House of Dreams by Brenda Joyce Page B

temples. As she did so, the photograph she had tucked into the back of the book started to slip out.
    Cass took out the color print of the sixteenth-century ruby necklace, staring at it without quite seeing it. Should she be relieved that Hopkins hadn’t called her and hadn’t raised the topic that she dreaded? Should she dare to hope that Tracey had been bluffing when she’d said her lawyer would call? Tracey hadn’t actually specified just why her lawyer would be calling, but then, whom was Cass fooling? They had been fighting over Alyssa. And what about her aunt, who remained ill with a bacterial infection? Catherine was on antibiotics, but her fever remained high, at 100 degrees. For a woman of seventy, that was serious. What if her aunt died?
    Cass was filled with worry, panic, regret, and guilt. She regretted their arguments. She still didn’t understand how so much vehemence had blossomed between them, when they’d only shared warmth and camaraderie until then.
    And Cass kept hearing Catherine in her delirium. At least she had not been delirious again.
    Cass found herself staring down at the photograph she held in her
hands. This had all started, hadn’t it, when Antonio de la Barca had appeared at their home? Or had it started decades ago, when his father had been killed, accidentally or not, by an automobile in some town called Pedraza?
    Or had it begun centuries ago?
    Cass was dismayed by her last thought.
    No good can come of the families being involved … You are starting to understand …
    Her aunt’s words echoed disturbingly in her mind. Cass’s headache increased. Centuries ago, one of her ancestors had been, apparently, burned to death at the stake. An important woman, the earl of Sussex’s daughter, a noblewoman married to a Spanish nobleman. Cass had done a bit of research. The de la Barca heirs were the counts of Pedraza. A number of heretics had been burned at the stake toward the end of Mary’s reign. But most of those who had suffered such a death had been fanatically Protestant. Had Isabel been a religious fanatic? But then how had she married a Spaniard, who would obviously be devoutly Catholic?
    Suddenly Cass could envision a lovely woman in period Tudor dress—in chains and manacles. She was used to her imagination running away with her—in fact, she expected it—so her flight of fancy hardly surprised her. But her sudden compassion did. Poor Isabel. If she had really met such a tragic fate.
    Suddenly Cass wondered if Antonio was lobbying various museums, hoping to make a museum sale privately for the ruby necklace. She studied it critically now, wondering if Isabel had worn it, and if Isabel was really her ancestor—which would mean that her family was indeed connected with the de la Barcas. And what if Isabel had had children? Then Antonio’s family was very distantly related to hers. Cass stood up abruptly, entirely perturbed, setting aside the necklace.
    Tracey and Antonio, Catherine and Eduardo. Then she thought about her own reaction to Antonio.
    This is nonsense , she decided angrily. Even though she was a romantic and the kind of woman to believe in destiny, there was no destiny here. Catherine might think so, but it was all terrible coincidence.
    Cass folded her arms. Uneasily she stared down at the photograph. The problem was, she did believe in destiny and fate. She always had, and it was a theme in her novels, one she had repeated time and again. Were there a few too many coincidences present here?

    Catherine had said that Isabel had died in 1555—the last year of Queen Mary’s reign. How in the hell would her aunt know, or even remember, that?
    The very last entry in her aunt’s journal had mentioned Isabel. Cass shivered. She was so cold, and it was a coldness that began in her very bones.
    Cass suddenly glanced around at the library where she usually worked, a room that she loved. The walls were painted