The Snow Gypsy(39)

“I called her Nieve because of the blizzard,” Lola went on. “She’s always felt like my daughter, even though I’m not the one who gave birth to her. She knows I’m not her real mother, but she doesn’t know what happened. I just told her that her parents died in the war.”

“Did you know her—Nieve’s mother?” Rose held her breath.

Lola shook her head. “She wasn’t from my village.” She glanced at Rose, her eyes full of concern. “I know what you’re thinking. And the answer is, I don’t know. I didn’t stay around long enough to find out her name. I knew that if I’d been at home when the men came, they would have killed me, too. So I set off up the mountain and didn’t stop until I got to Granada.”

“You walked all that way with a baby? Through the snow?”

“It took me two days. Some of the goats came with me. Without the milk, Nieve would probably have died.” Lola picked up a bunch of twigs and threw them onto the glowing embers. Sparks flew into the night air, dancing like fireflies. “She’s very fond of you, you know. I wish she was your brother’s child—that would be amazing, wouldn’t it? But I don’t know how you could ever discover the truth—unless you were to find him, of course.”

“Can you remember anything about Nieve’s mother? What did she look like?”

“She had black hair, like mine—like nearly everyone in our part of Spain.” Lola shrugged. “And dark eyes—very dark, like black olives. She was young—but not as young as me. Early twenties, perhaps. I kept one thing of hers—a shawl with peacocks on it. I wrapped Nieve in it. She still has it—sleeps with it every night, like a comfort blanket.”

“Who would I ask? How on earth would I start?” Rose shook her head. It was so little to go on—a young pregnant woman with black hair and a peacock scarf. And Cristóbal had warned her that people would be reluctant to talk.

“You can only try,” Lola replied. “I wish I could take you there myself. But like I said, I can never go back.”

Rose wondered if that was because of the ghastly memories or because Lola was still afraid, eight years on, of those men with guns. Fear remains in the blood. That was what she’d said. Could her life really be in danger if she went back to the Alpujarras? Rose sensed that there was something Lola wasn’t telling her.

“I suppose we’d better think about getting some sleep,” Lola said. “We’ve got a long way to go tomorrow if we’re going to make it to Granada in daylight.”

Rose started to get up, but her right leg prickled with pins and needles.

Lola was already on her feet. She took Rose’s arm and helped her up. Rose stamped her foot on the ground to get the circulation going; then she turned to say good night.

“Good night, Rose.” The glimmering light of the fire lit up Lola’s face. She opened her mouth to say something else, but no words came out.

“What? What is it?”

“It’s just . . .” Lola glanced at the wagon.

“What?”

“What if you were to find out that Nieve was your brother’s child? You’d take her away from me, wouldn’t you?”

Rose laid her hands on either side of Lola’s shoulders, holding her at arm’s length and looking her straight in the eyes. “You don’t believe that, do you? You’re her mother—in every way that matters.” She shook her head slowly. “Don’t get me wrong—I’d be the happiest woman on earth if Nieve turned out to be my niece—but I’d never, ever, try to take her away from you.”

“Thank you,” Lola whispered. “I just needed to know.”





Chapter 14

Granada, Spain: June 6, 1946

Rose closed the door of the attic room and made her way down the twisting wooden staircase. Mornings were the best time of day at the posada, the walls of the inner courtyard dripping with watered flowers, filling the air with the scent of jasmine and myrtle. The past two nights it had been too hot to sleep. There was a tiny window in her room—but opening it had made little difference to the temperature, and it had allowed an army of mosquitoes to fly in and feast on her exposed flesh.

Breakfast was the only meal provided at the inn. Rose appeared to be the sole guest—she hadn’t seen anyone else coming or going since she’d arrived. The innkeeper’s daughter—who didn’t look much older than Nieve—brought her coffee and a tostada. A long bread roll cut in half lengthways, it was spread with tomato puree and slices of melted manchego cheese. It was delicious—but difficult to eat without showering her clothes with crumbs and smearing the sides of her mouth. She was glad there was no one to see her.

When she had finished she clambered back up the stairs to wash her hands and face. Surveying her reflection in the mottled square of mirror above the basin, she reached for the earrings Jean Beau-Marie had given her. The blue stones caught the sunlight as she hooked them in her ears. In Turkey, where her father came from, blue stones were worn to ward off the evil eye. Perhaps these earrings carried the same power. She hoped so. Because today she was going to need all the help she could get.

The inn was at the top of Calle Guinea, a steeply sloping street in the Albaicin—the ancient Moorish quarter of the city. The air outside smelled of scrubbed stones and wet dung. Rose made her way past shops selling brightly colored rugs and lamps of filigree metal. As she turned into the Camino del Sacromonte, she saw a Gypsy flower seller with a big basket of posies.