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Authors: Brenda Joyce

BOOK: House of Dreams
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“This is about my sister, Miss Bookworm, Miss Earth Mother, Miss I'll Do Anything to Get Your Attention, Antonio, isn't it?” Tracey began to shake violently. When had she ever been this angry? She could not remember a single time.
“This has nothing to do with your sister,” Antonio said. And this time he stood abruptly and exited the room, leaving her standing there by herself.
But Tracey hadn't heard him. She could only think,
Cass. Damn Cass.
And she clenched her fists hard and harder still.
This had gone too far.
Cass had gone too far.
 
 
Cass was about to go upstairs to wake Alyssa when her sister appeared on the other side of the great hall. Cass hesitated because Tracey was staring at her. “Is something wrong?” she asked slowly.
Tracey said, “Yes.”
“Tracey? What is it?” She came forward quickly. And dread unfurled within her.
“What have you done?” Tracey asked harshly. Her blue eyes were brilliant.
Cass realized that her sister was angry. “What happened? I haven't done anything.”
“No?” Tracey said. Then, “Stay away from him.”
Cass halted in midstride. “What?” She'd never heard such a dangerous tone in her sister's voice before. “What are you talking about?” But she knew exactly what—and whom—Tracey was talking about.
“‘What?'” Tracey cried mockingly. “‘What are you talking about?' You're trying to steal Antonio away from me. Don't you bloody deny it.”
Cass had stiffened impossibly. “I'm not. That's absurd.” But … wasn't she?
“You're lying,” Tracey said, advancing on her.
Cass stepped back, stunned. “I would never interfere in your relationship,
and if you and Antonio are having difficulties, don't blame me.”
The words weren't even out of Cass's mouth when Tracey pushed her hard. Cass reeled backward, against the wall. She was in disbelief. And then she was afraid.
Because her six-foot-tall sister towered over her, grabbing her by her shirt now. “Isn't this why you wanted to come to Spain in the first place? To make me look bad?”
“No, it's not. Tracey, stop,” Cass cried.
Tracey pulled Cass off of the wall and flung her hard in the other direction. Cass was hurled back toward the center of the hall, and she hit the stone floor on her hands and knees. And then she heard Tracey coming.
Cass crouched, looking up. She hadn't realized just how strong her sister was. “What are you doing?” she shouted at her. But it crossed her mind that Tracey had lost all self-control, that she was briefly, temporarily, insane.
“I hate you,” Tracey cried, kicking her.
Cass tried to roll away. But Tracey's foot made contact with her jaw just the same, and even though she was wearing sandals, it hurt. Cass gasped, her hand flying to her face, suddenly realizing the danger she was in.
She was no match for her sister, who was so much bigger than she. Who was enraged and out of her mind.
And Tracey pressed forward, in on her. “Did you hear me?” she raged.
Cass stared at her, shocked, afraid. She did not know whom she was looking at. She had never seen her sister this way before. In fact, Tracey didn't really look like Tracey. She looked like some strange, enraged woman.
“I have always hated you,” Tracey cried down at her.
And Cass met her eyes and she believed her, and maybe it was then that something in her died. “But we're sisters,” she whispered.
“You're my sister.”
Tracey stared at her, and she looked at Cass's cheek—Cass imagined a welt was there—and suddenly the angry, ugly light in her eyes began to fade.
Cass slowly stood up. One of her knees was bleeding. “You're my sister. I will always love you, Trace, no matter what you say or do.”
Tracey's expression slowly changed. The anger vanished, and only bewilderment remained. And then horror came. She backed away, her
gaze never leaving Cass. “Oh, God,” she said. “Oh, God, what have I done!”
Cass hugged herself, tears suddenly welling up in her eyes. “You beat me up,” she repeated. “How could you kick me?”
Tracey backed away, shaking her head. “I don't know. I'm so confused—I can't think—I'm sorry, I don't know!”
Cass tried to suck down air—she had forgotten to breathe. It was only then that she realized how violently she was beginning to tremble.
But Tracey continued to shake her head, having lost all of her color, and she turned, rushing out the front door of the house.
Cass thought she was crying, but she could not be sure.
It struck her that she should go after her, but she did not move. The vicious scene replayed in her mind. Cass closed her eyes. In those few violent moments, Tracey had wanted to kill her.
Cass was certain of it.
 
 
Cass found Alyssa tossing restlessly as she entered their bedroom.
She had recovered some of her composure, but only by telling herself very firmly that Tracey had merely lost her temper. That she had not wanted to harm her own sister—much less kill her.
That
was absurd. In spite of their differences, they loved one another. Cass had imagined the vicious, brutal intent.
Coming to Spain had been a mistake.
Trying not to dwell on that thought, Cass hurried to her niece, who appeared to be caught up in the throes of an unpleasant dream. Alyssa was making small, whimpering sounds. “Wake up, sweetie,” Cass said, stroking her forehead. Her jaw still ached from where Tracey had kicked her. “Wake up, Alyssa. You're having a bad dream, that's all.”
Alyssa's eyes popped open. Wide-eyed and frightened, she stared unseeingly at Cass. “No!”
“Honey, it's me, your aunt Cass.”
Alyssa looked at her, and she sighed loudly. “Oh, Aunt—Aunt Cass! You're hurt!” she cried, fully awake now.
“I'm fine, it's just a bruise,” Cass said.
“It looks terrible,” Alyssa said. “What happened?”
Cass did not reply. She was still in shock, she realized, and no amount of rationalizing or deep breathing was going to help. Tracey
had appeared very unbalanced, if she dared to be frank with herself. “I fell. Don't worry,” Cass reassured her niece.
“Aunt Cass, your knee is bleeding,” Alyssa pointed out with a seven-year-old's interest in gory details.
“I guess that was some fall, huh?” she said with a false smile. “I'm fine, honey.” She put her arm around her niece. To distract her, Cass asked, “So what were you dreaming about? I came in and you were making lots of noise. Bad dream?”
Alyssa bit her lip, nodding. Now she moved closer to Cass, while glancing fearfully over her shoulder, behind them. “Aunt Cass, I had
such
a bad dream. I don't like it here. I want to go home.”
Cass stared, not really all that surprised.
“I hate this house the most!” Alyssa burst out.
Cass was taken aback. Her niece was not wildly emotional. Cass worried, in fact, because generally she was so self-contained for a child. But there was nothing self-contained about her now. Cass had never before seen her so agitated.
Cass slid her arm around her, and even as she did so, she thought about her encounter with Tracey and her pulse quickened.
Coming to Spain was a mistake
. She knew it with certainty now.
“Why do you hate it here, honey?” she asked carefully. She was quite certain the answer would have to do with the growing tension between her and her sister. Children were the first to pick up on those kinds of family dynamics. Thank God Alyssa had not seen Tracey push her around and kick her.
“Aunt Cass, do you believe in ghosts?” was Alyssa's answer, and she was whispering.
Cass's heart skipped a beat as she picked up the child's pink jeans at the foot of the bed. “Of course not,” she lied. Why would Alyssa even ask such a question?
As clear as a bell, she could hear the thud of the door to the mausoleum when it had slammed shut.
Alyssa folded her skinny arms tightly to her chest. “I don't, either,” she said firmly.
Cass smiled at her niece. It was forced and cautious. “Honey, what made you even ask?”
“I don't know.” Alyssa sounded genuinely bewildered, but she remained worried. “Maybe because this house is so big and so old. And so cold.” She shivered. “Aren't you cold, Aunt Cass? I'm always cold
in this place. I really hate it here. I know my mother wants to stay, but do you think we could go home?”
Cass's pulse leapt. “I'm scheduled to return on Monday. Maybe your mom will let you come home with me.” She knew she shouldn't, but she was manipulating the child. So she added, “I'd love for you to come back with me, honey. But it would be up to your mom. This is a holiday just for the two of you.”
Alyssa nodded, not appearing very happy.
And Cass, recalling what had just happened in the hall downstairs, could not face the thought of leaving Alyssa behind with her mother. “You know,” she said as lightly as possible, holding out her jeans, “Belford House is old, Alyssa, and you're happy there.”
Alyssa stared at her before slipping on her jeans. “Belford House is different,” she said.
“Why? Why is it different?”
Alyssa hesitated. “It
feels
different, Aunt Cass. It's such a
nice
house. It's
happy
. And I don't have bad dreams there like I do here.” Tears finally filled her eyes. “I don't want to sleep alone, Aunt Cass.”
“It was only a dream,” Cass soothed, stroking her hair. But the oddest notion had just crossed her mind: Hadn't she heard somewhere—maybe on a talk show with one of those supposed mediums—that children were far more apt to see “entities” than adults? And wasn't Alyssa right? This was an unhappy house. “And I'm sleeping with you, remember?”
Alyssa was grim. “I don't want to take a siesta tomorrow if you're not there.”
“All right.” Cass took her niece's hand and they walked out of the bedroom. “Do you want to talk about the dream you had? Would that help?”
“I don't know. But it was so real. There was this beautiful lady, and she kept whispering things in my ear. She was so beautiful, but she really scared me, she was so mean and hateful.”
Cass stared, Isabel's image instantly coming to mind. She told herself not to be ridiculous, there was no connection between Alyssa's dream and her ancestor. Alyssa might have overheard them talking about her, but she had never seen her portrait, and surely she hadn't been dreaming about her. “Well, you're awake now, and it was just a dream.” She paused. “We all have very odd dreams, Alyssa. Usually they don't mean anything.”
“This lady was dressed like the women in one of those movies you like so much, Aunt Cass. Why would I dream about her?”
They faced each other. “What was she wearing?” Cass asked cautiously.
“A long red dress with a huge skirt, and this white ruffled collar. Her dress had big puffy sleeves, and she had a necklace on, just like the one from Sotheby's that my mother brought to our house.”
And Cass could not believe what she was hearing. She reminded herself that Alyssa had seen the ruby necklace when it had been on display during the black-tie supper. Cass had showed it to her herself. And Cass had certainly taken Alyssa to plenty of museums—Alyssa had seen sixteenth-century dress on mannequins and in artwork many times. But she had also seen earlier and later period dress.
No,
Cass thought.
This is just a coincidence
. “What did her face look like?” she asked very slowly.
“She was very fair, her eyes were very blue, and her hair wasn't blond, but it wasn't red either,” Alyssa said earnestly. “Aunt Cass, why are you so surprised?”
Cass could not reply. She could only regard her niece, thinking,
How is this possible?
Why would Alyssa have a dream about Isabel de Warenne? Could the dream be some sort of mental telepathy? Was Alyssa picking up on Cass's fascination? Because Alyssa had never even seen Isabel's portrait.
Isabel has scared her to death.
“Do you know who this lady is? Do you know her name?” Cass asked.
“No, but I don't want to dream about her ever again,” Alyssa said firmly.
Cass inhaled. “What are you saying? That you've dreamed about her more than once?”
Alyssa nodded tearfully. “I dreamed about her last night, too, Aunt Cass. And I'm afraid.
I'm so afraid to dream about her again.”

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