by Callie Hart
Pasha hooks his pinkie around mine—a small, hidden gesture, meant to reassure. “If they pick my mother…” He trails off. When he looks up, surveying the growing crowd of clan-members, skimming over each individual as if he’s performing some sort of last-minute head count, his eyes are full of stars, reflecting the flickering, bright lights cast off by the many well-fed fires that have been lit to hold back the night. “She’s a stone-cold bitch, but she’s clever. She won’t do anything in front of the clan that might endanger either of us. Out of sight, though? I’ve seen her do some fucked up shit, Zara. If she wins this vote, we have to be gone by first light.”
“And how will we prevent Lazlo from learning the outcome of the vote if they don’t pick you?” I ask. “How do we stop him from discovering the truth if you don’t win?”
Pasha clucks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, smiling as he shakes his head. “We don’t really need to worry about that, Firefly. I am going to win. You already know it’s true.”
Arrogant to the bitter end, his over-active pride is either going to get him killed one of these days, or he’s going to end up king of more than the Roma, one way or another, with the world bowed down to him at his size eleven feet.
I smile up at him, warmed by the notion that I might get to witness that happen. “I do know,” I agree.
A soft sound snags at my ear to our left: the sound of falling dry winter leaves rustling on a nighttime breeze. It’s the little girl in Shireen’s arms; she looks like a miniature Russian doll, dark hair pinned back, twin spots of rosy color on her pale cheeks, her lips a bright ruby red. She’s talking. Whispering, to be precise. “Why? What’s…” Her bright, dark eyes dart to Pasha momentarily, then back to her mother. “What’s a king?”
Shireen lets out a throaty, raw burst of laughter. “Well, it’s a man who gets to tell everyone what to do,” she replies. “The king is the man who gets to be in charge.”
“Does everyone take turns?” Evelyn asks.
“No, baby. That’s not how it works with kings. Some kings are born. Others are chosen. We like to choose our kings.”
“And…so…are we going to choose him now?” Evelyn points to Pasha with another quick look. Up until now, Pasha’s been pretending not to hear the exchange taking place next to him. His eyes remain fixed on me, but now they crinkle slightly at the corners, the left side of his mouth—the side Evelyn can’t see from her vantage point on her mother’s hip—and half of him smiles.
“We’ve actually already picked him twice,” Shireen informs the child. “Once when he was little, and once again when he was older. Now the fool is making us choose him all over again.”
Evelyn laughs. “That’s silly. You only need to be chosen once.”
“You’re telling me kiddo. Your uncle’s big and strong, but really he’s just a big baby. He needs to be reassured that people like him.”
Evelyn’s sweet, high-pitched giggle attracts adoring smiles from a number of the other clan members, who seem to forget for a second that they’re supposed to be glaring suspiciously at me out of the corner of their eyes. “He’s my uncle?” I hear the wonder in her voice. The pure delight. It’s clear that the prospect of Pasha being her uncle is far more important to Evelyn than the prospect of him being her king. Shireen strokes a rogue, black curl back behind the little girl’s ear.
“Oh, he’s your uncle alright. If Pasha and Patrin Rivin aren’t related by blood, then they’re definitely related by their own stupidity.” Her teasing increases in volume, meant to be heard by Pasha, who bounces on the balls of his feet, smirking at the fire.
He looks back over his shoulder and says, “Careful, Stafie. If I’m voted in again, I’ll make sure you get water duty for the rest of the winter.”
“Oh, did you hear that?” Shireen wriggles her fingers into her daughter’s side, tickling her. “He’s so mean. Maybe we don’t want him as king after all. What do you think, Evie? Should we kick him out?”
The little girl shrieks with glee, squirming, trying to get away from the merciless tickling. Pasha squeezes my hand quickly, releasing me, and then he’s swooping in, taking the little girl under the arms, rescuing her from her mother and sitting her on his hip.
“Come here. Let me tell you something,” he says to her. She tentatively leans in, placing her ear close to Pasha’s mouth. He grins wickedly at Shireen as he speaks to the girl. “When I’m king, I’ll outlaw tickling forever. We’ll make it a crime punishable by pancake,” he says conspiratorially.
Her eyes have doubled in size. “Pancake?”
Pasha nods solemnly. “If I’m made king and your mother ever tickles you again, she’ll have to make you pancakes for breakfast, every day for a whole month.”
Evelyn’s mouth drops open to form a cute-as-a-button ‘O.’ She tries to squirm out of Pasha’s arms and back into her mother’s. “Tickle me, Mama! Tickle me.”
“Hold on, hold on.” Pasha doesn’t return Evelyn right away. He bounces her on his hip until she stops laughing and tilts her little face upward so that she’s looking at him. Suddenly the little girl looks overcome with awe, as if she’s seeing Pasha for the very first time, and she’s mesmerized by him. I can sympathize with her; I’m sure I adopt the same stricken, dumbfounded, smitten expression whenever I look up into those jade eyes of his, too.
“You just asked your mom what a king was, and she told you he’s the man who gets to tell everyone what to do. She was right, kind of, but being a king is more than that. The king is responsible for a lot of different things. He has to make very difficult decisions. He has to try and make everybody happy, and keep them warm, and fed. He has to solve arguments and make sure everyone gets along. He has to fix things when they’re broken. Most importantly, the king protects the clan. If anyone tries to cause trouble, or wants to hurt one of us, then it’s the king’s job to defend the clan and keep them safe.”
Evelyn ponders this, by the looks of things turning Pasha’s words over inside her head, considering them very deeply. Eventually, she says, “You’re going to do all of that? You’re going to defend us?”
Slowly, very seriously, Pasha nods. Every part of his face bears the weight of his responsibility. “If your mom and the rest of the clan choose me again tonight, then yes. That’s exactly what I’m going to do. I swear it.”
He told me earlier that he planned on walking away from this once Lazlo was dealt with, and he meant it at the time. I’m totally naïve to what happened in all those conversations he had this afternoon, but it’s plain now that walking away from this is no longer an option for him. If he wins the vote, if they put a crown on his head—fuck, I don’t even know if he’d wear an actual, physical crown. I just can’t even picture it—then he won’t be able to turn his back on it. He wouldn’t turn away from it, because that would be breaking a promise. And that’s something I already know he would never do.
Pasha looks up at me, cautious and worried, and I see the apology there in his eyes. Honestly, I never really believed he wouldn’t do his duty and serve his people. He’s wanted more than anything to deny the voice of his people, but it was never really a realistic possibility. Even I know that. Pasha has bruised ribs and the ghost of a faded black eye. He has callouses all over his hands, and there are more scars on his body than I can count. He does not walk through this world softly or gently, and he does not handle it with care. But inside his chest beats a heart that cares deeply for others, no matter how hard he tries to hide it, and he has honor. He’ll be their king. It’ll be complicated, and messy, and it might cost us more than we want to surrender, but we’ll work it out.
I smile softly, nodding my head, and somehow he understands. He knows I’ll stand by him, even though I’m mad for not running a fucking mile. The relief on his face as he returns my smile is profound.
Around us, the night has officially closed in. Standing inside a ring of orange light cast off from a roaring bonfire, a young man stands with a child on his hip. The
conversation that just passed between them was simple, but it was real, and every word rang with a startling depth of truth. The young man has been so fixated on the little girl that he hasn’t noticed the numerous pairs of eyes that have all found him in the dark; he knows nothing of the ears that have been eavesdropping and have overheard his promise. He doesn’t see the tension melting from their faces, as if he’s taken his thumb and personally eased the worry lines from between their creased foreheads.
I stand at the edge of the fire, watching this all take place, and I know I’ve just witnessed something important. Shireen’s hugging herself, her fingers digging into the tops of her own arms. Her gaze meets mine, and her eyes look glassy, as if she’s on the brink of tears. She inhales, her chest rising sharply, and then steps forward, reaching out for Evelyn and collecting her from Pasha.
“You know I can’t make pancakes,” she hisses in an annoyed, tight tone. Her eyes are still shining, though; Pasha falters when he sees the emotion she’s trying to hide. “I hope you know how to make them,” she continues, swatting him away as he reaches out for her hand. “You’re going to have this one on your doorstep first thing in the morning, wanting what you promised her. Just you wait.” Shireen flashes a beaming, radiant smile up at Pasha, and then immediately cuts it short, as if her whole being might fall apart if she allows the smile to take full control of her face. “I need to find my husband. He’s probably causing trouble somewhere. Plus, we’ll be starting soon.”
Pasha and I both watch Shireen leave, Evelyn’s little face staring back at us over her mom’s shoulder as she scurries off into the crowd. In mere seconds, they’re gone. “Weird. Did…she seem okay to you?” Pasha murmurs. He sounds genuinely concerned.
“She’s just emotional, that’s all. She didn’t want you to know.”
Pasha’s sharp eyes lock onto me. “Emotional? Why?”
Shireen was right; Pasha is a little stupid. He’s stupid in the same way that all men are a little bit stupid sometimes. He has no idea what the sight of a tattooed, rough-edged, dangerous man, holding a vulnerable, delicate little girl like Evelyn in his arms and faithfully promising to always protect her, will do to a woman. Especially to her mother.
“You…” I frown, trying to find the right way to tell him that his friend’s probably in love with him. Has always been in love with him. Or, if she wasn’t in love with him before, then she most certainly is now. I can’t seem to conjure the appropriate words, though. Then, I realize that I have found the word, the only word that matters, and that it’s entirely enough. “You.”
A flash of concern mars Pasha’s face. “Fuck. I didn’t mean to upset her. I was just trying to be nice to the kid.” He casts quick, worried eyes toward the fire, searching for Shireen, but all he finds are other clan members, all turned to him and staring at him as if he’s an eclipsing sun.
Pasha flinches.
It’s only there for a second—the stunned reaction to the weight of so many expectant eyes on him. The next second, it’s gone, masterfully pulled back, transformed into a flat, even expression of calm. I doubt anyone else saw it, but, closer than his own shadow, tucked into his side, I saw it just fine: Pasha’s freaking the fuck out.
He swallows, rolling out his shoulders. “Fuck me, Firefly,” he hisses under his breath. “That plane ticket to Panama’s sounding pretty good right about now.”
I want to agree with him. I want to try and make him feel a little better about what he’s doing, but I can’t. There’s no time for reassurances. A Mexican Wave of anticipation rolls through the clan, and a pathway forms on the other side of the fire. A heartbeat later, and there stands Shelta.
The woman’s an evil fucking genius.
I’ve only met the woman twice, but both of those times she was wearing a button-down shirt and neatly pressed dress pants with a crisp line down the front of each leg. Regular. Smart. Almost office attire.
Not tonight, though.
As she approaches the fire, the light catches at the curtain of small golden medallions that hang down from the sheer, bright green scarf that covers her dark, steel-colored hair. Her pristine button-down is gone, replaced with a dark, almost black mid-sleeved, loose, flowing shirt, and the pleated, dark green skirt she’s wearing ends mid-calf, leaving a gap of four inches between the hem of the material and tops of her black, polished, lace-up ankle boots.
This is not some woman playing Gypsy-fortuneteller-dress-up for Halloween. Shelta’s the real deal. She is the embodiment of Roma culture and history, wearing the traditional clothing with a sharp, fierce pride…
…and I want to kill the bitch for it.
This is a calculated move. A chess piece moved with striking, strategic precision across the checkered board. At the same time, it’s also the most hypocritical, manipulative thing I have ever fucking witnessed. This is not who Shelta is; this one final, pathetic, insulting grasp for power, and the troubling thing is that it might just actually work.
Respect and surprise shine in the eyes of the other clan members. When I look up at Pasha, his jaw his set, and his eyes are burning with a living fury. “Touché, bitch,” he mutters under his breath.
I grab his hand, knotting my fingers with his own. “It’s smoke and mirrors. Nothing more. She’s playing them. Help them see it. Make them choose you. Sarah…Sarah needs this to happen, Pasha. She needs you.”
Pasha sighs heavily; all of a sudden, he seems really fucking tired of all of this. “All right, then. Fuck.” Rocking his head from side to side, he cracks his neck, and I can picture him doing this exact same thing as he prepares to climb inside a cage to fight. He looks down at me, smiling tightly. “Third time’s the charm, right, Firefly?”
Fifteen
PASHA
I’ve been waiting for this. Well, not this specifically, but the stunt. The stunt that Shelta was bound to pull to try and gain favor with the Rivin clan. Dressed in her head scarf, with her eyes kohled up—something she has never done in my living memory—she’s trying to reach into the Rivin people’s hearts and grasp hold of whatever sentimentality might remain there, whatever fondness the people might feel toward the old ways and how things used to be.
Something occurs to me as Shelta arrives, coming to a stop in front of the crackling fire: it’ll be the younger generation that buys into this bullshit piece of performance art. The older generation actually remember what life was like back when we followed the old ways, and while some things might have been easier, other aspects of life were certainly not. The inequality. The lack of education. The arranged marriages. The crippling superstition that dictated every single action of every single day. No, the older generation—Shelta’s own generation—will not appreciate being reminded of that.
Ironically, members of the Rivin clan closer to my age might feel a little differently, though. They’re used to being persecuted and treated like shit by the outside world, but they don’t really know why. As far as they’re concerned, there is little to separate them from the gadje community. Like Patrin, they might feel as if their culture and their heritage has been stripped away, and a lot of them are probably hungering for it.
Shelta smiles benevolently at me from the other side of the leaping flames, ever the proud, kind, understanding, though maybe slightly wounded motherly figure. Christ, the woman deserves an Academy Award for this performance. If I were an outsider, looking in, I’d believe that she’s bravely come to face her fate, ready and willing to accept the decision made tonight by her people, with all the grace and humility of a beloved leader.
Such a fucking bitch.
“Brothers, sisters! Sons and daughters!” Shelta calls out into the frozen night air. The words form staccato bursts of fog on her breath that float up toward the midnight blue sky. “Thank you for agreeing to participate in this sudden ritual tonight. You’ve had no time to prepare for this disruption, but we’re so grateful that you’ve gathered here this evening, before the clan elders, to carry out this Rivin family b
usiness.”
We are. She’s speaking on my behalf, as if she still speaks for me. As if I’m relying on her to be my mouthpiece, even though I was the one who called together the gathering.
“In the past, our people have selected kings based on their age, experience and wisdom. They’ve always shown respect and understanding by choosing someone who is worldly-wise, capable of utilizing their own vast and broad knowledge and skillsets in order to guide our people. When my husband died, our people broke rank with the past and decided his son should succeed him. This was an unusual and unexpected decision that many have questioned over the years—”
Bullshit. Fucking. Bull. Shit. She’s a goddamn snake. To my great disappointment over the past thirteen years, no one has ever questioned the decision that I be made king. I wanted them to. I prayed for it every fucking night before I went to sleep, but I was always shit out of luck. Cleo was the one who foresaw that I’d be king. She was the one who’d stood up at the pomano conducted after my father’s death and told everyone that I was to follow in his footsteps. No one second guesses the old woman now, and no one second guessed her then, either. My ascension to the throne has been written in stone ever since that day, no matter how little I liked it, and yet here stands Shelta, trying to cast doubt into people’s minds.
It’s a clever ploy, that’s for sure. To point out to people that our traditions have always had us choosing a sage, seasoned clan elder to rule over us, not some boy, still wet behind the fucking ears.
I grind my teeth together as Shelta continues to casually, cunningly twist a knife in the minds of the clan.
“In his wisdom, Pasha has given us yet another opportunity to reconsider the vitally important decision that was made all those years ago, when things were very different for the Rivin Clan. It is prudent that we reassess who’ll lead us into the future, to make sure that we continue to prosper and thrive as we have done in Pasha’s absence.”
