The Snow Gypsy(22)

“Pinzas para la ropa.” He nodded. “We make those, too.”

They talked on until the slim waning moon rose beneath the morning star, and the herbs of the Camargue were opening their petals to greet the sun. Rose could see the color of his eyes now—a vivid blue green, like nothing she had ever encountered among English Gypsies. And his skin was the pale golden brown of almond shells.

“I suppose I’d better let you get some sleep. You’ve got the competition tomorrow—today, actually,” Rose said, glancing at her watch.

Cristóbal stretched his arms wide. “I don’t think I could sleep now.”

“But you should try to rest at least.” She smiled at the rueful look on his face. “I’ll still be here tomorrow—I’m not going anywhere. Not yet, anyway.”

“Promise?” He leaned across Gunesh, who was fast asleep between them, and cupped her face in his hands. “Can I kiss you, guapa?”

Guapa. Beautiful. It was a long time since anyone had called her that.

He didn’t have to wait for a reply. She closed her eyes and found his mouth with her lips.





Chapter 9

Lola was roused from deep slumber by the sound of someone singing. She lay very still, listening, trying to work out if it was a woman or a man—and wondering if the owner of the voice cared that some people were trying to sleep. Through a small tear in the canvas above her head, she could see the sky. It was pale yellow. Not long after sunrise. Too early to be out of bed yet.

As she pulled up the covers that Nieve had kicked off in the night, she caught sight of the garland of white roses on the hook at the end of the bed. She hadn’t dreamed it, then: she really had won that first round. Lola drifted back into sleep with a smile on her face.

When she woke again, the garland was gone. And so was Nieve. Lola scrambled out of bed and pulled back the curtain. She had to climb over Cristóbal, who was lying to the left of the pile of sacks he used as a bed. Lola rolled her eyes. From the look of him, he had carried on drinking well after she and Nieve had left the fiesta. She felt like kicking him as she stepped over him. How dare he jeopardize their chances by staying up half the night.

She lifted the flap at the front end of the wagon. There was Nieve in her nightgown, dancing in front of the ashes of last night’s fire, as lithe as a salamander, the garland of white roses perched at a lopsided angle on her head. The child didn’t see her watching. She had a faraway look in her coal-black eyes—the look of a sleepwalker. But people didn’t dance in their sleep. No—this was trance dancing. The kind of dancing Lola always hoped to achieve but couldn’t always pull off. It was what happened when the duende took possession of your body. It came easily to Nieve because she had been dancing since before she could walk.

Lola sat on the edge of the wagon. Grief came over her unbidden, like a cloud drifting over the sun. Perhaps it was the look of Nieve, all in white, like an angel or a ghost, that brought back that long-ago day on the mountain so sharply. Or maybe it was the garland of roses, reminding her that last night, as she had been crowned winner of the solo dancers, she had longed for her mother and brother to have been there to share the moment.

Nieve danced on, oblivious. Despite the sadness inside, Lola didn’t want to break the spell by calling out to her. But a few minutes later, it was broken by someone else: the woman from the next-door vardo, clattering pans as she washed them, ready to make breakfast.

“You look very pretty in that,” Lola said as Nieve caught sight of her.

The child smiled self-consciously as she came back from wherever her soul had flown off to. Her hand went to her head, fingering the garland as if she had forgotten it was there.



Cristóbal’s body, golden and naked, was pushing against the soft flesh of Rose’s belly. His mouth was moving from her cheek to her neck, covering her with kisses. But she was sliding away from him, down a slippery bank into a dark pool of water.

Her eyes were still closed as she tried to push her way through the membrane of the dream. She could still feel Cristóbal’s lips. But that wasn’t possible. She hadn’t asked him to stay, had she?

It was the smell that snapped her back to consciousness. Dog breath. It was Gunesh licking her face. And in the night, she must have wriggled out of her sleeping bag and rolled across the groundsheet, because her back was now jammed against the tent wall. Condensation had seeped into her nightshirt and left her skin cold and clammy.

She struggled out of the damp cotton and dressed as quickly as she could. She’d had hardly any sleep—but that wasn’t the poor dog’s fault. He wanted his morning walk.

Outside the tent the festivities of the night before were still going on. She could hear the rhythmic clapping of hands, the notes of a violin, and the plaintive sound of a Gypsy woman singing.

Rose led Gunesh away from the encampment, toward the marshes. The sun lit up the pools of salt water, turning them molten silver. In the distance flamingos were gathered on the margins of a lagoon. Hundreds of them, like drifts of pink-tinged apple blossoms. As Rose paused to admire them, something flashed past her: a kingfisher darted across the surface of the water in a streak of shimmering turquoise.

The air had a tang of seaweed tinged with the scent of thyme and lavender. As she walked on, she caught a whiff of woodsmoke from the fields behind her. She wondered if it was too early to go and find Lola, to show her the photograph of Nathan. Better to have breakfast first, she decided. Lola must have been exhausted after all that dancing—and Cristóbal was sharing the wagon. She didn’t want to risk waking him when he’d had so little sleep. The thought of him lying in bed sent a frisson of longing shooting through her. Her mind’s eye replayed the dream of their naked bodies entwined. She wondered how he would react when she saw him again. Would he tell his cousin what had happened last night? Her face reddened at the thought.