The Snow Gypsy(52)

“And what brings you here? To Pampaneira?”

This was a question Rose had prepared for. “I’m writing a book,” she said. “About animals. I needed somewhere quiet to work.” Much easier to say that than to risk alienating the woman by mentioning Nathan. Until Rose knew which side Se?ora Carmona and her family were on, it was too risky.

The woman nodded, apparently satisfied. “You asked for cheese,” she said. “You can buy it from me if you want. I have honey, too. And there’s fruit from the orchard—peaches and figs if you want them.”

“Thank you.”

“You mustn’t go into the orchard yourself—come to the kitchen.” She glanced at Gunesh, who was curled up on a rug in front of the fireplace. “And make sure you keep him away from my chickens.”

“Yes, of course.”

“One more thing: don’t open the window. The flies are very bad this year. They’re spreading typhus down in órgiva. If you let them in, you’ll never get rid of them.” With that she turned and walked out of the room.

“I don’t think she likes you.” Nieve’s remark was addressed to the dog—but Rose felt it applied equally to herself.

“Never mind.” Rose crouched down next to Nieve, who had her arms around Gunesh. “We’re going to have to be careful what we say to her, though. We have to play that game when other people are around.”

“Which game?”

“The one where you pretend I’m your mama.”

“I don’t like that game.” Nieve buried her face in Gunesh’s fur.

“I know you don’t, cari?o—neither do I. But your mama asked me to play it. She just wants to keep you safe while she’s in . . . that place they took her to.” Rose bit her lip. How could she possibly explain it? If she told Nieve the reason for the subterfuge, the poor child would be terrified—as if she didn’t have enough to cope with already.

“I want Mama.” Nieve’s shoulders heaved with sobs. “Where is she?”

Rose wrapped her arms around the child and the dog. “We’ll get her back very soon,” she whispered. “I know it’s hard for you. But if you cry, you’ll make Gunesh cry, too.”

Nieve peered out from behind the dog’s ear, her cheeks wet with tears. “Dogs can’t cry—can they?” She moved her head so that she was eyeball-to-eyeball with Gunesh.

“Not like you and me,” Rose said. “They cry on the inside. When you’re sad, he’s sad, too.”

The child went silent for a moment. Then she said, “Where’s his mama?”

“A long way away—in a place called Afghanistan.”

“Farther than Granada?”

“Much farther.”

“Don’t cry, Gunesh.” Nieve ran her hand down the length of his back. “When we’ve got my mama back, we’ll go and find yours.”



It was very stuffy in the room at the mill. By the time she had finished unpacking, Rose’s clothes were sticking to her body. She washed herself and Nieve and sorted out fresh clothes for them both. Then she sent Nieve down to the kitchen to buy cheese and fruit for their supper and made a start on the letter she hoped would get Lola out of jail.

After three quarters of an hour, Nieve still hadn’t come back. Rose peered out the window. She had warned Nieve about the dangers of the mill wheel. But she was a child with more than the usual dose of curiosity. What if she’d gone exploring on her own?

Rose couldn’t see the mill wheel from the window. All she could see was a flower-filled terrace bordering the orchard. She pulled on her boots and clattered down the stairs, Gunesh hard on her heels. She ran around the corner of the building, covering the distance to the riverbank in less than a minute. The noise the wheel made was deafening. She stepped closer to the edge and peered down into the churning water, terrified of what she might see.

Gunesh’s nose nudged the back of her leg. She heard him bark over the roar of the water.

“What is it, boy?” She dropped to her knees and grabbed his collar. “Where is she? Where’s Nieve?”

The dog was looking away from the river. When she let go of him, he bounded to a big wooden door set in the side of the mill. Rose ran after him. There was a rusty iron latch—too high for her to reach.

“Nieve!” She hammered on the door with her fist. “Are you in there?”

There was a squeal of rusty hinges as the door swung open. Nieve was on the other side, a puzzled frown on her face and a white-tipped stick in her hand. Beside her stood the boy who had been throwing stones.

“Nieve! I thought you’d fallen in the river! Where have you been all this time?”

“Playing a game with Alonso,” she replied. “Come and see.” She took Rose by the hand and led her into the cavernous room where the grain was milled into flour. Sacks were stacked all around the room, and the sunbeams coming through the door lit up ghostly swirls of dust motes. She stopped in front of a wooden trough.

“It’s called tres en raya.” Nieve pointed with her stick to a grid pattern filled with crosses and circles drawn in the snowy white flour that filled the trough. “He won the first three—but I’ve just beaten him!”

Rose huffed out a breath. She could hardly blame the child for wanting to play after what she’d been through over the past few days. “That’s very clever,” she said. “But next time just come and tell me, will you? Then I won’t get worried.”