Gypsy Jewel (2 page)

April’s pounding heart gradually subsided and she glanced up at the stranger again, suddenly shy. She had no idea why, for she was not afraid of him, and he had helped her out of a sticky situation. But a sudden urge to find the Romany band and escape to the sanctuary of the mountains pulled at her. With a brief nod of thanks, she turned to go.

“Wait.” It was a gentle command, but a command nonetheless. April paused, feeling those light blue eyes holding her in place. And then the man was beside her, taking her hand and wrapping her fingers around the apple which had mysteriously reappeared.

She reddened with insult. “I didn’t steal it —”

“I know. I happened to look out from the shop window into the alley, and I saw what really happened. But this apple is all I have to give you, little girl, and you deserve something for your courage just now.”

Suspicious that he wanted nothing else from her, which was clearly out of character for a
gajo
, April asked boldly, “You saved my life. Why?”

The man looked startled by her question, as if it had never occurred to him not to intercede on her behalf. Then his shrug made April wonder even more. His blue eyes distant, he finally murmured, “Sometimes a man sees all the injustice he can take in one day.” As her brow furrowed thoughtfully, he broke from his dark mindset and patted her kindly on the shoulder.

“Maybe I’ll be in a position someday where you can return the favor, all right?”

With a show of generosity, April offered eagerly, “If you ever want your fortune told, I’ll do it for free. I’m almost as good as my mother now.”

A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “I’m sure you are. Will you predict good luck or bad for me, do you think?”

“Good, of course.” She looked offended by the question.

He laughed. “I can use all the help I can get, little girl. And if I ever have the good fortune to run into you again, I’ll take you up on it … right now, though, I’m due to catch a ship home. Promise me you’ll stay out of trouble? You’re far too young yet to go courting disaster.”

While he spoke, Damien studied the sweep of golden-tipped lashes on the child’s rosy cheeks, studying the fine details of her features. Someday, when she was older, she would be a beauty to be reckoned with. And woe to the man, or men, who tried to break her spirit, he thought. There was fire in this little one’s green eyes.

Her heart-shaped mouth pursed at the unfamiliar word. “‘Courting’? What’s that?”

“No doubt you’ll find out soon enough,” Damien replied a little dryly. He gave her one last wink, then strode off down the street.

April stood watching him for a moment, twirling the apple in her hands. Then, before she went in search of Tzigane again, she put the fruit to her lips and took a huge bite.

T
ZIGANE WAS GETTING OLD,
and the harsh Russian winters had not agreed with her. Her amber-colored eyes were still bright against the dark matte of her skin, but what had once been rich, sable-brown hair was now liberally streaked with gray, and hours of meditation upon her tarot cards ringed her eyes with dark circles and bags.

With gruff honesty, Tzigane admitted to herself that looking in a mirror now only revealed the hag she was labeled by the
gaje
. But her crone-like appearance actually made for better business. The
gaje
women shivered with delicious fright when she cackled over their cards, and their men could not disguise interest when she spewed out their respective fates in a dramatic, croaking voice.

The gypsies themselves agreed that Tzigane, though a widow, more than paid for herself and the keep of her daughter, April. Especially in the winter months, when boredom and confinement drove the
boyar
aristocrats in search of amusement, Tzigane could often be found huddled in her colorful little wagon with a circle of wide-eyed young ladies from the nearest town.

After thirty years of plying her trade, Tzigane’s skirts were heavy now from the gold coins sewn safely in the hems. But money paled beside Tzigane’s secret purpose: to secure for her daughter April a better life. Many a time the
phuri dai
had watched the fine ladies upon gentlemen’s arms as the tribe passed through various cities, and she gnawed thoughtfully upon her plan.

Close study of her foster daughter always reassured the old woman of her eventual success. April was a beauty, and had been turning men’s heads ever since she had tagged along at Tzigane’s skirts. Of the girl’s true heritage, the seer still knew nothing. Even her cards were silent on April’s past. But it was enough for Tzigane that April was pretty, clever, and quick to learn, and therefore able to fulfill her foster mother’s dreams for her.

Tzigane plotted most carefully. Nowadays, a gentlewoman knew how to ride, hunt, and shoot alongside men, and she also spoke several languages. From childhood April had been well-versed not only in her native Romany, but in Russian and Turkish as well. The real obstacle had been getting the girl exposed to refined languages such as English and French. Fortunately, the Lowara band was comprised of those from varied backgrounds, and Tzigane paid several of the other women to instruct April in their spare time.

There was a fiery, dark-eyed girl who had immigrated from a Manouches gypsy band on the outskirts of Paris, and another who had been an English lady’s maid until she had been dismissed for stealing. Both agreed to teach April what they could of their languages, and reported to a satisfied Tzigane they were surprised at how easily the young girl learned new things.

It did not surprise Tzigane. April was like a sponge, soaking everything up, incessantly curious, sometimes to the point of annoying the elders in the camp. But though she had exasperated them as a child, she worried them more as a young woman, riding her black stallion astride and causing the young men of the band to fight amongst themselves for the chance to race or chase her in the woods.

When April had turned seventeen this past spring, it was agreed among the elders and the
Rom Baro
, Jingo, that it would soon be time to put an end to Tzigane’s crazy whims. Bad enough that she let her daughter run wild like a boy, but she had made no marriage plans for the girl.

While most young women April’s age were already wed and with child, it infuriated the women and concerned the men that the
phuri dai
‘s daughter should be given preferential treatment. There was no doubt Tzigane had sufficient dowry for the girl, so when would she settle April’s future?

But April’s future was exactly what Tzigane had in mind one late summer day as she spread out the arcana and peered at her tarot cards, trying to read the hazy signs that signified her daughter’s destiny. Once a day she had April shuffle the well-worn, colorful cards, and though the young woman was long impatient with the task, she still agreed to it out of love and respect for her mother.

Tzigane always spent hours poring over the meaning of the cards, pondering and weighing her next move, and today was no exception. But something was wrong — never before had the cards been so clear, so defined, in telling her that April was in grave danger.

Dabbing at her sweaty brow with the tail of the kerchief that bound back her hair, Tzigane stared at the picture of the mighty ivory and onyx tower surrounded by a boiling, blood-red sea. Red was the color of death to all Romany, and to see it surface made the old woman shiver with fear.

The Tower meant calamity coming soon. Crossed over the Queen of Diamonds, April’s card, it was as obvious as a warning shout in her ear. Rising abruptly with the ominous card still in hand, Tzigane hobbled as quickly as she could on her arthritic legs to the far end of her wagon.

Leaning out the back of the wagon, she croaked at the children scampering nearby, “April! Where is April?”

The boys stopped scuffling in the dirt to regard the
phuri dai
with wary respect. She appeared ancient to them, and they knew the respect she commanded in the tribe. Still, she frightened them, for her bony fingers shook at them and her raspy cry was like that of an angry crow.

“Where is April? You must find her for me.”

The oldest of the boys, and the bravest, risked Tzigane’s wrath by shouting back, “She went to the woods.”

“Alone?” The old woman looked close to toppling out the back of her wagon, as she leaned dangerously and trembled like a leaf in the wind.

“No, a bunch of the girls went berry hunting together.”

Tzigane visibly sagged with relief, then muttered to herself, “Perhaps she is safe … oh,
Del
, watch over my
chavali
, my little girl …”

But even as she prayed, the
phuri dai
could feel the sharp edge of the tarot card cutting into her clenched fist, and when she looked down, there was blood on her hand.

“H
E’LL BE THE DEATH
of you yet!”

As a familiar horse streaked by him on the forest path, Nicabar shook his fist after the girl who flew by like the wind. The black’s hooves tossed up chunks of soft, dark earth that spurted in every direction, and one of the clods hit the young man squarely on the cheek. With a furious gesture, he wiped off the mud and started to run after her.

Ahead of him, the stallion and the carefree Romany maid shot from the trees into the glorious sunlight of an open meadow. Riding bareback, the young woman wore slim-cut black trousers like Nicabar’s, but there was no mistaking her for a man. Nature had conspired in the last few years to make April unmistakably feminine, and just to watch her ride astride was enough to make Nicky’s loins throb.

He caught up with April when she drew Prince Adar down to a canter and circled ahead in a clearing. Pausing on the forest’s fringe, Nicky took the opportunity to covertly observe the girl. Eyes shining with exhilaration from her wild ride, April leaned down to stroke the arched neck of the horse as she finally brought the animal to a stop in the knee-high, lush grass.

Sliding down from Adar’s sweaty back, April pulled off the simple harness to let the horse graze. She leaned over to scratch the stallion behind his ears, while the black emphatically rubbed his head up and down against her. “Is that the spot? Yes? I know what you like, itchy boy.” Laughing, April let her horse eat in peace then, content to watch him rip the rich grass easily from the moist earth.

Hands on her hips, April turned to survey the view, drinking deeply of the clean, crisp mountain air. Surely there was no place as close to paradise as the Lowara’s summer range, where sea and sky met in a clash of awe-inspiring, perfect blue. Plucking a stem of grass for herself, April chewed absently on the tender white root as she gazed westward.

Out there, just beyond the craggy slopes of the high mountains, the Black Sea crashed unrelentingly upon white sand shores. She sniffed, imagining she could smell the salty sea tang. When the heat turned unbearable at lower altitudes, the band always retreated to the cool shadows of the forests. There the Lowara would remain until the decision was made to head south again. Though April enjoyed the sea, she felt at home here in the blessed peace of the mountains, and the tension drained from her now as she surveyed her beloved homeland.

Someday, she thought, she might ignore King Jingo’s orders for her to stay close to camp, and ride over the next rise just to see what was there. April had a burning desire to learn about the world. She was glad she was a gypsy, for she had seen the constriction the
gaje
girls endured. Never to ride free, never to speak one’s mind … how close to suffocation that must be. Her life now was paradise by comparison.

Yes, it was paradise, but frustrating, too. She was still a young woman, after all, as the others endlessly reminded her. Everyone in the band wanted to know when she would marry and settle down. She was aware of the boys’ heated stares, and the scandalized looks of the other girls when she refused to wed. But there were no young men in the band who interested her.

April heard a low chuckle and whirled in consternation to find that her secret meadow had been discovered. Nicabar, the tribe’s horse trader as well as a renowned thief, stalked through the lush grass toward her. The young man’s onyx eyes burned into April, and she returned the stare with thinly-veiled contempt. Nicky was
gitano
, a Latin gypsy from Spain. With his mother, Belita, he had joined the band two years ago, offering to train and sell the Romany horses.

But it was not out of love that Nicky worked with animals. It was purely for profit, and April did not mistake the gleam of cruelty in his eye whenever he broke fresh horses to his hand.

For that reason among others, the animosity between the two young people was instantaneous. April hated the way Nicky’s dark eyes always followed her, hungry and sly. He was annoyed by the control April had over her stallion, Prince Adar. Why the wild stallion had not killed her yet was a mystery to most of the camp, but Nicky suspected it was only witchcraft that kept the horse so biddable.

After all, hadn’t April been raised by that old hag who told the fortunes? Perhaps the girl practiced dark magic, too. April’s uncanny green eyes challenged him now, and Nicky felt the blood surge hotly in his veins.

“You almost ran over me back there.” His arrogant voice rang out as he approached her. “That horse should be gelded, girl. And you must learn proper respect for men.”

April laughed. Nicky was barely older than she. Though she supposed some women might consider him handsome in a Latin way, April was repulsed by his leering mannerisms and greasy, black hair. She was not taken in by his charms like the other girls were, but they were goose-brains anyway, and desperate to marry. April had no wish to wed, not when it meant her will would be completely subject to another’s.

Nicky was eying Prince Adar now with his usual greed, unaware that the girl had not dignified his complaints with a reply. “I’ll still give you three hundred
lire
for him. I just took in a little bay mare that’s nice and gentle. It’s a good trade and will save your pretty neck in the end.”