Chapter Twelve
Margaret had no idea what Lela was saying to her, nor the two other women who were helping her, but she got on well enough. Lela was a stunning woman, despite being somewhere closer to her mother’s age than her own, and the other two women just a bit older. The lines on their dark faces told of sleepless nights and laughter, of hard times and of joyous ones.
She had understood enough that the other two women, Emanaia and Drina, had some sort of experience with medicine, while Lela was more of a matron, if such a thing existed. They all served at the pleasure of the rom boro, but for the good of the camp.
And they were really very sweet.
She did not need to speak their language to know that they envied her hair and her figure, and she blushed as Drina gave her a frank look, patting her hips.
“Good for having babies,” Drina said in her thick accent, smiling and showing fairly straight, if a bit dirty, teeth.
Emanaia cackled at Margaret’s discomfort and gestured for her to sit down on the small stool in the colorful wagon. The canvas itself was simple enough, and rather like every other canvas she had ever seen, but the wagon itself was painted brightly and adorned with various designs in equally bright colors. Each wagon was different, she’d noticed that as she’d come into camp with Rafe. And despite the initial wariness in the eyes of everyone who looked at her, they had been warm and friendly.
Hardly the criminals that the world had made them out to be.
The women tending her were warm and kind, and they dressed rather simply, but with as much color as they could, though it was all faded with use and wear. Lela was in a rich blue skirt and a simple linen shirt, Drina in emerald, and Emanaia in a rich purple with a gold-embroidered shawl tied about her. All three wore a considerable amount of jewelry, and smelled of jasmine and sandalwood.
Drina untied her boots and set them aside, speaking rapidly with the others. Then she smiled up at Margaret. “I will make a poultice for your ankles, chavi. It will help with the pain.”
“I’m not in that much pain,” Margaret protested, even as she winced with a certain motion Drina made.
Drina chuckled. “So I see. You are a stubborn gadji, no?”
“Does that mean a woman?” Margaret asked with a smile. “Because yes, I am.”
“It means a woman who is not a Roma,” Lela told her as she began to brush out Margaret’s hair.
“And what about the other thing you called me?” Margaret asked. “Chavi was it?”
Emanaia smiled as she crushed a few things and prepared to make a poultice. “It is a term of endearment for a young girl.”
Margaret frowned a little. “I’m not young at all. I am twenty-two.”
Drina laughed a hoarse, throaty sort of laugh. “Chavi,” she said again. “So young. Very pretty, you must mind that. A pretty face hides many sins.”
“I know,” Margaret said on a sigh, loving how Drina rubbed at her ankles. “And I have a fortune as well.”
All three women tsked sadly, which amused her. In any other world, she would have been lauded for both of those things. Here they were not something to be envied.
She rather liked that.
“Why are you all being nice to me?” she asked as Emanaia brought the poultices over. “If I’m a… a gadji… shouldn’t you be questioning me or intimidating me or something?”
Lela began to plait sections of her hair. “If you had come alone, Margaret, we certainly would have. We are a very cautious group, and our kumpania has had some less savory experiences of late.”
All three women muttered something very dark sounding under their breath, and she shivered at the sudden chill in the air.
Then, somehow, it was gone.
Lela resumed her plaiting as if nothing had happened. “But you came with the Gent today, and that makes all the difference.”
“Does it?” she murmured with a smile, not entirely surprised.
Drina and Emanaia wrapped the poultices around her ankles, giggling in a manner entirely too young for their ages. Lela spared them an amused look, then turned Margaret so she could see her better, taking a damp cloth to her face. “Gent is what we call poshram, half-Rom.” Her smile grew a little. “We cannot be sure, he has no knowledge of any Roma blood in him, but one only has to look at him to know. He is probably only slightly Rom, but we’ll take him.”
Drina muttered something under her breath that had Emanaia cackling as she finished wrapping the poultices.
Margaret had a fairly good idea what was being said, despite the language barrier. She flushed, but giggled, and twisted her ankles a little. “What have you wrapped on me, then?” she asked.
“Panishok,” Drina told her, her face innocent as ever. “Watercress. Very good for injuries. You will dance tonight without pain.”
“Excellent!” Margaret beamed at her and sighed. She looked over at Lela, who was smiling at her in a knowing way she did not particularly care for. “What… um… what brought Gent to your attention the first time?”
Lela sat back on her heels and pushed an ebony and silver lock of hair behind her ear. “Miri.”
“Pardon?” Margaret asked, tilting her head. Perhaps that was another Romani word that she would have to learn or have explained.
“Miri,” she said again. “She is the girl we celebrate with the pliashka. Four years ago, we were in this area, and she wandered too far, and some gadjos were not happy to see a Rom child in their vicinity. They chased her with their horses, terrifying her and threatening many things. We are so close to London here, and had been closer then, and she became lost in her attempts to hide. The Gent found her and brought her safely back to us.” Lela smirked a little. “He also took care of those gadjos who abused her so. For that, he is always welcome. As are his friends.” She gave Margaret a tilt of her head, indicating she was part of that group.
Margaret certainly hoped she was one of his friends. She would dearly love to be that and more. “That sounds like something he would do,” she mused, covering her desire to sigh and swoon over him. “He is very much a hero.”
“It is not only that,” Emanaia said in her higher voice, settling a bright yellow shawl around Margaret’s shoulders, making Drina hum in approval. “He does not see us as others do. He ensures that we are protected, that we may wander as we choose, and that we need not resort to the desperate tactics that some other kumpaniyi might. We come back to this area every year just for him, you know.”
“Do you really?” That was intriguing. She’d never thought of a group of gypsies as having particular ties to an area.
All three women nodded. “He and Kem are allies, and meet as often as Kem permits,” Lela told her, tying a small ribbon at the bottom of Margaret’s delicate plait, the rest of her hair loose around her shoulders.
That was curious. “About what?” Margaret asked, fingering the plait and loving that ribbon had also been woven into it.
Lela smirked and shrugged. “Only Kem and Gent know, and they do not tell.”
Margaret sat back in defeat, making a face, which made the others laugh. Drina patted at her ankles. “There is energy in you, Margaret,” she said. “Much spirit.”
“Yes, I know,” Margaret sighed heavily. “Apparently, that is the problem.”
Drina smiled, shaking her head. “No, it is a good thing. Let me show you.” She gestured for Margaret’s hand, and turned it palm up. She hummed as she ran her wrinkled, ring-strewn fingers over it, spreading her hand open and nodding to herself.
“This line here,” she murmured, tracing one finger from the side of her palm across the middle, where it ended, “means that you think quickly, and make decisions without trouble. You know your mind.”
Margaret grinned at her. “Yes, so my mother says.”
Lela shushed her, but laughed. Emanaia said nothing, but began rummaging through a trunk nearby.
Drina moved her finger to a line near Margaret’s small finger and traced it across her hand. “Here it says that you are a passionate creature, and your emotions and desires guide your actions. You are independent, and it makes no difference to you if that is known.”
Now Margaret had to bite her lip to keep from laughing. That was true, by all accounts. Fleeing a dastardly situation, determined to marry a British man to stay in England, gallivanting off with the unsuitable man of her dreams… Margaret was remarkably willful, and it was going to get her into trouble.
“And this line,” Drina continued in her low voice, tracing a bold line curving around Margaret’s thumb, “tells me you are strong when life is hard. Difficulties do not upset you, but challenge you.”
Margaret watched in fascination, smiling to herself at the woman’s words.
Drina traced the faint broken line down the center of her palm. “You have had many changes in your life, and they were not of your making.” Drina tilted her hand, smiling. “Your hands are delicate, chavi.”
“And what does that mean?” Margaret found herself whispering.
Drina chuckled, cupping her cheek fondly. “It means you are precious, and Gent ought to take care.”
Margaret blushed furiously. “No, no, you misunderstand,” she stammered, wringing her now tingling hands together. “He and I… That is, we are not…”
Emanaia draped a delicate gold chain with tinkling coins around one of Margaret’s ankles, fastening the clasp. “Look in his eyes, chavi, and you will see it. And when you dance tonight, you will feel it.”
Margaret twisted her poultice-covered ankle, loving the faint chiming sound it made. “Will I?” she whispered.
Emanaia smiled and nodded. “Dance is the music of the heart, Margaret. And when you hear his heart singing, you will make music together.”
It was suddenly far too hot in this wagon, spacious though it was. She cleared her throat awkwardly, and turned to Drina. “Can you teach me how to read a palm, Drina? Can a gadji learn such a thing?”
Drina smiled at her. “Most likely no. But you have the heart of a Rom, chavi, so perhaps you can.”
“What do you mean you’ve lost track of him?”
Kem gave Rafe a sharp and very pointed look, which scolded Rafe soundly. Kem was doing Rafe a great favor by being his contact, but he could hardly treat him as though he was one of his typical assets. Kem was a greatly respected leader who could very easily have Rafe torn apart bit by bit without anyone in London having any idea of trouble at all.
“Sorry,” he mumbled, sitting back moodily and looking away. “I’m only anxious about the situation getting out of hand.”
“As are we.”
That brought Rafe’s head around. Generally, the Rom didn’t get anxious about much of anything. Why should they? They were nomads, living off of the land, and the affairs of the gadje as a whole were not something they were generally concerned with.
Kem sat forward and rubbed his hands together slowly. “Tensions between nations cause trouble for all of us. Suspicions are higher and the heart of the gadje is colder. Too many of our men become involved, and we suffer as much as the rest.”
“If not more,” Rafe pointed out, knowing the suffering the Rom endured during peaceful times.
Kem acknowledged this with a nod. “I tried to keep Pov within the vitsa, for his own safety, but he was straying too far out of our way. The chorodies have gotten into his soul, and his behavior made it impossible for him stay.”
Rafe sighed and rubbed his head. Pov was a willful, hot-tempered Rom who never trusted Rafe, nor, it seemed, any gadjo who did not have a pocket of coins for him. He had been suspicious for years, and Rafe had seen him in the city on several occasions during that time, always in the company of people Rafe could tie to various crimes.
Reaching out to Kem had been a brilliant move on Rafe’s part, as Kem would have far more sway over Pov than anyone else, and Kem did not approve of behavior considered “beneath one’s dignity.”
There was some debate as to what exactly that meant, but the sentiment stood.
Pov had been tied to the faction of rebels and traitors that the London League had been tracing, but as yet, Rafe had left him alone. He could prove useful, and as his loyalties only rested with himself, sufficient funds from their end might sway him to divulge sensitive information.
But if Pov was no longer with the kumpania, and cast out of the vitsa, then they had a dangerous and mercenary Rom with no moral compass roaming about with traitors and scum.
That was a sobering thought.
“Will he come back?” Rafe asked quietly.
Kem’s wide jaw tightened and he shook his head. “No. He is now a mahrime.”
Rafe hissed as if in pain. There could hardly be a stronger punishment for his betrayal than to be labeled an outcast, as a Rom unworthy of trust. Word tended to spread of that sort of thing, and any other encampments would have seen him the same, not wanting to bring such a man into their tribe. And there would be no evidence of any of his activities within the tribe, as they did not have personal belongings that he could search.
Perhaps he could ask for some of Pov’s associates to be questioned, but he could not be the one to do it. Despite his ability to move freely about the camp, he was not a Rom. He might look like one, but he was fairly certain there was no Rom in his blood anywhere.
Which was probably why Pov hated him so much.
“If he makes his home with another kumpania, so be it,” Kem said with a shrug. “Unless they have no scruples, I cannot see it.”
“But it happens,” Rafe pointed out.
Kem shrugged again.
“Well, what about everything else?” Rafe asked, trying not to be disappointed. While Pov and his activities were his prime concern, he also frequently used Kem and his tribe as sources of information for whatever else he could. They had the ability to be ingrained in a society without taking part, and observed far more than they were given credit for. He had been able to act on their tips more often than not with great success and without causing too much fuss and bother.
Kem told him what he knew, which seemed to be the same sort of reports he always received, nothing out of the ordinary or needing his attention.
All told, it was not a particularly useful excursion out here.
With the loss of Pov as a point of interest, he wasn’t sure what else he could do. He would always have the interest of the Rom as one of his concerns, and certainly they were convenient allies, but with the looming threat of the traitors and faction, it was difficult to consider anything else.
“I will speak with Pov’s brothers,” Kem said suddenly, interrupting Rafe’s dismal thoughts.
Rafe looked at him in surprise. “Really?”
Kem snorted in derision. “Not sure it will do any good. They do not share his temper, but perhaps they know something.” He shrugged his broad shoulders and folded his arms. “I cannot see him reaching out to them, but you never know.”
“Thank you.” Rafe felt a little humbled by this large, powerful man who was willing to indulge him so. He doubted any other rom boro would have been so tolerant or understanding.
Fate was sometimes rather fond of him.
“So,” Rafe drawled with a smile, “who are we celebrating this time?”
“Miri and Danior,” Kem returned, smiling himself.
“Really?” Rafe laughed. “I didn’t think a man alive would ever be permitted to have your niece.”
“Nor I, but Danior loves her, and has proven himself. There is no one in the tribe I trust more.” His grin was swift and ironic. “And there was Miri’s opinion as well. I may be rom boro, but have you ever faced the power of a willful woman who knows her value?”
Rafe threw his head back on a hearty laugh. “Sweet little Miri stood her ground? Not very Roma at all! I should have married her when I had the chance.”
Kem grunted, still smiling. “Not a chance. I like you, Gent, but Gadje Gadjensa, Rom Romensa.”
Rafe nodded in understanding, his smile fading only just. He knew that well; Gadje with Gadje, Rom with Rom. Anything else was unthinkable, and certainly frowned upon. “Don’t you always tell me that I am poshram?” he teased.
“It is a courtesy title,” Kem assured him. “Not enough to qualify you.”
There was a bit of noise outside, and Kem indicated he wait while he got out to check. Rafe hid a smile, wondering what sort of scuffle might have ensued during their interview.
He heard the low rumble of male voices, then a brusque order of “Avree!” that had several sets of feet pounding away. Kem stuck his head back in with a mischievous glint that Rafe was instantly wary of. “What?” he asked, leaning away from his friend.
“The men of the camp wish to continue pliashka,” Kem reported, still almost smiling. “And you have been selected.”
“For what?”
“I believe you gadje would call it ‘a bit of sport’,” he replied with a mocking British accent.
Rafe groaned and helped himself out of the wagon, tugging off his cap and untucking his shirt. “Not again. Who am I to thrash, then?”
Kem put a heavy hand on his shoulder, laughing a deep, rumbling laugh. “Camlo. And I warn you, he has been training hard.”
Rafe looked over to the center of the camp where the circle of onlookers was forming, a muscular and dangerous looking Rom standing in the middle, staring at him with an almost hungry look. Perfect, a motivated Rom with an agenda.
“So have I,” Rafe growled, tugging off his shirt and tossing it at the nearest lad as he strode forward.