The Snow Gypsy(77)

“Gunesh!” Nieve wiped her cheek with the back of her hand, pressing her face closer to Rose’s. “Did you like me?” she whispered.

“Like you? I loved you!” Rose hugged her tight, kissing her through her curls. She was on the verge of adding that Lola would have loved to see it, too, but she bit her tongue. To say such a thing would only upset the child, rob her of this moment of elation.

“What about you, Uncle Zoltan? Did you like me?”

“I think you’re the best dancer in the whole school—and I want you to teach me how to do it.” He grinned. “You won’t make me wear a dress, though, will you?”

“Silly!” She batted at him with her hand, laughing as she jumped off Rose’s lap. “I’ve got to go to Pilar’s house now.”

“What time will you want to come back tomorrow?” Rose asked. “Did she say?”

Nieve shook her head.

“If it’s anything like last year, no one’ll be in bed before sunrise,” Zoltan said.

“I could walk to the mill easily from Pilar’s,” Nieve said. “Shall I meet you there?”

Rose and Zoltan exchanged glances. “We’re not going to be staying there anymore, actually,” Rose began. “Se?ora Carmona was cross when we went back to get your costume.” She glanced across the square to where the woman was deep in conversation with Pampaneira’s priest. “She said some nasty things to me. So we’re going to stay at Uncle Zoltan’s for a while longer.”

Nieve beamed, clapped her hands, and ran off toward the stage.

Rose followed her with her eyes until she disappeared, hand in hand with Pilar. Could it be possible to feel closer to a child if they were your own flesh and blood? With sudden clarity Rose realized that it made no difference that Nieve wasn’t Nathan’s daughter. Nathan had brought this child to her, and she loved her—deeply and unconditionally.



It was almost dark when they got back to Zoltan’s cottage. He’d had to unload the panniers and leave them behind the woodpile in the school yard to enable the mule to get Rose up the mountain. She had all that she needed in a bag slung over her shoulder: clean underwear, a nightgown, and her toothbrush. He’d promised to bring everything else when he went to collect Nieve.

“Shall we sit outside for a while?” Zoltan went inside to fetch a blanket and some cushions. He lifted her out of the saddle and laid her down, then went off to feed and water the mule.

Rose lay back on the cushions. Although it was nearly eleven o’clock, the air was still warm. In the pale-indigo sky, she could see the first stars coming out. The trees and bushes were alive with the musical thrumming of the crickets. Then she heard an owl calling. The sound fractured the air, a shrill, mournful cry—like a song for dying souls.

Don’t you believe in heaven, Rose?

For a split second she felt Nathan was there beside her, lying on his back, gazing up at the stars.

“You’re not asleep, are you?”

Zoltan’s voice broke the spell. He’d brought her coffee and a plate of something she couldn’t quite make out in the darkness.

“Would you like one of these?”

“What are they?” Rose propped herself up on her elbow.

“They’re called bu?uelos. Sweet fritters—a bit like doughnuts. The bakery only sells them on festival days—I’m not sure why. They’re very good.”

“Mmm.” Rose felt grains of sugar crunch between her teeth as she bit into it.

Scenting food, Gunesh lifted his head from the blanket.

“Can I give him some?” Zoltan asked.

“Well, he shouldn’t really have sweet things—but I suppose a little bit won’t hurt him.”

Zoltan crouched down beside her and broke off a morsel of the bu?uelo. “Oh look—they’ve started lighting the bonfires.”

Rose straightened her elbow, raising herself a little higher off the blanket. In the dark folds of the valley below were tiny pinpricks of yellow light, each village marking the beginning of summer with its own towering blaze. “Do you think they all have witches on top of them?”

“I don’t know. They certainly have some strange customs around here. In one of the villages, they have a procession in winter where they make a huge figure of a fox out of paper and carry it through the streets on the men’s shoulders. Someone dressed as a priest follows behind it, reciting all the crimes this fox is supposed to have committed during the previous year. They call it the Paseo de la Zorra.”

“Zorra? Feminine?”

“Yes.”

Rose grunted. “Witches, vixens—why is it always the female that gets the blame?”

“I suppose it’s been that way since Genesis, hasn’t it?” He settled back on a cushion. “There’s a vixen living in the copse behind the cottage. Have you heard her?”

“I did—that first night I stayed here.”

“She had a litter of cubs a couple of months ago. I used to creep up there first thing in the morning to watch them playing. I tried to sketch them. I’m not much of an artist, but it made me feel good.” He huffed out a breath. “That sounds sentimental, I know.”

“No, it doesn’t. I feel just the same when I’m out picking herbs for my veterinary practice. I get childishly excited when I see a flower I’m not expecting to find—something that’s bloomed earlier or later than usual or something that wouldn’t normally grow in the place I’m searching in.”