The Snow Gypsy(24)

“It’s a lucky charm from my father’s country—it’s supposed to keep him safe.”

Nieve’s face was half-hidden by the dog’s body. “You have a father?” There was a note of surprise in her voice, as if Rose had just revealed something quite unusual about herself.

“I used to have,” Rose said. “But he died.”

“Oh.” The small brown hand smoothed the dog’s silky coat. “That’s the same thing that happened to me. And to Mama.”

Rose wondered if Nieve knew that Lola was not her real mother. Cristóbal hadn’t said. It was awful to think that the woman who had given birth to her had died when she was still a baby. And just as harrowing to speculate about the manner of her dying—butchered for being on the wrong side or slowly starved in some hellish prison camp. And what about Lola’s parents? Something similar must have befallen them for a fourteen-year-old to be left in sole charge of an orphaned baby.

“That’s sad for you both.” The words sounded pathetically inadequate.

Nieve shrugged. Rose was relieved to see that there was no hint of suffering in the child’s eyes. She was too young to remember what it was like to have a father.

“I was looking for your mama,” Rose said. “Can you take me to her?”

“She’s gone to buy bread,” Nieve replied.

“Oh—shall we go and find her?”

The child nodded. “Can I take Gunesh?”

Rose handed the lead to Nieve. “We’d better ask your uncle, though—he’ll be wondering where you’ve gone.” The thought of seeing Cristóbal sent a warm tide surging through her stomach.

“No, he won’t—he’s fast asleep!” Nieve was already on the move. “Come on, guapo.” She coaxed the dog. “We’re going for a walk!”

Rose smiled inside, reminded of the word Cristóbal had used just before he kissed her. It was good that he was asleep: he needed it. She would see him this afternoon. Her hand went to her pocket, fingering the edges of the photograph. The thought of showing it to Lola made her feel queasy with anticipation.



The village square was strewn with the debris of an all-night party. Empty bottles, crushed flowers, and the charred remains of toppled torches littered the paving stones.

They found Lola queuing outside the boulangerie. In the bright morning light, she looked even younger. Her face, with last night’s dramatic eyeliner and rouge washed away, was fresh and innocent. And there were no flowers or jeweled clasps in her hair—it hung loose down her back, glinting with chestnut highlights where the sun caught it.

Now that the moment had come, Rose was hesitant about showing her the photograph. She joined the queue, pretending that she, too, had come to buy bread. No matter what she’d told herself, she knew she would be crushed if Lola didn’t recognize Nathan. Yesterday, when his image was being passed around, she had felt as if a little piece of her was breaking off with every pair of hands that touched it. So now she found herself talking about anything but her brother—about Lola’s dancing, her costume, Cristóbal’s gifted accompaniment, and Nieve’s precocious ability to be part of the performance.

In the end it was Lola who broached the subject of Nathan. They were coming out of the shop, Rose clutching a two-foot-long baguette that she was unlikely to get through before it went hard and stale, when Lola asked about the photograph.

“Oh yes—I have it here.” The words came out sounding nonchalant, as if it were a matter of no more importance than buying the bread. But Rose’s hand trembled so much as she dug into her pocket that she almost dropped the baguette.

Lola stared at the image for a long moment. Then she angled it to catch the sun. With a little shake of her head, she passed it back to Rose. “I’m very sorry,” she said, “but I don’t think I ever saw him.”

Rose turned away as she took it. Lola and Nieve didn’t see her eyes filming over. She called over her shoulder that she had to go and buy food for the dog and would see them later. She dived into a butcher’s shop, hoping Nieve wouldn’t follow her, knowing that if she had to explain her glum face to the child, the tears would come flooding out.

Gunesh had already had his breakfast—but the process of asking for a bone and waiting for the butcher to wrap it helped Rose to regain her composure. He wouldn’t take any money for it, so taken was he with the dog’s good looks. Embarrassed by his kindness, Rose asked if she could buy a couple of saucisses. She had apples and cheese back at the tent, but she felt a sudden overwhelming need for something fried and comforting.



“Come on! Wake up!” Lola shook Cristóbal roughly by the shoulder. “It’s nearly time for the procession! You’ve been asleep half the day!”

Cristóbal groaned as he opened his eyes. “Is there coffee?”

“Coffee! ?Cerdo perezoso!” Lazy pig!

He stretched out his arms, revealing a bare honey-brown torso, the skin smooth and rippled with muscles. Before he could sit up, Lola dumped his clothes on his chest.

“Get dressed! Why do I have to be your mother when you’re practically old enough to be my father? What were you up to last night, anyway?”

His eyebrows arched like a hawk taking flight. “Do you really want to know?”