The Snow Gypsy(82)

It was such a warm evening that they ate supper outside. Rose had made elderflower fritters from the blossoms she had found overhanging the stream.

“These are really delicious!” Zoltan retrieved a crumb of batter that had landed in his lap and popped it into his mouth.

“Haven’t you had them before?”

He shook his head. “I never knew you could eat flowers.”

She smiled. For a Gypsy, he seemed to know very little about the nomadic life. But perhaps that was normal in Hungary—to live in a house rather than traveling about.

Nieve was toying with her food, pushing the battered flower heads around her plate.

“Don’t you like them?” Zoltan asked.

Nieve didn’t reply.

Rose glanced at him over Nieve’s head, mouthing the words Gypsy food with a wry smile.

But before the meal was over, Nieve said that she didn’t feel well.

“Do you want to go to bed?” Rose asked.

Nieve nodded.

“It’s very unusual for her to want to go to bed this early,” Rose said when she’d tucked her in. “You know what she’s usually like—tearing around with Gunesh. She hardly ever goes to bed before I do.”

“You don’t think she’s putting it on, to get out of going to school while Pilar’s away?”

Rose shrugged. “She felt quite hot. But it might just be the weather. We’ll see how she is when she wakes up.”

They went back outside to eat the cheese and plums Maria had given Rose in return for the herbs she had gathered on the mountain. It was almost dark by the time they had finished. They settled back on the blanket to watch the stars come out. Rose couldn’t help thinking of the last time they had done this, the night of the fiesta, when they had fallen asleep outside and she had woken the next morning with his body wrapped around hers. A surge of longing rose, unbidden, deep inside. Would it be so wrong to snuggle up to him? She closed her eyes, needing no voice inside her head to tell her the answer. She only had to summon the image of Cristóbal.

“Can you see that one? What’s it called?”

She opened her eyes. Zoltan’s face was inches from hers. She turned her head toward the sky, aware of the magnetic pull of his eyes.

“In Britain they call it the Plough,” she replied, her voice unsteady. “But my Gypsy friends always called it the Great Bear.”

“It doesn’t look much like a bear to me.”

“No, it doesn’t.” She heard a cricket strike up somewhere behind her head. It sounded very loud in the stillness of the twilight. “Can you see that one over there, shaped like a letter W?”

“Yes—what is it?”

“It’s called Cassiopeia—named after a queen of Ethiopia who was punished by the gods for being too vain.”

“What did she do?”

“She boasted that she was more beautiful than the sea nymphs. So the god Poseidon sent a sea monster to terrorize the coast of Ethiopia. The queen was made to tie up her daughter, Andromeda, on the rocks as a sacrifice to it.”

“What happened?”

“Andromeda was saved at the last minute by a hero called Perseus. But Cassiopeia was turned into stone, then put into the sky. As punishment for her vanity, she spends half the year circling the North Star upside down.”

“That sounds a bit harsh.” She heard him laugh to himself. “No chance of any vanity up here, is there? Not a mirror in the place.” He propped himself up on one elbow, his face hovering over hers. “Not that you need one.” She could feel his breath on her skin. “You’re very beautiful, Rose.”

She lay perfectly still, afraid to move, longing to kiss him, but held back by the thought of what it would lead to.

“I’ve been wanting to tell you that since that first day at the market—I hope you don’t mind.”

“Oh, Zoltan,” she murmured, “you’re so lovely. But I’m scared. I don’t know how long I’m going to be here. And I’ve been hurt—in the past.”

“I’d never do anything to hurt you.”

“I believe you.” She reached out, stroking his shoulder with the tips of her fingers. “It’s just . . . well, it’s not just me, is it? I have Nieve to think about.”

“Yes, of course, I understand. You think it’s too soon.”

“She’s had so much to deal with in her short life. I’ve tried to give her a sense of security, of normality—but if you and I were to . . .” Rose hesitated. She felt awkward, talking about something so heartfelt in such a matter-of-fact way. “I think it would really confuse her.”

“I’m sorry—I’m being selfish. You’re right, of course. That’s one of the things I love about you, Rose: you’re so caring. You always put other people first.”

His words made her feel hollow inside. If he could have seen her in Provence, sleeping with Cristóbal without bothering to find out that he had a wife and children in Granada, Zoltan probably wouldn’t even want her in his house, let alone say something so tender.

He put his finger to his lips, then brushed it over hers. “Could we just lie here together for a while? I won’t take any liberties, I promise.”

The hesitation was only momentary. She snuggled against him, the warmth of his skin sending delicious pulses through her body. It was pure torture, wanting him so much but needing to hold back. It would be lovely to fall asleep like this. But she mustn’t let that happen. Nieve might wake up in the night and wander outside—to witness the very thing Rose was trying to resist.