The Snow Gypsy(63)

Gunesh was sprawled on the wolf-skin rug in front of the fire. Zoltan crouched down beside him, rubbing the dog’s head. Rose smiled as Gunesh rolled over onto his back, wanting his tummy tickled.

“How long will you stay in Pampaneira?” Zoltan glanced up at her, his fingers half-hidden in Gunesh’s fur.

“I . . . I’m not sure.”

“Does it depend on what you find out about your brother?”

“Partly, yes.” She hesitated, wanting to tell him the truth about Nieve, about the trauma of Lola’s arrest and the danger of returning to Granada. It would be such a relief to pour it all out to someone. She pressed her lips shut, reminding herself that she’d known this man for only twenty-four hours. Yes, he’d been kind and helpful—but could she really trust him?

“Well,” he said, “I hope you’ll still be here at the end of next week.”

“Why?”

“It’s the night of San Juan—a big fiesta in the villages around here.”

“A fiesta?” She echoed his words, her mind suddenly filled with Cristóbal’s face. “There seem to be an awful lot of them—what’s this one about?”

“It’s supposed to mark the beginning of summer,” Zoltan replied. “Although it’s so hot already you wouldn’t know the difference.”

The beginning of summer.

It sounded like a promise of something good to come. She reached across the table for the railway timetable with Nathan’s scrawled note on the back. To be in a room that Nathan would have known, holding something he had written, was more than she ever could have hoped for. But it was only part of the story. How agonizing to learn that the woman who might know the rest was in the city Rose had left just days ago. Now there was nothing she could do but wait.





Chapter 23

Granada, Spain

Every time Lola heard the cell door rattle, she began to tremble uncontrollably, wondering if this day would be the one they came to drag her off to Málaga prison. She had become acutely aware of the different sounds the door made. Even in the dark she could tell if the rasp of metal on metal signaled the hatch being pulled back for the delivery of food and water or the door being unlocked for someone to come inside.

This time it was not just the scrape of the key in the lock that she heard. There were voices. More than one person had come to her cell. What did that mean? Had they come to get her? Did they think it would take more than one guard to get her from the police station to the truck that would take her to prison?

But when the door opened, it was not a guard she saw but a priest. His face was in shadow, and even when he stepped into the cell, it was difficult to make out his features in the gray light filtering through the window.

“Buenos días, mi ni?a.” Good morning, my child.

His voice sounded young. As he came closer, she heard the door lock behind him.

“Buenos días.” Her own voice sounded ancient. They were the first words she had uttered in days. She hadn’t asked for a priest. Why was he here? Fearful images crowded her mind. Was this what they did when they were about to take you out and shoot you?

“Please, sit down.” He gestured to the bed, which was the only place to sit. “I want to help you if I can.”

“Help me?” she echoed. “How can you do that?”

“Do you believe, child?”

Lola glanced up at the window. A week ago, she would have answered yes without a second thought. In her darkest times she had always prayed to God and the saints for help. The day she had lost her mother and brother and found Nieve, she had spent the night at the little shrine at the top of the mountain. She had got down on her knees to beg the Virgin of the Snows to get her and the baby safely across the mountains to Granada. But the horror of being imprisoned, of losing Nieve, of facing a life behind bars for killing a man who had tried to rape her—how could she go on believing? How could a loving God allow that to happen?

“It’s hard for you, I know,” he said. “But if you keep faith, your burden will be easier to bear.”

“How?” There was a defiant edge to her voice. Easy for him to say, she thought.

“You must be lonely here. They tell me you have family in Sacromonte. Have they come to visit you?”

“They’re Gypsies. You know how the police are with us.”

“Ah.” He nodded. “That must be very hard for you. You have a child, too, don’t you? A little girl?”

Lola’s eyes flashed with suspicion. “Who told you that?”

“Someone who knows you and cares about the welfare of the child.”

So this was what the visit was all about. Nothing to do with her spiritual welfare—just a ruse to find Nieve and cart her off to a convent. “They were telling lies,” she hissed. “I don’t have a daughter.”

“God knows the secrets of our hearts, my child—you risk eternal damnation if you hide the truth from his servant.”

“I don’t have a child!” The words echoed off the walls. “Give me a Bible—I’ll swear on it!”

She heard him draw in a breath. “That won’t be necessary. But let me put this to you: if it were true—if you did have a daughter, and you were able to tell me where to find her—you could expect merciful treatment from the judge when your case comes to court.”