The dancing began in the church.

As soon as the priest congratulated young Lysandro, who was dressed like an oriental prince, on joining the Christian community, someone in the back started to play the guitar. Four or five women jumped up and launched into an energetic flamenco-like routine.

They wore garish clothes in clashing colors and patterns. The total number of fashion faux pas was so high inside the church that Amanda’s eyes began to hurt.

The priest, remarkably unfazed by the commotion, resumed the service. He read several gospel passages, talked with the parents and godparents, and then invited the congregation to pray together. Everyone did, loudly and devoutly, including the dancing women.

From the corner of her eye, Amanda watched Kes join in. After everyone said amen and opened their eyes, his remained closed. His lips continued to move as though he was saying another prayer. It was short and muted, but she was sure she heard him whisper thanks to someone called Sarah.

Was Sarah a Catholic saint? Why was he thanking her? Was Kes a religious person?

In the many conversations she’d had with him over the last few weeks, they’d avoided discussing each other’s faith, politics, and families. Those things had seemed too personal to share with a pastime companion.

Well, they were a little more to each other now.

Amanda turned away and smoothed her hair, trying to shake her sudden melancholy. There were crucial things she didn’t know about Kes—things she would’ve liked to know. But considering how soon they’d part ways and how impossible it was for them to have a shared future, there was no point in asking, really.

An hour later, the clan carried Lysandro out of the church on a canopied litter and drove back to Fourchon, where the fiesta began in earnest. Kes introduced Amanda to his parents, his brother Juan, and his sister Rosanna, both at least ten years his senior. Amanda also met his frail but vivacious grandmother and a dozen other people identified as aunts, uncles, cousins, and family friends.

She smiled politely and tried not to let the fact that the Morenos and other Gitans eyed her with a mix of curiosity and suspicion put her on edge. Who knew? Maybe in their place, she would’ve been just as suspicious of their son’s newly acquired “friend” who seemed important enough to bring to a family reunion.

“Where do you want Amanda and me to sit?” Kes asked his mom.

Madame Moreno pointed to the far end of one of the tables. “First and second chairs from the left.”

“Wow,” Amanda whispered to Kes as they sat down. “I didn’t expect this level of formality at a Gitan party. Makes me feel like I’m at one of my mother’s dinners. She writes everyone’s name on a cute little card and puts it next to their plates.”

Kes smirked. “How considerate of her.”

“It’s not. It’s just one of those things she does to convey my family is upper-middle class.”

“Well, mine is certainly not.” Kes pointed at his and Amanda’s paper plates. “This is the reason we’re seated so precisely. Disposable utensils.”

“I don’t understand.”

He told her about the clean Gypsies, soiled gadje, and his own ambiguous status.

“How fascinating,” Amanda said.

“So, who are you, Amanda?” Django Moreno asked from his place of honor at the head of the table.

She went for the safest reply. “I’m a waitress.”

He frowned. “I’d never allow a daughter of mine to wait tables. It isn’t a suitable job for a woman.”

“Why not?” Amanda asked.

“Late hours, strange men looking at her and talking to her freely . . .” Monsieur Moreno shook his head. “Even if she remained proper and chaste, everyone in the community would believe her ruined.”

Amanda stared down at her plate, unsure how to react. She had a ready answer, all right. In fact, she had at least a dozen sarcastic retorts dancing on the tip of her tongue. But every single one of them would lead to a nasty argument that would end in her stomping away from the table . . . into the wasteland.

Keep your mouth shut, Amanda.

Kes touched her hand and smiled. “Not all Gitans are as conservative as my father.”

“No, unfortunately, they are not,” Monsieur Moreno said. “They forget it’s our traditions that keep our people from disappearing. It breaks my heart to watch young Gitan couples move into stationary houses, get gadje jobs, and abandon the Traveler way of life.”

“Next, their children marry a gadje,” Levna Moreno chimed in, “and lose what remains of their Gypsy heritage.”

“And our solution to that bane,” Rosanna said, smirking, “is to make sure our kids don’t get too much education, and our girls are married off at seventeen.” She placed a huge dish of stew on the table.

“Wife.” Monsieur Moreno turned to his spouse. “Tell me how we ended up with two of our three children being apostates?”

“Tata, it’s not fair.” Rosanna tilted her head to the side. “I married young and stayed with the community.”

“And are you so unhappy with your lot, my girl?” her father asked.

“I’m happy because I love my family, and I love the nomadic life. But I can see how some of our youth could do so much better if given the chance.”

“I don’t know what you mean by ‘better,’ ” he said.

“You know very well, Tata.” Rosanna gave him a stop-playing-dumb look. “Cousin Joachim is in jail. Cousin Diego is at the hospital with a knife wound. My best friend Blouma’s niece ran away and has been missing since March because she couldn’t stand the boy her father had ordered her to marry. She’s sixteen.”

“So, tell me, Amanda,” Madame Moreno asked, visibly uncomfortable with where the conversation was going. “How did you meet my son?”

Kes opened his mouth to reply, but Amanda cut in, “We met in the library.”

His eyebrows rose.

Truth was she had no idea why she’d lied. Maybe to avoid potential follow-up questions about why she’d been gambling.

Rosanna smiled. “That’s my little brother. When he’s not in a casino playing blackjack, he’s in a library reading. What kinds of novels do you like, Amanda?”

“I read only nonfiction. Cultural anthropology mostly.”

“Anthropology.” Monsieur Moreno sneered. “Kes, why is your friend speaking Latin to us?”

Kes’s lips twitched. “It’s Greek, actually. ‘Anthropo’ means ‘human’ in ancient Greek.”

“Anthropology is the study of savage tribes, Uncle,” Marco said.

“Is that so?” Django Moreno arched an eyebrow at Amanda. “So, what’s your verdict? Are we savage enough for you?”

Amanda squared her shoulders. “Marco’s definition is obsolete. Today’s anthropology can look at any group and any social behavior. If you study lunchtime habits of members of the Senate, you’re doing cultural anthropology.”

“I see.” Monsieur Moreno’s face relaxed a little, and he turned away to chat with someone.

The rest of the party was less stressful and more fun. Amanda ate and drank as much as she could manage without throwing up. She also danced in the big circle and adapted her salsa moves to the Gypsy rhythms. Kes always hovered nearby, dancing or talking with her. Even when he was several meters away, chatting with other young men, she could feel his gaze on her. It was openly appreciative. And protective. He had singled her out among all other women and was bathing her in the warm, golden light of his desire.

Amanda couldn’t get enough of it.

At three in the morning, the party slowed down, and the guests began to return to their caravans. Kes asked Marco if he could borrow his car to drive Amanda back to Arles. His grandma kissed his forehead and made him promise he’d be back for an early breakfast with her before returning to Paris. His parents and other relations bid her farewell.

In the car she rubbed her eyes and yawned, as she watched Kes slowly drive them toward the town.

Very slowly.

“I’ve had some wine,” he explained, noticing her amused look. “I’m sure I’ll pass the alcohol test if the police stop us, but I’d rather not take the risk.”

“If you say so.” She arched an eyebrow. “You’re the gambler.”

“Technically, I’m a card counter.”

“Are card counters some sort of elite corps among gamblers?”

“You could say that, yes.”

They drove in silence for a little while before she spoke again. “When you said some Gypsies didn’t share your father’s old-school thinking, were you referring to yourself?”

He nodded.

“So you haven’t excluded the idea of settling down one day and staying put like the gadje do?”

Amanda hoped the question had sounded casual enough to rule out any misinterpretation. She was only being inquisitive, like someone interested in anthropology would be. She wasn’t at all holding her breath or itching to bite her fingernails while he mulled over her question.

Why would she?

After a long moment, he shook his head. “If I take root somewhere, it would limit my freedom. I guess I’m a true Gypsy that way. I need to be on the move to feel free. And I need to feel free because . . . I need to.”

“I enjoy traveling, too,” Amanda said. “Lots of people do. Travel isn’t a Gypsy invention, nor is it a Gypsy prerogative.”

“I never said it was.” He smiled. “But it’s our way of life. Whereas for the gadje, traveling is just a way of getting from point A to point B.”

“I know gadje people who live to travel,” Amanda said.

“OK. Let me explain this differently. When a sedentary person travels, they pack, leave home, go to a place—or many places—and then return home.”

“So?”

“For Gypsies, travel isn’t like that. When we stop somewhere, it isn’t to make a home. It’s just to make some money, before we’re on the move again.”

“Hmm.”

“We leave nothing behind—nothing we would long to go back to. Our home is our family, and the family travels together.”

“Then why do you, Kes the Gitan, live in hotels and not in your parents’ caravan?” Amanda gave him a triumphant look.

“I’m the family’s black sheep, remember? The renegade. Neither a gadje, nor a proper Gypsy anymore . . .” He sighed. “I don’t know who I am, Amanda, and to be honest, I don’t know where I’m going.”

She turned away from him and stared at her hands. This confession was the biggest, deepest glimpse into Kes’s soul he had granted her since they met. She saw the lost boy behind his usual mask of irreverent nonchalance, and the sight humbled her. His trust flattered her more than she cared to admit. But there was something else, something she felt a lot more ambivalent about . . . if she could only put her finger on it—

Amanda’s breath hitched as it dawned on her. The intimacy. The scorching, uncanny intimacy of his words.

Kes was the first lover to share his doubts and his fears with her as if it had been the most natural thing to do. He was the first friend to let her this close, to entrust her with the full measure of his weakness. Come to think of it, he was the first person in her life to do that. It unsettled her.

Forget unsettling—it freaked her out.