The Snow Gypsy(51)

A sudden splash made her whip around. A boy of about Nieve’s age was standing by the mill wheel, throwing stones into the river. Gunesh leapt to retrieve them. The boy threw another, narrowly missing the dog’s head.

“?Detente!” Rose shouted. “?Tú le harás da?o!” Stop! You’ll hurt him!

The boy had another stone in his hand, but instead of throwing it he scrambled down the bank. Gunesh gamboled up to him and shook himself violently.

The boy backed away. “Lo siento, no lo vi. ?Morderá?” Sorry—I didn’t see him. Will he bite?

Rose yanked the dog away. Gunesh had green slime in his coat, and his breath stank of fish. “He won’t bite if you’re nice to him,” she replied. “Do you live here?” She cocked her head at the mill.

The boy nodded.

“Is your mother there? I’ve come to ask about a room—but I don’t want to disturb her if she’s sleeping.”

Without a word he loped off toward the mill, disappearing when he reached the top of the riverbank. He reappeared a few minutes later with a hard-faced girl at his side. She looked two or three years older than the boy and had the same hazel eyes and curly black hair.

“Mi hermano dice que usted quiere una habitación.” My brother says you want a room. The girl glanced at Rose’s muddy feet, then at the rucksack lying on the grass. “?Gitana?”

Feeling in her pocket for her passport, Rose shot a warning glance at Nieve. “No, inglesa,” she replied.

The girl took the passport, examining each page until she came to the one with the photograph. Rose wondered if she could read—or was just pretending to. “Vale, está bien.” She huffed out a breath. “Porque no aceptamos gitanos.” That’s good—because we don’t allow Gypsies.

Rose felt her insides curl. If there had been any other place to stay, she would have walked away. She didn’t dare look at Nieve.

The girl sniffed as she handed back the passport. “?Cuánto tiempo estarán?”

“Er . . .” Rose hesitated. “A couple of weeks—maybe longer,” she said.

“Síganme, por favor.” Follow me, please.

Her tone was annoyingly superior for one so young. Rose felt the girl’s eyes on her as she searched through her rucksack for a towel.

“Nieve—let me dry your feet.” The towel wasn’t very clean. There hadn’t been time to do any washing before they left Granada. As she dried her own feet, she felt exposed, vulnerable under the girl’s gaze. No doubt she would report back to her mother that the new guests were a pair of dirty English ragamuffins with a smelly dog.

She led Rose and Nieve around the back of the mill, through a low doorway, and up a flight of bare wooden stairs.

“This is it.” She opened the door of a sizeable room with low cane ceilings. There was a double bed, a washstand, a chest of drawers, and a table with two rickety-looking chairs.

“How much is it?” Rose asked.

“Six pesetas a week. Room only—payable in advance.”

“Is there somewhere I can cook food?”

The girl pointed to the fireplace. “You can buy wood from us—twenty cents a bundle.” She put her hands on her hips. “Well? Do you want the room?”

Rose nodded.

The girl held out her hand.

“There.” Rose gave her the coins. “I’ll have two bundles of wood, please—and some bread and cheese if you have any.”

“The bread’s all gone—you’ll have to wait till tomorrow for that.”

“What about cheese?”

“We might have some.” The girl shrugged. “I’ll ask my mother when she gets up.” She tossed a large iron key onto the bed and walked out of the room without another word.

“Do we have to stay here?” Nieve whispered. She looked as if she was about to start crying again.

“Just for a little while,” Rose said. She reached into her rucksack and pulled out a packet of candied chestnuts. “Here—this is for being such a good girl on the bus.”

Nieve sat on the bed, crunching sweets while Rose began to unpack. “Who’s that?” She pointed at a painting in a battered gilt frame hanging on the opposite wall. It depicted a small boy with a halo, carrying a lamb.

“Well, I suppose it’s meant to be Jesus,” Rose said. “When he was little.”

“No es Jesús.” It’s not Jesus.

Rose spun around, startled. A woman was standing in the doorway—an older version of the girl who had shown them up to the room.

“Se?ora Carmona.” She stepped across the threshold. “And you are?”

“Rose. Rose Daniel.” Rose held out her hand. “And this is Nieve.” She stopped short of saying “my daughter.” No need to tell the lie unless she was asked a direct question.

“And he is San Juan.” The miller’s wife gestured to the painting on the wall. “He was a shepherd, you know, before Jesus called him.”

“No, I didn’t know,” Rose replied.

“Like Mama,” Nieve piped up. “She looked after goats when she was young.”

“Did you?” The woman looked surprised.

Rose smiled to cover the jolt of panic Nieve’s innocent remark set off. “Yes. I’m a vet—an animal doctor. I worked on farms when I was a student.” It wasn’t a lie—but she was going to have to warn Nieve to be more careful with what she said.