Stone of Thieves (Robbin' Hearts Series Book 2) (11 page)

I hesitate, wanting to remember him this way—so beautiful and perfect and into me, with no one else in the world watching, except for maybe that little girl who’s always spying behind trees. This is
us
before we face the rest of our lives. I inhale a deep breath and lift my chin.

“Always,” I smile, taking his hand.

He holds me close, swaying his hips in time with mine in the glen. The song the violins are playing is foreign to me and a touch exotic, with sharp and sometimes lonely notes, but so rich it practically fills me to my bones. And I feel a shudder from the stone at my breast.

All at once, I realize this is what Martiya didn’t get to do—dance with her one true love in the glen before she was murdered, before their bodies were set on fire. Their lives—their love—were cut short.

“That’s not going to be me,” I whisper darkly like I’m cursing at the stone. I push it deeper into my cleavage with my fingers to stop its wobble. “Creek and I are going to make it.”

“What?” Creek says. He keeps his hips swaying in motion, but tips up my chin, puzzled.

“You and me—we’re forever, right? Come what may?”

Creek envelops me in a kiss, wrapping his arms around my body.

He speaks no words, letting his closeness and the music do all the talking. When the violins stop for a second, he leans his forehead against mine.

“Forever for me began the very moment I set eyes on you. I
protect
what I love, Robin.”

And to my surprise, he snatches Zuhna’s pouch from my hand and opens it, brazenly scattering all of her herbs and wildflowers around us in a circle. Tossing the pouch into the tall grass, he encases me in his arms again, holding tight, as if he’s never letting go.

His nose barely touches mine, but those blue eyes of fractured ice look as if they’re melting right through me.

“Robin, I already have everything I’ve ever wanted,” he whispers, low and intense, as if draining his soul into mine. “And there ain’t no gypsy spell on earth that’s gonna get past me. As far as I’m concerned, eighteen is looking pretty damn fantastic.”

I close my eyes, letting his words ring in my ears, ring in my soul. But then I hear a swift shuffling through the grass, followed by odd mumbles.

When my eyes flutter open, I spot a red-haired woman coming at us with a broom. She’s muttering in a tongue that’s doesn’t sound gypsy or like anything else I recognize. She starts brushing at us, scooting us faster with her broom toward the camp.

“
Dolgozik!
” She cries. “Time to eat! Work!”

We laugh at each other a little, then sigh and follow after her toward the fireplace between the wagons, which holds the black pot with steam rising. A row of children are huddled around it, munching on what appear to be hot cakes. They smell divine. I’m so hungry now that’s all my mind can focus on, and the red-haired woman drops her broom and fishes out a couple of cakes with a stick from the black pot for Creek and I. Wolfing down the first bite, it nearly scalds my tongue—but the taste is out of this world. Within a few more bites, my mouth is an explosion of almond and vanilla, and the light sweetness goes to my head.

I reach in my hand for another, tossing the cake between my palms as it cools. I hear laughter as I greedily stuff it into my mouth.

“Good, ya?” says a blonde, portly woman across the fire. She has bright cheeks and braids over her head and looks Swedish or German—and that’s when I truly notice some of the other gypsies. Since we arrived at nightfall yesterday, I assumed everyone was dark haired and tan. But now, in broad daylight, I realize this isn’t a traditional gypsy band at all. A few men and woman look Romanian or Hungarian, like you’d expect, but the rest are blonde, red-haired, fair or freckled—as though they’ve come together from all over Europe. The one thing they have in common are their creative clothes. There’s lots of ribbon and embroidery and crazy-quilt-style patches, as if bright colors are highly valued. And though they sometimes seem to be muttering in different languages, a welcoming smile is universal.

Creek nudges next to me, chomping on another hot cake. “You remember the trailer park at Turtle Shores, right? How the misfits all banded together to make a family.” He nods his head at a man walking by with an awkward limp. “Here, they’ve found their family, too.”

“So I’m the heir apparent to the . . . misfits?” I smirk, remembering all the charming crazies at Turtle Shores—the only people I’ve ever known in my life who made me feel like I belonged.

Creek slings his arm around me. “Not much has changed, sweetheart,” he laughs. But his eyes soften at the sight of a few old men seated beside a wagon who softly stroke their violins with bows, filling the air with a profound beauty. Some of them don’t have teeth or hair, and one has a patch over his eye. But together, they make the morning sound exquisite.

“
Poshrats
,” I hear a soft, familiar voice say. Turning around, I see Zuhna again. She’s holding a leather apron in one hand, and her empty suede pouch in the other, with a smile curling over gold teeth. The sight of it makes me blush, and I hope we didn’t offend her. “We are the wanderers,” she says. “Some are
zingari
—gypsy. Others only part, or not at all. But we all travel. And work.”

She turns and points to a silver Airstream trailer beneath a tree, surprisingly modern in this setting. But next to it is a burly man with an anvil on a tree stump, pounding out horseshoes.

“You—time to get busy,” she nods at Creek, handing him the leather apron. “Your woman comes with me.”

My eyes grow wide, wondering what she has in mind. I watch Creek walk off to the blacksmith, tying the apron around his neck and back before he sneaks a look over his shoulder to check if I’m all right. With a deep breath, I give him a nod and follow after Zuhna to an old-fashioned wagon, painted red on top with lovely scroll designs on the sides beside its door. All around us are other traveling people on chairs and tree stumps, stitching blankets, stringing beads for jewelry, sharpening knives, or tooling leather. These are the wares they’ll eventually sell at markets, I assume. When we reach the wooden steps of the wagon, Zuhna pats her hand to feel for the wrought-iron handle and opens the door wide.

“Come, it’s time for you to stop looking like an American,” she says gravely, inviting me inside. “I’m sure they’re already trying to find you.”

A chill works its way down my spine.

“They?” I reply to test her.

“Alessia’s family,” she says impatiently, walking up the steps. “They always try to destroy the Gypsy Queen.”

“What did they do with her?” I scamper into the wagon filled with an old stove and quilts and pillows, a lot like Granny Tinker’s. “Did they dump her in an institution in the mountains? Where is it—”

Zuhna merely pats the stone at my breast. I flush with embarrassment, realizing she knows it’s still there.

“You will see after tonight. And then you will go find her.”

“How?” I ask breathlessly, but she places her finger gently on my lips.

“In time. You must get ready now.”

For the love of God, sometimes I want to slap her. But she’s blind, and I can’t exactly draw a map to Alessia’s whereabouts myself. I have to wait and trust her instincts. I can hear the ringing of Creek’s hammer against the anvil outside, and I still wish he was with me as a buffer against Zuhna’s spookiness. Just as I’m about to open my mouth and suggest I go out there to help him, Zuhna cuts me off.

“Strip,” she says. “Your clothes. Now.”

She heads to the wagon door and shuts it.

Before I can utter a word, she’s turns and lifts my t-shirt over my head.

“W-What—why?” I stutter, shocked by her boldness. Her fingers are working nimbly at my jeans button, in spite of my efforts to push away her hands.

“You hush, and behave your-self,” she orders, tossing aside my sneakers. She feels her way to a bench cabinet and opens it up, pulling out a skirt and pretty cotton blouse with bell sleeves.

It’s a lovely peasant blouse, embroidered with intricate chains of flowers and leaves over the yoke. I notice that Zuhna’s face softens, becoming more tender than I’ve ever seen before, and it just about breaks my heart.

Was this hers as a younger woman, or maybe her daughter’s once? Something about its soft and pristine cotton seems like an heirloom.

Whatever the case, I can tell Zuhna’s attached to it, and it’s no small gesture that she’s giving it to me. For a traveling woman of few possessions, this blouse might very well be one of the most treasured things she owns.

She cradles the fabric in her arms and holds it out to me like an offering.

“Here, this was mine once. On my wedding day.”

I pause, my mouth falling slack, hesitant to accept it.

“Zuhna,” I protest, “I can’t take something so valuable from you. Don’t you have another gypsy-style blouse or anything?”

“Do you love him?”

The blush that travels from my cheeks to the rest of my body with lightning speed surprises me in its prickling heat.

I remain quiet for a moment.

“Of course I do,” I reply breathlessly, as if it’s something I’m ready to fight for. “With everything I’ve got—”

“Good,” she nods. “Then you wear this tonight.”

There’s no arguing with Zuhna. With her shoulders held back and her mouth in a straight line, she hands the blouse to me whether I like it or not. I smile a little, running my fingers over the intricate embroidery that feels like silk.

“Thank you,” I whisper, still not quite comprehending her generosity. Out of respect for her, I climb out of my jeans and into the skirt she’s pulled out, then look around. There’s a pair of leather boots on the floor—with rounded toes and a buckle on the side like motorcyclists wear. They’ll have to do.

“Do I look gypsy enough yet?” I ask her, suddenly realizing my mistake. My cheeks burn hot.

Zuhna just laughs—a long, deep cackle, filling the wagon.

“Ya,” she nods. She smoothes my skirt down over my hips and pats down the puffiness of my sleeves. Then she sets her hands on my shoulders. “But you need one more thing.”

As she unbuttons her riding coat, I get a better look at her clothes, too. Her blouse is maroon with ruffles beneath a black vest appliqued with birds, moons, and stars. Her wide hips fit into a tiered, midnight blue skirt. Casting off her coat, she works a stack of silver and gold bangles from her wrist, and before I can stop her, her strong hands grab my arm and slip the bangles onto mine.

I gasp at her extraordinary generosity.

“But Zuhna—”

“Sit down, my dear gypsy,” she interrupts me. I’m not quite certain, but I thought I saw tears well in her dark eyes. She gently pats my head.

I lower myself onto the wood bench covered with pillows built into the side of the wagon, listening to the sweet tone of the bangles jingling. They slowly warm against my wrist

“Now,” she says, sitting across from me behind the small table in the center. “We look at your next life.”

“Life?” I say, expecting her to bring out a deck of tarot cards to tell my fortune like Granny Tinker did.

“You will go from being a child to a woman tonight. Someone who charts her own course. But will you lead the stone, or will it lead you?” She grabs a brass candlestick and feels for a box of matches, opening it and striking one to give the candle a light.

“I thought you said I need the stone to find my mother,” I reply, feeling its weight acutely against my chest.

“Truth. But it also needs you,” she says mysteriously. Which one will rule?”

I have no idea what she’s driving at, but my heart skips a beat as she boldly grabs the stone from my cleavage.

“Look at the heart,” she says, holding it out on her palm. “What do you see?”

The flame from the candle makes the ruby glisten. “Just cracks in the middle,” I reply, wondering if this is some kind of Rorschach test. “They make a kind of star.”

“You will see much more soon,
shebari
. This is the star that will lead you home,” she smiles. “If you’re brave enough to go. Now we make you look like woman.”

With that, she blows out the candle. In the dim wagon light, I can see her smudging her finger against the blackened wick.

“Lean your head back,” she says, “and close your eyes.”

When I do, she traces her finger gently along the lashes of my eyelids, then underneath my eyes as well.

“You rest now, because tonight you will need all your energy.” She fluffs up some pillows and sets them on the bench. Then she pulls out an old blanket and lays it over my lap.

“Here, fix the holes in this blanket while you wait.” She points to a small fabric cushion on the table pricked with needles attached to thread. “When it’s time, we come get you.” she says. Zuhna walks to the end of the wagon and opens the door, flooding it with daylight. When she closes it again, I hear the click of the lock.

Its finality makes me jump.

And after that, there’s empty silence—except for Zuhna’s footsteps that fade as she walks away. And the sound of her low voice, singing.

I’ve been in the wagon all afternoon, stitching up rips and broken seams on the blanket and feeling like that poor girl in
Rumpelstiltskin
who was forced to spin for hours, except I haven’t spotted any gold yet. From the small windows, I can tell the sun is starting to go down. It’s a good thing I ate so many hot cakes, because I haven’t touched food since breakfast. For the first time all day, the blacksmith’s hammer has stopped clanging, and the violins have begun to fill the air again. But there’s something more—a low chorus of gentle voices coming from the camp, with deep, undulating tones, as if their earthy song helps bring on the darkening sky. The candles they’ve strung together twinkle in the growing shadows, as though encouraging the stars to come out. When the door handle finally turns to my wagon, I leap to my feet.

That little girl with ribbons and dreadlocks in her hair peeks in her head.

“
Cheros!
Time!” she says excitedly, waving her hands.