The Snow Gypsy(88)

As she made her way toward the pale shapes hovering beneath the rocks, a fragment of memory drifted into her mind’s eye, merging with what she was looking at. It was an image from the dream of Nathan. Now she knew what he had been pointing at when he jumped off his horse. The ghostly white shapes were the petals of flowers she had never seen growing this close to the cottage—flowers she’d spotted when she had been gathering herbs for Maria high up on the mountain. They were poppies. Opium poppies.

Are you telling me I should give her that?

Rose whispered the words into the night air, as if Nathan were standing there beside her.

But she’s just a child.

It was a desperate, dangerous remedy. Not a remedy at all—just a way of easing the pain. But Nieve was dying, slowly and in agony. Surely Rose should do anything in her power to ease that suffering?

She crossed the grass to the rocks, bending over the swaying poppy heads, breathing in their bitter scent. She had written down what Maria had told her. A handful of the gray-green heads brewed in water over the fire. The liquid sweetened with honey and administered on a teaspoon. Reaching out, she dug her nails into one of the slim, pliable stems.



Rose didn’t tell Lola what was in the brew she prepared that night. It would only add to the trauma she was already suffering. When Lola asked what it was, Rose simply said it was something to deaden the pain.

Zoltan, who had come into the kitchen as she was stirring the mixture, had simply nodded when she said what was in it. “If it helps in any way, it’s got to be worth a try,” he said.

When it came to getting the liquid into Nieve’s mouth, Rose was afraid she would either spit it out or vomit it up. But to her relief the child did neither. Perhaps it was the honey that did the trick. Rose didn’t know. But within minutes of taking the opium mixture, Nieve lay still and peaceful on the pillow, her breathing regular and her skin much cooler to the touch.

Rose managed to persuade Lola to try to get some sleep in the armchair by the fire. Zoltan offered to sit with Nieve, but Rose could see how exhausted he was.

“I’ll watch her,” she said. “You can take over in the morning.”

He gave her a sad, soulful look. Neither of them could say it out loud: that tomorrow would be the third day—the day the doctor had predicted would be Nieve’s last.

Rose lost track of the hours as she watched Nieve hover between life and death. She sat on the edge of the bed, gazing at her sleeping face, thinking that she would give anything to swap places, to be the one to die instead of this child who had never had the chance to fulfill the promise her sweet, bright, playful little soul contained.

She repeated a single, silent prayer, over and over, like a mantra. Please, God, let her live. It felt hopeless, futile. But praying was all that was left to her now.

The moon could no longer be seen through the window. The poppies, which had stood out so clearly earlier on, were lost in shadow. Rose thought how strange it was that she had never noticed them before. It was as if they had sprung up overnight.

When dawn tinged the sky outside, Rose reached out to touch Nieve’s forehead. She felt very cold. The first rays of the rising sun revealed that the ugly red rash had disappeared. Her skin was as white as the petals of the opium poppies. Rose’s heart began to race. She bent down low, listening in vain for the whisper of Nieve’s breathing. She pressed the tiny wrist with her fingers, desperately feeling for the flutter of a pulse. There was nothing. No beat of life. Just cold, cold flesh.

“Oh, cari?o, don’t leave me!”

Tears spilled down Rose’s face. She heard the choking sound of her own sobbing. Impossible to stop.

Don’t cry.

Whose voice was that inside her head, tormenting her?

Please don’t cry.

She blinked. Saw Nieve’s face through the blur of tears. Her eyes were open. And she was smiling.



Half an hour later Nieve was sitting up in bed, feasting on goat cheese and ripe figs.

“Are you sure you can eat all that?” Lola glanced from Nieve to Rose, her eyes glassy with emotion.

“I’m absolutely starving, Mama!” The cheeky grin was the same as ever. The only sign of the illness that had ravaged her body was the pallor in her face and the stringy look of her unwashed, unbrushed hair.

When the meal was finished, Nieve lay back on the pillow and dozed off. Zoltan took the plate into the kitchen, leaving Lola and Rose to gaze in wonder at the sleeping child.

“I still can’t quite believe it,” Rose whispered. “Can you?”

Lola shook her head slowly. “I thought I was going to lose her.” She turned to Rose, tears streaking her face. “As punishment for taking a life.”

Rose reached for her hand. “I don’t believe God works like that. What about the life you saved? Nieve wouldn’t be here at all if it wasn’t for you. You put your own life on the line for another woman’s child—and gave her all that love. What does a person deserve for that?”

Lola shook her head. “I don’t know.”

“Well, I think I do: a miracle. And you got it.”



Zoltan and Rose left Lola with Nieve while they went to tell Maria the good news.

The old woman’s eyes widened when she heard what Rose had done. “That was a big risk you took. If the brew was too strong, it would have finished her off. How did you get the right dose?”