Part 1 (1/2)

Anew.

Awakened.

Litton, Josie.

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Dedication.

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Once Upon a Time.

”There was then in this castle a princess, the most beautiful was ever seen; that she must sleep there a hundred years and should be waked by a prince, for whom she was reserved.”

”At last he came into a chamber all gilded with gold, where he saw upon a bed, the curtains of which were all open, the finest sight was ever beheld--a resplendent beauty.”

Charles Perrault, The Sleeping Beauty, 1697.

Chapter One.

Amelia.

The Palazzo.

200 miles north of Manhattan.

April, 2059.

I breathe.

...and a surge of fragrant air fills me.

I hear.

... the murmur of wind in spring leaves.

I feel.

... the feather weight of fabric on my limbs.

Slowly, afraid it is all yet one more cruel dream, I open my eyes.

Splinters of color and shape pierce me.

The world rushes in.

I am lying on a floating bed suspended under the wrought iron dome of a small pavilion. The sky, glimpsed between tall white columns, is painfully bright. Far off in the distance, light creates shards of diamonds on the surface of a lake fringed with the reflections of tall pines. Beyond, an endless vista of trees and mountains falls away to the edge of the world.

In the stillness, I hear the stirring of life all around me. The bed sways as I leave it and step out onto the far end of a garden divided by the long sweep of a manicured lawn. Spring flowers in a riot of white, pink, and blue fill the formal beds. A robin flits by, bound for the fountain at the center where sprays of water create prisms of light in the fragrant air.

I turn and turn again, trying to drink it all in, relief for my parched senses. In the periphery of my vision, I see chestnut strands of hair--my hair!--fluttering in the air. I feel the s.h.i.+fting of the thin sheath that skims my body from shoulders to ankles. Backlit by the sun, the fabric becomes diaphanous and I glimpse blus.h.i.+ng alabaster skin.

Turning, turning, my arms fling out to embrace this extraordinary world. I laugh because I can and because the joy bubbling up in me will not be denied.

I am free!.

But I am not alone.

The sight of an elegant palazzo at the opposite end of the garden brings me to a sudden stop. Late afternoon sun falls over white stone walls that gleam under a sloping, red-tiled roof. A graceful balcony runs the length of the second floor. Twin, one-story wings extend perpendicular to the main part of the house. They frame the garden between columned galleries.

As I watch, a man emerges from the deep shadows on the far side of the fountain, coming from darkness into light. His stride--steady, swift, purposeful--dissolves the distance between us. Black jeans hug the long length of his legs and his narrow hips. Under a snug black T-s.h.i.+rt, I see the movement of muscles across his broad shoulders and chest. His arms hang loosely at his sides, the fingers of each hand curling inward as though he carries weapons that are invisible to me. His hair is dark brown, thick and slightly long. The sun has burnished his skin. He has strong, symmetrical features, the facial bones angular and chiseled.

Too far away to see his eyes, I nonetheless feel their intensity. My first instinct is to flee but where? Belatedly, I realize that I don't know where I am, much less where I could go.

Searching for answers, I stumble across a greater mystery. I have no idea who I am.

With that discovery, my heart begins to race but only for an instant. Panic recedes like a swiftly ebbing tide, replaced by a swell of soothing calm. I stand frozen in place, waiting heartbeat to heartbeat as he nears.

Across shrinking s.p.a.ce, further details reveal themselves. He hasn't shaved in a day...two? I wonder suddenly how the stubble along his square jaw would feel against my fingertips. Is it coa.r.s.e? Raspy? Silken? The thought shocks me with its presumption of intimacy.

When no more than an arm's length separates us, he stops. That close, he appears even larger, more formidable but also young, still in his twenties, I think. At last, I can see his eyes. Set under arching brows, they are a rich golden amber shading to brown and framed by thick lashes.

When I meet his gaze, I glimpse curiosity darkened by...pa.s.sion? I shy away from that at once, concentrating on what else I glimpse. Wariness? Can that be right? Is there something about me that makes this man cautious?

At that moment, what I want most is to hear his voice. When it comes, the deep, slightly husky timbre sends a s.h.i.+ver through me. I watch in unwilling fascination as his full, surprisingly sensuous mouth--the only hint of softness I can see in him--shapes a single word: ”Amelia.”

I have a name.

One I do not recognize but a name even so.

Without taking his eyes from me, he steps closer and holds out his hand in a gesture that is equally comfort and command. Without thought, I give him my own and am drawn to him.

I can feel the heat of his body through the thin sheath that covers me. His touch is new, strange, disturbing. Yet not for a moment do I consider trying to break the contact between us.