The Snow Gypsy(74)

“No, he didn’t mention that.”

“It was a terrible business. They treated him like an animal, insulting him and blaspheming him. Then they made him drink vinegar, like Jesus on the cross, before killing him. Things were bad enough before, but what was done that day tore the village apart. Anyone who’d even been out on the streets when it happened was rounded up. Heliodora’s husband had been taking bales of silk to órgiva that day, and he got caught up in it. Probably she didn’t even know she was pregnant when he died. When she started to show, there were all kinds of rumors flying around. People said the father was the merchant who’d employed her husband. Whether it was true or not, I don’t know. But the merchant’s wife denounced her. That’s why Heliodora was shot.”

The tears that Rose had fought so hard to contain spilled out at the thought of Nieve clinging to the peacock shawl in her sleep—her fingers wrapped around the frayed, faded fabric that had very likely been woven by her mother’s own hands. Rose felt an overwhelming urge to get up and run from this place, down the mountain to the school, to gather the child up in her arms and bury her face in Nieve’s hair.

“I have to go now.” Rose jumped to her feet, wiping her hand across her cheeks. “Thank you for . . .” She broke off, unable to say any more.

“Let me give you something first,” Maria said. She stood up stiffly, holding her hand to her back. “It’s in the house—I won’t be a minute.”

Rose followed her silently back through the rows of vegetables. It was as if her mind had broken loose from her body. Her limbs were doing exactly what they should, but she felt like an automaton. She stood, rigid, outside the door of the farmhouse while Maria went inside. When the old woman reemerged, she pressed a small, hard object into Rose’s hand. “He would have wanted you to have this. You did a brave thing, coming all this way to find him.”

Rose opened her fingers. In her palm lay the tiny figure of a horse.





Chapter 27

The early-morning sun slanted through the tree outside the window, casting dappled shadows on the gray woolen blanket that covered the bed. Rose rubbed her eyes. Where was she? This was not her bedroom at the mill. Where was Nieve? And Gunesh?

There was something on her head. She could feel a cold, wet sensation on her scalp. Panic seized her. She tried to scramble out of the bed, but a searing pain shot up her left ankle. Then the bedroom door opened, and Zoltan’s face appeared.

“Oh good—you’re awake.” The worry lines between his eyebrows relaxed a little.

“What happened? How did I get here? Where’s Nieve?” The questions tumbled out in a voice that sounded as croaky and ancient as Maria’s.

“It’s all right.” He sat down beside her, stroking her hair. “Nieve’s playing outside with Gunesh. I put you in here to get some rest. You must have fallen coming down the mountain. I found you on my way back from the market.”

“But I . . . I don’t remember . . .”

“Shhh. Don’t try to talk. You were out cold—that’s why you don’t remember. You must have knocked your head on a rock when you fell. There’s no wound or anything—just a small lump—but you need to take it easy for a day or two.” He reached across to a jug on the windowsill and poured water into a glass. “Here. Drink this. I’m going to take Nieve to school now. I’ll make you some breakfast when I get back if you feel up to eating anything.”

When he’d gone Rose spotted a familiar object on the bedside table. It was the wooden horse her brother had carved for Maria. She reached out to touch it, running her fingers over the smooth curve of its back. Thank God she hadn’t lost it when she fell on the mountain. It was the one thing that connected her with Nathan.

She must have drifted back into sleep soon after that. When she woke up again, Zoltan was standing beside the bed with a tray of coffee and toasted bread spread with apricot jam.

“Thank you.” She struggled to raise her head. He slipped his arms behind her shoulders and eased her into a sitting position. “Was Nieve okay going to school?”

“Fine,” Zoltan replied. “She loves animals, doesn’t she? I think she was born to ride a mule.” He set the tray on her lap and poured coffee into an enamel mug. “Oh! Did I hurt you?”

She felt stupid, pathetic, for welling up at the very mention of Nieve’s birth. “No,” she whispered. “It’s just . . . Nieve . . . she . . .”

“You don’t have to explain. Maria told me everything. She came over last night with that poultice for your head.”

“I thought I could take it.” Rose lifted the coffee to her mouth, breathing in the sharp aroma. “I’d told myself a hundred times that it was impossible—that Nieve couldn’t be my brother’s child—but in here . . .” She clasped her hand to her chest. “I was clinging to it. When you told me that Nathan was dead—well, it was all I had left. And then, when Maria filled in the rest . . . it was like I’d crucified myself on a shadow.”

“I wish she hadn’t given it to you in such gruesome detail. If I’d been there with you—”

Rose held up her hand. “I made her tell me everything. It was the only way I could know for sure that Nieve wasn’t Nathan’s daughter.”