“My boy, ap katé. Come closer—let me take a good look at you!” Levna Moreno encased Kes’s face with her hands and pulled him down to her height.

“Mama, it’s been only a month.” He laughed, presenting his left cheek for her hearty kiss.

“A month away from the clan, among the gadje, is a long time.” She planted another loud smooch on his right cheek, ruffled his hair, and finally let go of him.

“It’s good to be back,” he said.

“I’ll pray to Saint Sara tomorrow that you never leave your family again.”

“Don’t waste your prayers on a losing battle. Pray for Nouna’s health instead.”

She gave him a disapproving look. “Of course I will. She’s waiting for you in the caravan, by the way.”

He turned to go to the family RV, but Levna grabbed his arm.

“Kes, I know you’re making good money and sharing it with your family, like a good son should, but . . . ”

“But what?” He knew what this was about—he endured the same conversation every time he visited.

“The way you live—it’s wrong, my son. It’s not the Gitan way. You’re soiling yourself.”

He sighed and stared at her. There was no point in arguing. He had tried more times than he could remember and had lost every one of those arguments. He’d quarreled with his parents, uncles, aunts, and other clan elders until they shouted themselves hoarse, until the campfire could no longer be revived, and until the rising sun took everyone by surprise.

But there was no convincing them that his choices were not so terrible. He’d gone away to live by himself among the unclean non-Gypsies—the gadje—and had broken a number of age-old traditions. He had refused several Gitan brides his parents had found for him, and he mingled with said gadje more than was strictly necessary.

The clan hadn’t banished him yet, but he had a feeling their “king” itched to do just that.

As he stepped into the caravan, he took a few moments to adjust to the dim light, in such contrast with the brightness outside. Nouna was in bed, propped up with large pillows and embroidering a piece of frilly cloth. He smiled. His grandmother wouldn’t be caught idling, which included reading and watching TV, even when she was ill.

“Ah, the black sheep has arrived,” she said, putting her work aside and stretching her arms toward him.

He sat on the edge of the bed and hugged her. She’d grown so small and frail, diminishing with his every visit. But her eyes were still bright, and her tongue was as sharp as ever.

He stroked her white hair. “How are you, Nouna?”

“Mitcho, my boy. Especially now that you’re here. I knew you’d come for Sara la Kali’s Festival.”

“I’ve never missed Saint Sara’s celebration.”

“And that may be the only thing standing between you and banishment.” She put her withered hand on his cheek.

“Come on, Nouna. They won’t throw me out. Banishment is for lying, cheating, and other crimes against the community. I have committed none.”

She sighed and pulled him to her narrow chest. “Come to your senses, racli, will you? Return to where you belong and take a wife. You’re my favorite grandchild, and I swear I’ll die the day you’re cast out.”

He drew back and tut-tutted. “This is pure blackmail.”

“Not at all. I saw it in the cards.” She grabbed his hand and clasped it to her chest. “And in my heart.”

Nouna had always had a penchant for drama.

Someone entered the caravan.

“Tata!” Kes stood to greet his father.

“We’ll need your assistance tomorrow.” Django Moreno patted his son’s cheek.

“I’ll be honored.” Kes hoped his father could see he meant it. “What do you need me to do?”

“I’ll be carrying Sara’s statue, so I won’t be able to help with channeling and controlling the crowd—”

“Hang on. Are you telling me the elders picked you to be one of the riders who carry Saint Sara into the sea?”

“That is correct,” Django said with visible pride. “Luckily, they turned a blind eye to your antics when considering my candidacy.”

Kes chose to ignore that comment. “Congrats, Tata, you’re moving up in the world.”

“Yes, well, what you need to focus on is that the mayor’s office expects fifty thousand pilgrims to show up tomorrow. We’ll have the usual crowd of Gitan and Manouche Gypsies but also lots of Roma from Eastern Europe. Many of them are participating for the first time, so you need to keep your eyes open.”

“Do we expect gadje tourists like last year?”

“More than last year. They mainly come for the party afterward, but many of them will also want to join the procession. One of your tasks is to discourage as many gadje as you can from entering the church.”

Kes nodded. “It gets hot enough in there as it is with all the worshippers and their candles.”

“Exactly.” Django bent to plant a kiss on his mother’s forehead and sat down next to her. “Go greet everyone else and then stay with Uncle Gino and help him with the last preparations.”

“Yes, Tata.”

Kes kissed his grandmother’s hand and sauntered out.

OK. He’d better get started. There were so many people to pay his respects to that he’d compiled a list on his phone and ticked the names off as he advanced from one caravan to the next. He was lucky the families tended to stick together, or else he’d need a GPS to locate his relations in the huge parking area.

Kes visited his clan every month, and yet the first day was always a challenge. In the gadje world, he was an adult who made his own decisions, took full responsibility for them, and answered to no one. But here, he was expected to obey his elders and execute their orders without discussion. He resented it with all his heart, even if he sometimes missed it out there in the gadje world—a world where he was alone with no one to celebrate with when he succeeded and no shoulder to cry on when he failed.

But tomorrow’s assignment wasn’t the usual, petty kind. Tomorrow, he’d be in charge of people’s safety, no less.

He prayed he wouldn’t screw up.