart. He saw her eyes flash and her mouth twist. The driver, seeing Brahms weaving toward them, stepped forward, but Frederica said, “No!”
He stopped, and looked up at her, mystified. In impressive Italian, she commanded, “Andiamo! Il signore non viene!”
Claudio turned to Kristian. “É vero, signore? Non viene?”
Kristian, blessing his crash course in Italian, said, “No! No!” It was all he could think of at the moment. Surely Brahms knew at least that much Italian. He lurched forward, one step, two, three.
Claudio came to meet him, asking something, reaching for the basket and his hat. Frederica shouted something more, something Kristian couldn’t translate. He reached the cart, and hauled himself up to fall heavily onto the hard wooden seat opposite Frederica. Claudio handed him his hat. He refolded the napkin over the basket before he handed that up, too.
Frederica, with a wordless hiss like that of a furious cat, sank back onto her seat, and folded her arms. Claudio, having assured himself that both his passengers were in place, moved back to the donkey’s head. He would walk, it seemed. No doubt two people were all the creature could be expected to pull. Claudio took hold of a rope attached to the donkey’s bridle. He clucked to the beast, and the donkey began to move. The cart creaked and rolled forward, its iron wheels jouncing over the rutted road.
Kristian, still feeling awkward, gripped the edge of the seat with both hands, and turned his gaze to Frederica. She sat as far away from him as she could, her face suffused with fury. “Why can’t you leave me alone?”
“Why do you think?” He felt Brahms resisting, testing his strength. How had Frederica managed this? Kristian thought it was the hardest thing he had ever done. He drew a slow breath through his nostrils. The air of Castagno was as rich with the scent of roses as he had thought it would be. He tried to send a reassuring thought to Brahms, begging for patience, even as he said, “You don’t belong here, Frederica. You have to come home.”
“Home! Why should I want to go home?” she snapped. “There’s nothing for me there!”
“Your parents,” he began, but gave it up. He had already tried that argument. The cart tilted as it turned out of the street and onto the road. Kristian seized the bench again, surprised by the roughness of the ride
. The smell of roses gave way to the pungent smell of donkey. The cart rattled alarmingly, drowning the crisp sounds of the donkey’s hooves. “Your career,” he said, raising his voice. “Now that you’ve done remote research—”
“Career!” she spat. “Do you think that would make me give up all of this?”
“All of this?” He forgot Brahms for the moment in the urgency of his need to persuade her. “All of this is—it’s primitive! What if you get sick? What if you’re injured?” As the cart rocked its slow way down the hill, he leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and looked into her face. “Frederica, listen to me.”
She turned her head away. “You can’t persuade me.”
“I think I can,” he said, though the set of her mouth was forbidding. “The time line changed, Frederica. Clara Schumann—in this time line—will be dead in less than ten years, alone and forgotten. You will be dead. I have a Brahms biography, and it says—”
“No!” Her chin trembled for an instant, but it firmed again. She clenched her hands together in her lap. “No. If the time line changed once, it can change again. And—” She turned her head toward him, and he gasped. He no longer saw Clara Schumann’s delicate, melancholy features, her soft, small mouth, her great dark eyes. He saw hard eyes, lips pressed thin, a jutting chin. It was Frederica Bannister’s face, though she hid behind Clara’s.
Her upper lip curled on one side, an expression he felt sure Clara’s mouth had never made. “And now,” she finished softly, “you have warned me. I will take the greatest care to see that I am not dead at the age of fifty. And I will certainly not be alone.”
“You will. You will be abandoned. Destitute.”
“That won’t happen. I will see that it doesn’t.”
“Don’t you feel any guilt?” he asked. “Any responsibility?”
A flicker of her eyelids was his answer, but it was quickly suppressed. She said, flatly, “No.”
The Brahms Deception Page 28