She held it closer. With a jolt, I realized she was right. The picture was grainy, but I recognized it. The caption below read PRINCESS SAPPHIRA ALEXANDRIE OF MONACO, 1857.
She flushed and glanced at the picture and then back at me. “It’s uncanny.”
“This is her. This is me, or what I looked like when I woke up. I saw this painting; it hung in the study. Now do you believe me?”
“I’m beginning to. Oh God, they’re going to lock us both up and throw away the key. How can you look so much like your ancestors, anyway—especially when there’s over a hundred years separating you?”
“I don’t know that I’m related to the Princess. Maybe it’s a past-life thing.”
“Well, is this lady a past life too?” she said, holding out another photo, “because, seriously, this is you at sixteen.”
“That’s my great-aunt, Zafira, Gigi’s sister.”
“Genetics are so fascinating,” Leslie said.
“Gigi always told me how much I reminded her of her sister, and Rochus said something about me being tied to a great-aunt. I didn’t really put two and two together, but perhaps he meant her. So, yes, maybe she was from a past life. Who knows anymore?”
I pushed my feet a little closer to the fire, hoping to rid them of the chill. When that didn’t work, I grabbed the next item from Grampa’s container—a shoe box—and moved to the couch to cover myself in a black plush blanket.
“What’s in there?”
“Police reports, newspaper clippings and a leather notebook. What do you say, Les?” I said as she downed her last sip of wine. “You want half?”
“Hell, no, girl,” she chuckled, getting up. “I’m heading home to get some sleep. I’ll see you at work tomorrow.”
The door closed softly behind her, and I walked over and locked it. I could hear a tap dripping. Otherwise, the house seemed painfully silent. I wandered back into the living room and immediately noticed the notebook; I began reading through it as I made my way to the bathroom to brush my teeth. I hit page ten. As I read about Zafira’s murderer I was forced to sit down. Shocked by the revelation, I felt as if my bones had liquefied.
I was pulled back to reality by the sound of Daphne whining at the terrace door. It was pouring rain outside but she, of course, wanted out anyway. I had never met a cat that loved to be outside as much as her.
“There you are!”
A gust of wind blew in through the open window, and I shivered as I closed it. A shadow by the corner of the fence caught my eye but I dismissed it. With everything going on, I wasn’t going to allow myself to start seeing shadows at every turn.
Pushing aside further thoughts of Grampa Jackson and his box of secrets, I strolled into the bathroom, lit the candle and inhaled the relaxing aroma of spiced cinnamon. I watched the candle flicker before I turned the tap on, adjusting it for a few seconds until the steam began gathering. Was there anything better than a steaming hot shower? Well, yes—having someone to join you in it.
Thoughts of Cullen ran through my mind. Squeezing my thighs together produced a slight prickle of pleasure as I poured body wash onto the fluffy white loofah. The scents of jasmine and vanilla mixed into the steamy air. I washed myself slowly, looking forward to his call. This, I thought, smiling wryly and feeling like a horny teenager, was the reason he wanted to talk every night before bed. Knowing I had the whole day to fantasize over him. It was an additional way of keeping us both interested and satisfied despite the distance, I supposed. I wasn’t sure if it worked as intended though, as we were subjected to a whole day of arousal in anticipation of an elicit phone call.
I became stirred at the slightest thought of him. I would be working on research or restocking the shelves, and I would suddenly think of his big hands, or his finely chiselled abs. And I would be enticed: throbbing in willingness, imagining his touch.
The excess soap drained out of the loofah, and I leaned my head back into the water, eyes closed, thoughts of Cullen running through my mind. The water coursing over me was sultry.
“Damn you,” I whispered, amused, wondering if I dared continue running the loofah up my inner thigh.
He would, of course, ask if I had been touching myself. I could almost hear the lilt in his voice as he asked, “Have you been after pleasin’ yerself today?”
“Yes… Yes, of course,” I would answer, even if I hadn’t.
“How many?” in a deep and slow voice.
“Once.”
“You’re a wicked one. Where?”
“At my desk, when I was alone.”
“And did you climax?” He revelled in my telling, and the lustier the story, the more it amused him.
“Y… Yes.”
“And your panties?” His voice would be thick with arousal by then, and I quaked as I imagined him behind me, pressing against me, hard and commanding through his clothes. Pushing it against my naked bottom.
“I kept them on.”
My phone buzzed loudly on the vanity beside the shower, jumping me out of my skin and pulling me back from the brink of my fantasy. I closed my eyes and took a few deep breaths as the water ran down my back in rivulets before I turned off the tap and stepped out. The tiles under my feet were cold. I dried off and pulled a robe on. I padded into my bedroom in search of my nightgown.
I glanced down at the missed call, not really feeling like talking to just anyone, and hit send.
“Cullen, you’re early,” I said when he answered the phone.
“Sophie, me darlin’. How’s she cuttin’?”
I laughed, still not quite sure of the phrases he used. “Sorry I missed your call. I was just in the shower.”
“The shower, really. Mmmm. So we’re startin’ already. Thinkin’ of me, I hope.” The warmth of his words sparked excitement in my belly.
“No, really, I was in the shower, but actually I was thinking of you,” I said, a rush of warmth spreading between my legs. It was the effect his voice had on me every night, even without his physically presence. As I slipped on a freshly washed white nightgown, I felt the continued nagging ache below.
“I was missin’ ye too and couldn’t wait ’til I got home. Are y’ well? Ye sound sad.”
“I’m coping. I wish you were here. I wasn’t planning on getting into this now, but I was just going through a box of my great-grandfather’s I found at Gigi’s. He was a private investigator, and it was hidden in his office.
“Anything good?”
“Sort of. His journal; there were some pretty heavy articles in there. I haven’t really finished looking through it.” My eyes perused a love note Grampa had kept—a heart was drawn roughly on a napkin with the names Veronika and Jackson inside. “It’s kind of cute, but heartbreaking. He absolutely adored Gigi. He talked about how distraught she was over the disappearance of her sister first and then her father. It looks like Great-Grampa Jackson investigated the disappearances for many years, even when the trails went stone cold.”
“Well, that’s love, ain’t it? I guess that’s where ye get yer good stock from.”
“You’re sweet. It was pretty crazy though. Apparently about four years after they got married, he stumbled over a new lead and broke the case. You’ll never guess who killed her sister.”
“I haven’t a baldy.”
I smirked and continued my story, presuming I knew what he meant.
“Her father, Eugene, my great-great-great-grandfather.”
“I thought he was also missing?”
“He was, evidently because he was in jail. It’s hard to believe. Gigi talked about him all the time.”
“Are ye coddin’ me?”
“No, I guess Great-Grampa Jackson never told her. He wrote in his journal that she seemed happy raising their baby girl. I guess he just didn’t have the heart to bring more turmoil into her life.”
“I woulda been pissed if someone kept something’ like that from me.”
“I know, me too, but who really wants to find out their father’s a murderer, still alive, rotting in a penitentiary?”
“I’m in me wick—he was alive?”
“Yeah, sorry, I jumped a bit. There was an article talking about the prisoners in Kingston, and apparently Eugene’s name was featured in it.”
I tried and failed to imagine Gigi’s father, my great-great-grandfather, as a monster. Considering the stories Gigi had told me, it didn’t make sense that he could have done that.
“It’s a queer ol’ world.”
“I know. And the police reports were gruesome. I’m creeped out.”
“Shall I come over? I can be there in 10—maybe 24, depending on flights.” Cullen laughed.
“Yes, please. Don’t tease me.”
“I’m sorry, love, wish I could, but not bloody likely this month. I could ring up Liam an’ ask him to come stay with ye. He’s with Morai again. She’s after visitin’ her friend.”
“I’ve heard you say that name before that. Who is that?”
“Morai is my Da’s mum. She doesn’t like to travel on her own, so she usually drags Liam about. He’s a good sport about it.”
I thought of Cullen’s funny, sweet brother, unsure if he’d be much help in an attack. “It’s all right. I’m gonna go, though. Leslie just left, and I’m kind of tired.”
“Fine, love, ruin our fun, but ye owe me. Ring me tomorrow, an’ if you don’t sound cheered by then, to hell with business. I’ll be after movin’ in.”
“Sounds good to me.”
We said our good-byes and I hung up, thinking how nice it would be to have him here protecting me.
I returned to the box and sat there staring. Gruesome and familiar. Had Gigi told me any of this when I was younger? No, she wouldn’t have done that, but something about the way Zafira died suddenly made me think of tobacco smoke, which usually only reminded me of my nightmares. Had my dreams been about my aunt? The box was now making me feel uneasy. The fact that my house didn’t have an alarm, which had never bothered me before, now made me anxious. I looked out the window. The shadow was gone.
CHAPTER TWENTY
“Whatcha doin’?” Leslie plopped a stack of books on my desk.
“Oh, you scared me. I was just thinking about the curse.”
“Funny you should mention that.” Leslie stepped closer. “I came across the Heron-Allen family this morning.” Her lips pressed together as if she chewed on a thought. “Have you heard of them?”
“No.”
“Well, you’re going to love this. They owned an amethyst called the Purple Delhi Sapphire.”
“What?”
“I know. According to them, it was part of the missing treasure, stolen from the palace after the Princess was murdered. They don’t say how they got it, but they said the amethyst was brought to Monaco by a W. Ferris. So I searched the name. I don’t know how true any of this is, but I found a site on mysterious jewels. Do you mind?” she asked, leaning over me to access the keyboard. She hit enter, and a ridiculous image of a dancing jewel that looked nothing like mine flashed onscreen.
I scrolled down the page, reading as I went.
Apparently, Ferris recovered the stone from the Temple of Indra in Cawnpore during the Indian Mutiny in 1857. He lost all his money and his health after owning the jewel.
Heron-Allen, an Englishman who studied Persian amongst other things somehow inherited the jewel after it went missing from Monaco and before Cullen’s grandfather found it.
His last words on the jewel were, “Whoever shall then open it, shall first read out this warning, and then do as he pleases with the jewel. My advice to him or her is to cast it into the sea.”
“Sophia?”
Leslie’s voice snapped me back. “It goes on to say that supposedly he was told the key to unlocking the curse was written on the note that came with the stone, but he couldn’t figure it out. Also, I was looking through that calfskin book last night.”
“The book?”
“Don’t worry. I didn’t travel through time or get pulled in. But I found a torn piece of paper with—you’ll never guess—the name William Ferris on it. Odd coincidence, don’t you think?”
“I don’t think anything is a coincidence anymore.”
“Anyway, I checked it out, and I found a book with diary-like excerpts about survivor experiences of the Indian Rebellion. I don’t know if it has anything to do with you, but I think you should read it.”
I opened the book and read:
I sat in the tent dying of thirst, thinking how the beautiful gemstones sewn into my inside pocket were of no help to me now in this deserted hell.
I looked up at her. “Gems sewn into his pocket.”
“I know: I did good, right?” She smiled.
I thought of the conversation I had both read and dreamed about in the vision from Sapphira. The man had been infuriated by a treasure hunter named Ferris. He believed Ferris had hidden the Mogul Emperor’s jewels, which powered the gates of time, somewhere in the palace. I continued reading farther down the excerpt.
One of the men attempted to turn the boat around but I turned my gun on him. The gun shook as I fought to keep hold of my nerve. They found me. They were looking for the sapphire, and I wasn’t going back.
Clearly he was speaking of the Purple Delhi Sapphire, the magical amethyst stolen from the Temple of Indra. So Heron-Allen was correct; William Ferris brought it back from India. But how did the Princess get it?
I closed the book and looked for Leslie. God bless her, but she was now helping someone.
It was getting late, so I decided to leave and call her later.
As the veggies sautéed on the stovetop, I began to glance through Grandpa’s box. Gigi’s bible was tucked into the side. I must have accidentally stuck it in there while packing. The aroma of garlic permeated the air, and I couldn’t help but think of Gigi’s cooking. With a smile on my face, I flipped the bible open to her favourite passage in Ecclesiastes. A loose, fragile-looking paper fell out.
As I picked it up, my fingers went numb; an icy sensation rippled up my arm. My world spun as if I were caught in a whirlpool once again. Scribbly writing twisted across the top of the page
This stone is trebly accursed and stained with the blood and dishonour of everyone who has ever used it.
A part below that appeared to be in some sort of Arabic writing. I thought of Cullen’s grandfather and the note he had found with the gem: trebly accursed. It was too odd a saying not to stick. I scanned and e-mailed the note to my old professor, Bill. I was meeting him tomorrow to discuss the passage I’d sent him from Rochus’s book. Maybe he could make heads or tails of this translation as well.
I pulled up to Milestones in my vintage green Jag and recognized the man smoking to the left of the doors, a worn-out briefcase in hand. I was surprised at first to see that Bill had aged so much in the few years past. Even though I knew he was in his late sixties, he always seemed so exuberant and youthful to me. His face was paler than I remembered, and tiny droplets of sweat trickled down it. His eyes still sparkled though, and they lit up when he saw me.
“Sophia, my dear, you’ve grown more beautiful in the last three years. You know, it occurs to me that you look more like a student than a librarian.”
My hair was pinned up, and I was wearing a floral dress with black over-the-knee boots and a vest I’d found in a boutique in Prague.
“Well, thank you, Bill. All those facials must be paying off.”
Bill gave a little chuckle, and I kissed him on the cheek. He’d always treated me like one of his own.
“Shall we go inside then and get started? I have so much to tell you.”
He held the door open as I passed by. A few minutes later he
picked up his glass. “Here’s to old friendships and new discoveries,” he said, and he clinked it against mine.
I took a sip of my frozen concoction, champagne and peaches, and the tension eased out of my shoulders. I worried about involving someone else, but Bill’s presence made me feel safe and calm.
“So both pages you sent me are Persian. I was so fascinated by the dialect used, I almost showed it to a colleague. It’s rare. Anyway, I’m babbling, but you know how I live for this stuff. So the page you sent me first—”
“The one from the book?” I clasped my hands together to keep them still.
“Yes, it spoke of spirits. I believe it was called—” He opened his briefcase, removed a sheet of paper and handed it to me. “The Life Cycle.” He placed his hand over mine, as if sensing my nerves, gently patting it before going on.
“It depicts the cycle of life, explaining that all human spirits originate and exist blissfully on another plane and are in constant pursuit of a higher knowledge.”
Setting down my glass, I leaned forward and crossed my arms on the table. “So heaven,” I said, choosing my words carefully, “is like one big university.”
Bill arched an eyebrow. “Yes, exactly,” he said, tracing his finger down his beer mug. “And Earth is used as a training ground for spirits to learn. For example, it says here…” Bill paused, munching on a pita. “Mmm, this is good. Before spirits attempt a run at Earth, they must plot out a life filled with lessons.”
“Hmm mmm,” I said, swallowing a mouthful of hot gooey cheese. “But if that’s the case, why is there so much hardship? Why not write the perfect life?”
Bill paused as the waiter set our main courses in front of us.
“Good question. I get the feeling from the document they don’t understand pain. I actually remember a woman speaking on this topic about a year ago at the university. I think her name was Alesandra. She wrote a book; you should try doing a search for her. I remember she also said that spirits write scenarios that would provide these lessons, only they don’t understand the degree to which they’re writing it.”
Pursuing that line of thought, I said, “So if I wanted to learn about suffering and bereavement, I might add in a child or husband who dies tragically.”
The Temple of Indra’s Jewel: Page 14