The Snow Gypsy(36)
Nieve grabbed Rose’s arm and squeezed it tight. “You can’t go! You promised!”
Rose saw that her eyes were brimming with tears.
“Yes, I did.” She murmured the words more to herself than to Nieve. Here was a child with a face to melt any heart, clinging on to her, begging her to stay. A child who was about the age Nathan’s son or daughter would be if he or she were alive. As the thought flitted through her mind, she realized that however used and humiliated she was feeling, she absolutely couldn’t react in any way that would hurt this little girl.
“Don’t worry—I’m not going anywhere.” She hugged Nieve tight, whispering the words into her hair.
Chapter 13
Segovia, north of Madrid, Spain: Eight days later
Rose’s tent stood in a field that bordered the ancient wall of a convent. The bells had woken her early, but she didn’t mind. After opening the front of the tent, she lay back on her pillow, watching two birds flying in and out of the bell tower. They were storks—the most enormous birds she had ever seen. They carried great bundles of wood in their beaks, building a nest that stuck out untidily from the stonework. There was something prehistoric about the shape of them as they glided through the air—the way she imagined pterodactyls must have looked. She remembered seeing pictures of storks in storybooks as a child, carrying a knotted sheet with a newborn human child inside. No wonder people thought they brought babies. With beaks that size, they could probably transport a small elephant.
The sight of something so symbolic of pregnancy and birth rekindled her guilt about Cristóbal’s wife. And the sight of the birds would have triggered further dark thoughts had it not been for her period having come the previous night. She had got down on her knees and murmured a fervent prayer of thanks. That, at least, was one thing she no longer needed to worry about.
Rose wondered if Nieve was awake yet. They had got into a routine of taking Gunesh for a walk before breakfast, then settling down together in the back of the wagon before Cristóbal woke up. While Lola drove Rubio along the dusty Spanish roads, Rose was teaching Nieve how to read and write.
Nieve had sown the seeds of the idea when she found Rose’s copy of Revelations of Divine Love by Julian of Norwich. On the cover was a medieval painting of the nun, who was pictured stroking a cat. Nieve thought it was one of the Mary saints from the church in Provence—and wanted to know where the cat had been hiding when they had been there. When Rose had explained that the image was an English nun who had chosen to live all alone with only a cat for company, Nieve had wanted the whole story. And when Rose began reading, the child had run her fingers over the letters on the page, mystified by the patterns they made.
Nieve’s eyes had brightened when Rose pointed to the word cat and translated it. “Can you teach me how to do it? You can teach me that, and I’ll teach you how to dance!”
Rose had replied that she’d better ask Lola first. She had learned from her time with the English Gypsies to tread carefully in matters outside their experience. Trying to introduce gawje ways was generally regarded with scorn. But Lola had been full of enthusiasm.
“Perhaps you’ll teach me as well? We could do it when Nieve’s gone to bed.”
Spending the evenings reading with Lola by the fire was a welcome distraction from Cristóbal. Once the meal was over, he would slope off to drink and play cards with the other men. Rose wondered if Lola had picked up on the tension between them. It was so hard, trying to make it seem as if nothing had happened. Trying to distance herself from him without making the hostility obvious. It was a constant battle, concealing the anger and humiliation she felt inside.
Now, watching the storks building their nest in the bell tower, she couldn’t help but think about Cristóbal’s wife. In a day or two they would reach Granada, and for the sake of politeness, Rose would have to stay in the city for a few more days. Lola had promised to show her the Alhambra and the Gypsy cave dwellings of Sacromonte, where there was flamenco dancing every night. But no doubt Lola would also take her to see Juanita and the new baby. The thought of it turned her insides to ice.
Lola left Nieve and Cristóbal asleep in the wagon while she went to buy bread. Walking through the cobbled streets of the old town, she caught far-reaching glimpses of the countryside through gaps between the buildings. She knew that they were not far from Madrid. She had made out the letters on road signs, deciphering the name of the city with the aid of the alphabet she kept tucked in her pocket. Rose had taught her to write numbers as well as letters. She knew that Madrid was not much more than a day’s journey from where they were now.
As she stood in line at the bakery, she daydreamed about what it would be like to live in Madrid, to walk through the doors of the studios of Espa?a Films, to be dressed in fabulous costumes, to dance in front of a camera, to go to a cinema and see herself in a movie. She was going to have to hold on tight to that dream in the weeks to come. Cristóbal would be furious when she told him of her plans. Not because he would be losing his dancer—there would be other girls more than willing to replace her—but because her leaving would represent a final act of defiance: she would be trumpeting her independence from the rooftops, going off to Madrid with Nieve with no need for any man to support her.
Ever since leaving Provence she had been working out how and when the move could be made. She would have to stay in Granada for a few weeks at least—long enough to see Cristóbal and Juanita’s baby christened and to sort out a place to live in Madrid. Rose had offered to help with that. She had advised Lola to buy a newspaper in Segovia because it was close enough to the capital city to carry advertisements for places to rent there. And Rose was going to help her write a letter if they found somewhere suitable.