Foretell (26 page)

Next, the voice repeated names for people: mother, father, sister, brother, etc.

One word struck me as familiar. It was the word for daughter,
fiică
.

I couldn’t understand why the word resonated so well with me, but it seemed to carry meaning from beyond this life.

The more I listened, the more I felt an eerie familiarity creeping over me, sending chills down my spine.

“How much does that cost?” the voice said, repeating the phrase in Romanian.

Almost instantly, I saw images of a huge marketplace. Fresh fruits, vegetables and spices filled woven bins spread throughout the streets. Rich, colorful fabrics were laid out beneath tents.

Trinkets and sparkling jewels lined the shop windows.

I pulled the headphones from my ears, feeling uncomfortable. Every word produced a swelling of nostalgia within me.

I gulped my wine. The feeling wouldn’t go away. I closed my eyes, nauseous from each image flashing through my head. What if they weren’t images? I wondered. The scenes were too life-like to be something my brain conjured up. It was like I’d been to these places before, seen these things with my own eyes.

Maybe they were…
memories
.

Suddenly I was placed within a camp, somewhere in the middle of a forest. The faint sound of music drummed steadily from somewhere close. I swung about, seeing a brightly lit bonfire blazing.

Gypsies surrounded the fire, singing and dancing. Their clothing was from another time, not from this century. One of the men noticed me and tipped his large hat my way, signaling for me to join in on the fun.

I smiled cheerfully, and walked towards the people. A woman banged on a tambourine, laughing and swaying to the music. Another younger girl danced around the fire energetically. The coins on her skirts jangled each time she turned about.

I forced my eyes open, willing the memories, or whatever they were, to disappear. I reached for my glass of wine, but found the movement painfully laborious. My body felt too relaxed, as if I were almost paralyzed.
What was wrong with me?
My mind screamed.

My fingers loosened their grip, and the glass fell to the floor, its contents spilling everywhere. I tried to lean forward, but my body felt too heavy, as if I were trying to move stone.

I remembered the aroma that came from the wine. I thought it was oddly strong-- too strong.

Oh. My. Jezzus .

I think I was drugged.

My eyelids fluttered as I tried hard to stay awake, but I couldn’t keep it up. Whatever was in me was powerful. My head fell slack against my pillow and my breathing slowed.

My last dwindling thoughts were of Rex’s mother. I dimly wondered if she was scared right before she was poisoned, if she was as terrified as I was.

Part Two

Reflections

“The distinction between the past, present and future is only a stubbornly persistent illusion.” – Albert Einstein

The healer’s expression was a somber one. She approached her younger sister woefully, dreading to impart the news she came to bear. “I’m sorry, dragă. It doesn’t look as if she’ll make it through the night.”

Serena Moori let out an unsteady breath, shaking her head in denial. “It isn’t possible,” she murmured. “She is young, healthy.”

“This illness is an unfortunate tragedy. We couldn’t have known or prevented it.”

“The way you speak, it as if she is already gone,” Serena said accusingly. “There must be something we can do.”

The healer cast her eyes downwards, sorrowfully. Her abilities were limited and for that she felt ashamed. She wished she could help her sister in her time of need. Perhaps if she had studied the healing arts more, she could’ve helped her little niece, but it was too late. She would have to live with this regret.

“Zee, tell me there is something we can do,” Serena pleaded. “I can
not
lose my little girl.”

“Her fever won’t relent and her heart rate has slowed. I’ve tried everything I could.” She sighed, distraught. “There is nothing more I can do, dragă.”

Serena’s large brown eyes filled with unshed tears as she stared out onto the horizon. Zee reached for her hand, attempting to comfort her. “It is God’s will, Ser. You must come to accept it and say your goodbyes while you have the chance.”

Serena snatched her hand away. “This is
not
God’s will,” she told her sister bitterly. “I am not meant to bury my own child.”

“I hardly wish this for you, Sister. You know that. But your daughter is too weak to fight any longer.”

Serena shook her head again, this time defiantly. Zee knew her sister refused to accept what she had told her. “I will find a way,” she swore. “Whatever it takes.”

Serena rushed off, away from her sister and the tent that confined her sick child.

Marcellus de Clemente poured another snifter of brandy from the decanter, swirling the golden liquid around in his hand. Not surprisingly, he was bored by the night’s activities. Things hadn’t panned out as well as he’d expected when all six of his dinner party guests retreated back to their homes early. Marcellus presumed it was out of fear. He’d resided in this part of the country much too long, and well, not everything was easily kept a secret. Even if his neighbors didn’t know exactly what he was, they certainly had their suspicions. He saw it in their eyes tonight. They’d accepted his dinner invitation, fearing his ill will, but had also been quick to leave.

Marcellus pouted quietly in the confines of his elaborate study, resting his chin on his hand sullenly. No one wanted to have any fun around here. His neighbors were such dreadful bores, the lot of them. He thought living in England would be so much more entertaining than Italy. This country seemed just as stifling, if not more so.

He could travel into London for a few nights, visit the gambling halls, wreak havoc amongst taverns, and find a few wenches to satisfy some of his more human
needs.
. .it could be an enjoyable time. Ach, if only he’d known his life would become dull so quickly.

A knock sounded at the door. “Come in,” he shouted, grateful for any interruption of his bleak thoughts. His butler announced a visitor.

“Who is it?” Marcellus asked, excited by the news.

“She said her name was Serena Moori.”

Marcellus furrowed his brows together as he tried to place a face to the name. “Moori, that’s a strange name,” he said. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard it before.”

“If I may,” the butler inquired. “I believe she is one of the gypsies who’ve taken up camp on the churchyard lands.”

“Ah, yes.” Marcellus’s eyes lit up. “Send her in then. Right away.”

It was obvious the butler didn’t anticipate his master allowing the gypsy woman into his home considering society’s contempt towards those sorts of people. However, the butler had seen some strange things underneath the de Clemente roof, and he’d given up questioning his employer’s mysterious ways long ago.

Serena entered Marcellus’s study a few moments later. After stepping inside the decorated mansion, she’d begun to feel a bit unkempt amidst all the finery. She straightened her skirts and tried to smooth her windblown hair back before Clemente was able to get a good look at her.

The witch was not what she expected. He was so young, boyish in nature, with a glowing, friendly sort of face. Beneath his exterior, however, Serena knew what he was capable of. She saw it in his dark green eyes, a flicker of otherworldliness held deep within them.

Not sure how to greet a nobleman, Serena gave a small curtsy while bowing her head. He gestured to the nearby sofa. “Please, Miss Moori. Have a seat.”

“It’s actually missus,” Serena mentioned while taking her seat. Marcellus sat in the chair across from her.

“Of course,” Marcellus replied. “It seems only fit that a woman as beautiful as you are would be married.”

Catching her blunder, Serena shook her head. “My husband died last winter.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that.”

“Thank you.

“Serena” he said, smiling again. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

She swallowed nervously. She never could keep her emotions in check.

“My dear,” Marcellus exclaimed. “Something is troubling you.”

Serena wiped a stray tear from her eye.

“Tell me this instant,” Marcellus entreated. “It is heartbreaking to see such sadness in those huge brown eyes.”

“It is my daughter,” Serena explained. “She has fallen ill. She sleeps on her deathbed this very moment. I didn’t know who else to turn to.”

Marcellus leaned back in his chair, seeming to understand why she’d come to see him, specifically. “I see. And I assume you know of my,” he paused, watching Serena. “Special talents?”

Serena nodded hesitantly. “Magic is not a stranger to my people.”
Just not his kind of magic.
“No one in my tribe can save her. My sister is more powerful than anyone I know, and even she cannot.” She paused to take a deep breath, collecting herself. Then she told the witch, “I was hoping there was something you could do.”

“I see,” he said, stroking his chin. “What does she ail from?”

“I do not know the name for it, but she suffers from fever, cough and vomiting. Also, her lips have turned blue.”

“Likely pneumonia,” he stated, nodding.

She watched as he contemplated her predicament, Eventually, he said, “I can help her. However, I’m not sure if it will suit you for me to do so.”

“Why?” she asked, confused.

“My services are not free. My medicines and potions take years of study to master. Should I do this for your daughter, you will be indebted to me.”

Serena saw Marcellus in a clearer light. She searched his green eyes. The streak of otherworldliness she noticed was tinged with something else. Something devious.

Yet she had no choice but to agree. “What do you want?”

“There is nothing I need.”

Another tear slipped from Serena’s eye. “Please,” she begged. “I will do anything.”

“Perhaps, I could come to you at a later time,” he suggested. “When there is something I require of you?”

Serena nodded in agreement. “Of course.”

Marcellus’s smile faded and his tone turned serious. “I want to make sure you understand,” he said. “Exactly what the word
anything
means. If I need something from you, you will give it to me, no questions asked. Do we understand each other?”

“I swear,” she promised, sniffling. “Anything. You have my word.”

He offered her his handkerchief, gesturing for her to take it. Serena reached for it gratefully, then wiped at her eyes and nose.

“You word is your contract, m’dear,” Marcellus warned.

Serena held out her hand. “I believe this is how the English make deals?”

Marcellus shook her hand firmly.

Serena was fearful of what she might’ve just done, yet more fearful of not agreeing to his terms. Her daughter was worth it, whatever it was. She’d just lost her husband. She couldn’t lose their child as well. Besides, what could the witch possibly ask her for that Serena wasn’t willing to give? She’d give her own life, if it meant saving her daughter’s.

“It is agreed then,”
Marcellus
announced, his smile returning. “Now, let’s go help your little girl. What is her name?”

“Liliana,” Serena replied, breathing easier. “Her name is Liliana.”

Fifteen Years Later…

Kristoph waited impatiently while his mother read over the letter. It had been sent from his sister, Liliana, and the correspondence was practically a miracle in light of her recent disappearance.

The entire tribe had long since given up hope that the lovely Moori sisters would ever return. After a year spent in heartache and worry, they’d finally received news of the girls’ whereabouts. It was cause for celebration.

Across the large tent, his mother sat on a stuffed pillow, her eyes fixated on the paper she held. She read very slowly, taking the time to sound out words she didn’t fully comprehend. A woman’s knowledge of reading and writing within Romani tribes was typically nonexistent. However, Serena Moori acquired her limited knowledge due to their father’s respect for education. He took the time to teach every member of his family what he
knew,
hoping to provide them with what he thought was an important tool from the
gaje’s
world.

Kristoph only wished his mother had practiced reading more often; then maybe, she wouldn’t take so long.

The damned courier had been given strict instructions to deliver the letter to no one except for Serena, which Kristoph didn’t mind expressing his irritation over. He was
barosan
of this tribe, mind you, and should have been the first one to read its contents.

His mother gasped a few times, holding her hand to her mouth in shock over whatever she was reading. Later, she would smile, as tears of joy came to her doe-like eyes.

The woman was still quite lovely for being a mother of three grown children. She’d lived through thirty-six summers, with hardly a wrinkle to indicate the truth of her age. Her hair, also, was still a rich, vibrant shade of brown.