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    Sleeping Beauty, Borrowed Time: A Fairy Tale Fatal Novella
    Sleeping Beauty, Borrowed Time: A Fairy Tale Fatal Novella
    Sleeping Beauty, Borrowed Time: A Fairy Tale Fatal Novella
    Ebook103 pages1 hour

    Sleeping Beauty, Borrowed Time: A Fairy Tale Fatal Novella

    By Maia Chance

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    About this ebook

    In this continuation of the national bestselling Fairy Tale Fatal mystery series, fate brings down-at-heel actress Ophelia Flax to an elegant hospital high in the Swiss Alps, where she confronts evil, enchantment, and her own guarded heart.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherBookBaby
    Release dateMay 16, 2017
    ISBN9780692885352
    Sleeping Beauty, Borrowed Time: A Fairy Tale Fatal Novella
    Author

    Maia Chance

    Maia Chance, national and bestselling author, writes mystery novels that are rife with absurd predicaments and romantic adventure. She was born in rural Washington State, grew up in the small-town of Moscow, Idaho, and after living in upstate New York and Boston for a decade, she returned to the Seattle area. She now makes her home with her family on magical Bainbridge Island.

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      Book preview

      Sleeping Beauty, Borrowed Time - Maia Chance

      9

      1

      Switzerland, July 1868.

      Ophelia Flax, actress and circus performer, was not given to fits, swoons, or corset loosening. Smelling salts had never passed beneath her nostrils. She was more your straighten-your-spine-and-get-on-with-it sort of woman. Case in point: balancing on one foot atop a trick pony required quantities of grit.

      So when the little rotter in the audience threw the sausage that hit Ophelia square between the eyes, when she lost her balance and thumped to the filthy sawdust, she didn’t scream or faint. Of course, she didn’t know the culprit was a little rotter until later. Nor that it was, specifically, a Swiss cervelat that had hit her, although it left a fragrant greasy splotch on her forehead.

      No, as she lay there in a tangle of yellow tulle and pink satin ribbons, with pony legs blurring around her and the aerialists swinging above, she merely released a long, juddering hiss. For her right forearm was pinned beneath her at a peculiar angle and throbbing with vast, dark pain.

      Her arm, snapped like a stick of kindling. Tarnation!

      Encased in agony and shock, she couldn’t budge. The crowd’s gasps and hoots sounded as though they were muffled by quilt batting. They’d be hooting about her legs, Ophelia figured, exposed up to her hips in white silk tights. Not that a trick pony rider could afford to be modest about her legs.

      Gilda, another trick rider, leapt down from her own pony and gently helped Ophelia to her feet. Tears sprang to Ophelia’s eyes at the stinging in her bone.

      Ah, my dear! Gilda murmured, her eyes widening at the sight of Ophelia’s rubbery dangling arm. It is like a marionette!

      If only I were made of wood, Ophelia managed weakly. A dab of glue and a clamp, and I’d be good as new.

      She allowed Gilda to lead her across the ring, past the other performers who were proceeding with their acts. Roberto in his harlequin suit offered a wink of sympathy as he juggled flaming torches. Florica, standing on the shoulders of Boban as he pedaled past on a velocipede, blew Ophelia a kiss. Even the fluffy-maned lion, sitting on his scarlet podium, seemed to give her a worried look.

      Ophelia and Gilda slipped behind a flap in the huge yellow-and-blue-striped tent and found themselves outside. The off-key oompahs of the band and the clamor of the crowd faded. Crickets chirped in the boundless, cool summer night. Black mountains saw-toothed across a star-freckled sky.

      They picked their way through the grassy field, passing caravans with glowing windows, and without needing to consult each other, climbed the curved steps of the ornate caravan at the edge. This was inhabited by Nadya the bearded lady, who also served as the troupe’s fortune-teller and doctor.

      Well, doctor of sorts.

      Several minutes later, Nadya was prodding gingerly at Ophelia’s arm, which rested tender-side up on a table cluttered with dribbling ashtrays, a bottle of gin, a greasy drinking glass, and tarot cards. A hanging lamp hissed, exuding the stink of paraffin and a shaky yellow light. Gilda had already left. Nadya (or, truly, her beard) was one of the sideshows, which meant that she was already done working for the night, for in Circus Bruni, the sideshows operated before the main tent show.

      A knock sounded on the caravan’s door.

      Oui? Nadya called.

      The door opened halfway. A gentleman’s face appeared, plump, smooth, with a well-barbered dark beard. Beside him was a miniature replica of himself, less the beard. The little boy’s lower lip protruded, and his brows furrowed. Both father and son—for that is what they indubitably were—wore well-tailored brown jackets, waistcoats, and silk ties. They held their hats politely.

      What is it? Ophelia asked. She left her arm lolling on the table. It was simply too painful to move.

      Ah, you speak English, the gentleman said with some sort of Continental accent. Good. May I . . . May I come in?

      Ophelia glanced at Nadya. Nadya shrugged her shoulders and poured herself a glass of gin. She spoke no English, only French and a Gypsy tongue.

      What is it? Ophelia asked. She was plenty used to men calling upon circus girls after the show. But this one had a child in tow, so he couldn’t be a hopeful admirer. Besides, he carried neither flowers nor cheap champagne.

      The gentleman thrust the little boy forward into the light. I beg your pardon, miss, but it was my son who, ah, who threw the cervelat that knocked you from your horse. He did it in a fit of pique, you see, after his mother ordered him to eat. Fritz, please apologize.

      I am sorry, Fritz mumbled, eyes on the floor.

      Are you quite all right? The gentleman eyed Ophelia’s arm. Is it . . . ?

      It’s broken, Ophelia said.

      Broken! Good heavens, I do apologize. The man studied Nadya, regal in her emerald silk gown, with her full bosom, white shoulders, and bushy black beard.

      Nadya met the gentleman’s eyes haughtily, and he looked away.

      And is this, ah—this person a qualified doctor? the gentleman asked Ophelia in lower tones.

      Depends on what you call ‘qualified.’ Anyway, she’s all I’ve got, and she has set bones plenty of times before. No use mentioning that the sword swallower had a finger shaped like a banana due to Nadya’s slapdash bonesetting technique. Now, if you don’t mind . . . Ophelia looked pointedly past the gentleman.

      Nadya poured another large gin, knocked it back, and daintily dabbed her beard with a lace handkerchief.

      Oh, dear—this will not do, the gentleman said. This will not do at all. Please, Miss . . . ?

      Flax.

      "Miss Flax, I am most excessively distraught by your predicament. Will you be able to work while your arm is healing? If, that is, this, ah, person is able to successfully set it?"

      Work? Drat. Ophelia hadn’t thought of that. Every night she rode trick ponies during the first half of the show, and in the second half she led her miniature poodle, Meringue, through an act involving fiery hoops and, in the finale, a large bucket of water. She couldn’t perform with her right arm in a cast. She was right-handed.

      The gentleman was frowning. You will perhaps . . . lose your job?

      No. Actually, Ophelia wasn’t too sure.

      Please allow me to make a proposal, Miss Flax. Not far from here there is an esteemed hospital, a sanatorium of the first quality, over which an acquaintance of mine, Dr. Goiret, presides. I will take you there, see to it that your arm is set properly by— He stole another aghast look at Nadya swilling gin. "—by a trained doctor, and then I will bear the expense for you to stay there for however long your arm requires to fully heal."

      I don’t—

      "I beg you, Miss Flax."

      Ophelia shook her head. I hate handouts.

      At that moment, another figure appeared in the caravan doorway and pushed past the gentleman and his son. This was Regis Bruni, the

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