House of Masques (18 page)

A Topaz brooch is the key to her life…and her death.

A Topaz for My Lady Fair

© 2014 Jane Toombs

The last thing Risa remembers is the accident. Knocked unconscious, she wakes up to a completely changed reality. The people around her are strangers, she's wearing strange clothes, and even her face isn't the same.

Fleeing back to her home for answers, Risa is horrified to discover that a whole year has passed. And that she's been declared dead! Convinced she's going mad, she turns to an old family heirloom—a topaz brooch—for answers. But sometimes the answers you receive are worse than the questions…

Enjoy the following excerpt for
A Topaz for My Lady Fair:

Risa was suddenly aware of the car. The screech of locked brakes hurt her ears, then the car swerved, its right fender giving her no more than a gentle nudge, but she was off balance and fell sideways into a spiral of nothingness.

The dark silence was infiltrated by whispers of sound, voices, words with no meaning. Risa opened her eyes to sunlight so glaring it sent slivers of pain into her skull.

“My head hurts,” she said.

A man knelt beside her holding her wrist.

“I didn't hit her, I know I didn't.” A woman's voice. Risa tried to push herself onto one elbow to focus on the speaker but the man's arm held her down. Suddenly panicky, she began to struggle.

“Don't move.” The man's voice was low but carried a note of authority. “I want to make sure nothing's broken.” Risa felt her arms and legs being moved gently.

Then he helped her to sit.

The woman spoke again. “You walked right out in front of my car—I was so scared. But I know I didn't hit you, the fender sort of brushed you is all.” A high-pitched voice, unpleasant, a blurred impression of long dark hair framing a thin face.

A wave of nausea gripped Risa and she clutched at her stomach, doubling over. She breathed deeply, mouth open, and the urge to vomit passed.

“Help me up,” she said, and as the man's arm tightened about her, she leaned into its strength and stood. She wavered a little and her head throbbed.

“I don't see any marks,” the woman said. “She isn't hurt.”

Risa disliked the whining voice. “I'm all right, I guess.” She tried to disengage herself from the man's arm. An urge to hurry from this place caught at her.

“You ought to get her name and address,” the man said.

Risa pulled free. “I'm all right,” she repeated. She had to get away, away from these irritating strangers. What was she doing here? Risa looked around, not recognizing the tall white building at the end of the parking lot. Had she brought the car?

“Where…?” she began and then decided she mustn't admit to not knowing where she was—she would never get rid of these people. “I'm really fine,” she said more positively. “Please don't bother about me.” She looked at the man as she spoke. About thirty, tall, brown hair curling to his collar—nothing unusual except the hazel eyes that examined her with concern. Attractive, long-lashed eyes with glints of gold in the iris. Discerning eyes. She turned away.

“Thank you for helping me,” she said.

The woman had backed off, edging around to the driver's side of her car. Risa made a gesture toward her. “She's right, you know. I must have walked out in front of the car. Not her fault. Good-bye and thanks again.”

Risa turned her back and walked slowly away, knowing the man was watching her. Her head pounded with each step but she clenched her teeth and kept going. Hurry from the white building, out of the parking lot! But where was she going? Did she have the car?

I don't even have my purse
, she thought.
Could I have dropped it when the car hit me
? She stopped, turned to look back and saw that the man was still standing there, though the woman's car was gone.

Risa jerked her head around and kept going.
I don't remember
, she thought.
I don't know if I had a purse or if I walked in front of that car
. Disturbed, she thrust her hands into the pockets of her coat. There was something in one pocket. Paper. Risa pulled out an envelope. The flap was only tucked in, not sealed, and she opened it. Money. The envelope was full of money. She counted the bills. Shaken, she leaned against one of the empty cars. What was she, Risa MacArthur, doing in a strange parking lot with no purse and twenty-five twenty-dollar bills in her pocket?

Amnesia? No, no, she knew who she was. But maybe the accident— didn't people sometimes forget what happened just before an accident? And obviously the woman's car
had
knocked her down. Risa looked at her hands, saw the scraped skin on the palms. And the headache. Had she hit her head?

“I don't think you're all right.” The man's voice made her jump. “I'd say you're suffering from mild shock, if nothing else. Quite common after an accident. I wouldn't drive quite yet if I were you.”

She stared at his face, saw the concern in the hazel eyes. “Drive?” she echoed.

“Isn't this your car?”

Risa glanced blankly at the blue Mustang she leaned against. “No. I don't—that is, my car's not here.”

“My name's Jim Halloway,” he said. “I'm a doctor. I really think you should have a more complete examination. I'd like to take you into the hospital emergency room here—or to your own physician if you prefer. Sometimes…”

Risa backed away from him, eyes wide. So that's what the white building at the far end of the parking lot was—a hospital. What was she doing here?
I've got to get back to Rory
, she thought.
He'll know what's wrong
.

“No,” she said. If only she could remember. But her head was fuzzy with pain and her stomach tightened with nausea. She put a shaky hand to her forehead. Her legs were trembling.
I'm going to pass out
, she thought.

Jim Halloway's arm held her firmly. She felt him push her head down and she opened her mouth to take deep breaths. “Please,” she managed to gasp, “just let me go home.” Then she began to whirl into the spiraling darkness once again.

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This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

Samhain Publishing, Ltd.

11821 Mason Montgomery Road Suite 4B

Cincinnati OH 45249

House of Masques

Copyright © 2014 by Fortune Kent

ISBN: 978-1-61921-858-1

Edited by Heather Osborn

Cover by Angela Waters

All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Original Publication by Ballantine: 1975

First
Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
electronic publication: August 2014

www.samhainpublishing.com