Thinking of Lola sent the icy sensation in Rose’s feet coursing through her whole body. She felt guilty for being in such a beautiful place, for breathing in fresh mountain air and feeling the sun on her skin while Lola was shut away in a gloomy, stinking cell.
As she opened her eyes, she caught a movement on the opposite bank. A flash of black and white. Then another. She blinked as her brain tried to make sense of what her eyes were seeing. A pair of badger cubs, tumbling over each other as they frolicked in the sunshine. Instinctively she reached for Gunesh’s collar, afraid that he would jump into the water and try to get at them. But the dog had dozed off in the heat.
She watched, enchanted, as a third cub appeared over the top of the bank. She had never seen badgers in daylight before. Like the golden eagle that had flown over her head, it was magical. Uplifting. A private show for her delight. As if God were saying, Here I am.
Chapter 29
Granada, Spain
Lola was on the edge of consciousness when the door of the cell opened. At first, she thought she had died in her sleep, because the figure who came toward her and sat down on the bed looked like an angel. The scant sunshine coming through the window lit up golden hair wound into two thick plaits that encircled the head like a halo. It was a noble head, neither feminine nor masculine, but something in between.
“Buenos días, Lola.” The voice was strong but gentle, the Spanish words tinged with a foreign lilt. “My name is Aurora Fernandez. Your friend Rose Daniel wrote to me.”
“Rose?” Lola struggled to raise herself up from the bed, muscles that had once been so strong wasted by weeks of meager food and inactivity.
“Yes. She told me what happened—what caused you to do what you did.”
“Who . . . how did . . .” Lola faltered, confused.
“I’m sorry—I should have explained.” The woman tucked a stray wisp of blonde hair behind her ear. “I’m the wife of the mayor of Granada. I’m English, like your friend—although I don’t think she knew that when she wrote to me. She said that she hoped that as a woman, I might understand the unfairness of what had happened to you. She asked me to intercede with my husband. To get the murder charge dropped.”
“C . . . can you do that?” Lola’s lower jaw trembled with emotion, making her teeth rattle out a staccato rhythm.
“I’m trying. Nothing’s certain—not yet. But I wanted to come and see you—to let you know that there is some hope.”
“Th . . . thank you, S . . . Señora Fernandez.”
“Please—call me Aurora.” She reached inside her bag and produced a parcel wrapped in waxed paper. “I brought you this. It’s tortilla. And there are plums in here, too.” Her hand went back inside the bag. “I would have brought more, but I have to be very careful. The relationship between my husband and the chief of the Guardia Civil is a delicate balancing act. It wouldn’t do to take too many liberties.”
Lola unwrapped the package. The tortilla was still warm from the oven. She brought it up to her face, breathing in the intoxicating aroma. “Why?” she whispered. “Why are you doing this for me?”
There was a moment of silence. Aurora’s eyes searched the wall beneath the window, her irises almost translucent as the light caught them. “I had a friend who went through a similar ordeal as you. It happened during the war. Her name was Freda. We both came to Spain as nurses from England, and we were taken to a field hospital on the Aragon front. It was grim, but for me it had a happy ending: I met my husband when I was treating him for a gunshot wound. But my friend . . .” Aurora paused, closing her eyes. “She went for a walk on her own one night, just to get away from all the horror on the wards, and she was raped by a gang of retreating soldiers. We didn’t find her until the following morning. She died of her injuries a few days later.”
Lola could find no words. She reached out her hand, but it froze in midair. A woman like this—clean, fragrant, respectable—wouldn’t want the touch of a filthy, unkempt creature like herself. But at that moment, Aurora opened her eyes. Seeing the hand suspended above hers, she grasped it firmly.
“I couldn’t save Freda,” she whispered, “but I’ll do everything in my power to save you.”
Chapter 30
Pampaneira, Spain
Rose was sitting in the armchair, resting her ankle, when Zoltan and Nieve returned from the village.
“How did you get on?” Zoltan glanced at her foot, which was propped on a stool. “I hope you didn’t overdo it.”
“It was fine—I found everything Maria wanted. And I saw badger cubs—three of them—playing by a waterfall, just a few yards from where I was sitting.”
“Really? I’ve never seen badgers round here. You must show me.”
“I will.” Rose smiled. “Hey, Nieve,” she called, “where are you going?”
Instead of running up to Rose and kissing her, Nieve had dropped her schoolbag on the kitchen floor and was heading out the door with Gunesh.
“What’s the matter with her?” Rose asked.
“Oh, she’s grumpy because her friend Pilar wasn’t at school today.” Zoltan took the kettle from beside the fire and went to fill it. “She says she doesn’t want to go tomorrow unless Pilar’s back,” he called over his shoulder.
“How are we going to know that?”
“We’re not.” Zoltan shrugged. “I tried bribing her with the promise of migas for supper, but she turned her nose up at that. Apparently, someone in her class said migas is what poor people eat.”
“Probably Alonso, from the mill,” Rose replied. “He’s a troublemaker, like his mother.” She eased herself out of her chair and went to wash her cup while the kettle was boiling. “Talking of the mill,” she said as Zoltan spooned coffee into the pot, “was there anything for me at the post office?”
He shook his head. “Sorry. I bought you some stamps—if you want to write again tonight, I can post them tomorrow.”
“Thank you—that was kind of you.” The prospect of composing all those letters again—in Spanish—was daunting. She wished she’d kept copies of the ones she’d sent. It would have made it a lot easier. But she had been full of optimism when she’d posted the first batch. It hadn’t occurred to her that nearly three weeks on, she wouldn’t have received a single reply.
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 t
ime 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.
She opened her eyes wide, gazing up at the stars, willing herself to stay awake until he fell asleep. Then she would tuck the blanket around him and creep off to bed.
When Rose opened her eyes the next morning, she was aware that something was wrong. Nieve’s face was so close that her features were blurred, but even without clear vision, Rose could tell that it looked different. Propping herself up on the pillow, she gasped in alarm. Nieve’s face was covered in an angry scarlet rash.
“Mama . . .” Nieve murmured the word in her sleep, tossing her head from one side of the bed to the other.
“It’s all right,” Rose whispered. She laid her hand gently on Nieve’s forehead. It was burning hot. “I’m going to fetch something to cool you down—I won’t be a minute.”
She ran into the kitchen and poured water into a bowl. She was about to carry it back to the bedroom when Zoltan appeared in the doorway. She turned to him, her face creased with worry.
“What’s the matter? Is it Nieve?”
“She’s burning up—there’s a rash all over her face. I think she might have measles—or chicken pox.”
Zoltan looked as though he’d seen a ghost.
“What?” Rose stared at him. “Do you know what it is?”
“I didn’t want to worry you.” He pressed his lips together until they disappeared. “I heard in the village yesterday that there’s an outbreak of typhus. A couple of people who work in the silk-weaving shed have gone down with it. I wondered whether Pilar . . .”
“Pilar has typhus?” Panic rose like bile in Rose’s throat.
“I don’t know.” Zoltan sounded wretched. “I should have asked. It . . . didn’t occur to me.”
“We need a doctor.” Rose scoured the cottage with her eyes, ranging over the ibex horns above the fireplace, the wolf-skin rug on the floor, the kettle in the hearth, as if the person they needed were concealed in the walls or under the floorboards.
“Yes—of course. But shall I fetch Maria first?”
“Can she cure typhus?” Rose had never doubted the power of herbs to heal. But would anything Maria had be strong enough for a disease known to kill the weak and vulnerable?
“I don’t know. She’ll know what to do, though, while I go for the doctor.”
Maria’s face gave nothing away when Zoltan brought her into the bedroom. She asked Rose to undress Nieve so that she could see the full extent of the rash on her body. The child was barely conscious. She groaned when Rose undid the buttons of her nightdress, as if the slightest touch was painful.
“Sí,” Maria muttered under her breath. “Es tabardillo.”
“¿Tabardillo?” Rose repeated.
Zoltan reached for her hand. “It’s what people round here call typhus. Red cloak. Because of the rash.”
Maria motioned for them to follow her into the kitchen. She took a bunch of something bundled in brown paper from the bag slung over her shoulder. When she unwrapped it, Rose recognized the plant by the small emerald seed cases beading the creeperlike stems. In Britain it was called goosegrass. She had a vivid memory of Nathan getting covered in the sticky seeds after rolling about with Gunesh the day he came to say goodbye to her in Sussex.
“This is good for all fevers,” Maria said. “Take a handful, pound it in a pestle and mortar, then infuse it in warm milk. Give her two tablespoons three times a day if she can take it. If not, use it as a poultice on her forehead and give her water with a little lemon and honey to drink.” She turned to Rose, the crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes deepening. “Keeping the fever down is all you can hope for. I wish I could do more for her.”
Rose didn’t trust herself to speak. She felt as if her throat had swollen up and closed over. She glanced at Zoltan, tears brimming.
“The doctor must have something stronger,” he said. “Give Nieve some of that while I go and fetch him.”
“I’m afraid the doctor won’t be able to offer you anything more effective than this,” Maria replied. “You’re going to have to be very brave, Rose. There’s a war raging inside that little body, and the odds are not good.”
It was well past noon by the time Zoltan returned with the doctor. Typhus was spreading its deadly tentacles
through Pampaneira. Half a dozen new cases had been reported in the past twenty-four hours, Pilar among them. One of the silk weavers—a woman in her late sixties—had died in the night.
Rose went through the motions of greeting the doctor, but she felt completely numb as she led him through to where Nieve lay. The child was thrashing about on the bed, her eyes wild, as if nightmarish scenes were appearing on the walls. She no longer recognized Rose. The only words she uttered were Mama and agua. Water was all she could take. The herbal mixture had made her vomit the moment it passed her lips.
The examination took no more than a minute. “She has the severest form of the disease—a strain brought over from Spanish Morocco. The flies are spreading it—they’re very bad this year.” The doctor tucked his stethoscope back into his bag. Then he said, in quick Spanish to Zoltan, that Nieve was dying and Rose must be prepared for this.
“¿Cuándo?” When? Rose spoke the word without looking at him.
“Any hour,” he replied in a low, gruff voice. “Three days at the most.”
“I won’t let her die!” Rose bent over the tiny feverish body, her tears falling onto the livid crimson spots on Nieve’s chest. “There must be something you can do!”
“If she was older, I’d try injecting her with penicillin,” the doctor said. “That sometimes works. But she’s too small. Her heart’s laboring too much to take it. All you can do is keep her cool and give her water when she asks for it. Try to resist getting too close to her—otherwise you might catch it, too.”
When he had gone, Zoltan gathered Rose up in his arms, stroking her hair while she sobbed into his shirt.
“You haven’t eaten all day,” he whispered. “Let me get you something.”
She shook her head. “I couldn’t,” she mumbled.
“But you must try, Rose. And you must get some sleep. You need to keep your strength up. We can take it in turns to sit with her.” He eased her into the armchair and went to fill the kettle. “Oh, I forgot!” His hand went to the pocket of his trousers. “This came for you.” He handed her a crumpled envelope with Spanish stamps. “The postman saw me in the street—he said it arrived this morning.”
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