Galinor gently tugs me along. “No, thank you.”
I’m relieved to be away but also disappointed. “Do you think she could have told us where to find Dimitri?” My voice is soft in the night.
Galinor takes my shoulders in his hands, angling me toward him. “Humans aren’t gifted with magic like some of the other creatures. When we call on it, it comes from dark, forbidden places. Magic twists the truth we desire. It is a dark force, whispering beautiful lies. We will find Dimitri on our own.”
“What of the changeling stone, Galinor?” I still feel the pull toward the gypsy fortune teller. “Am I evil for using it? Is my father evil for wearing it all those years?”
Galinor shakes his head, his eyes softening. “The changeling stone is fairy magic. Magic is their gift, and they can share it with anyone they wish. Dragons, fairies, unicorns, ancient gimlies—their magic isn’t evil. They don’t draw it from the dark. It’s simply a part of them.”
I’m very aware of how close we are, of how near his face is to mine. I hold my breath, wondering what I would do if he leaned forward.
As if he doesn’t feel the same pull, he takes a step back, his hands dropping from my shoulders. “Are you hungry?” He nods toward the center of the square. Already, wonderful, sugary aromas drift from bakery carts.
I nod and step away, pushing my disappointment behind me, where it belongs. I can dwell on it later.
Galinor offers his arm, his eyebrows raised. “Anwen?”
I meet his eyes, and my heart stutters when I slide my fingers over his sleeve. Tucked next to him, we continue to the center of Crayhope.
***
It’s dark when I wake. Marigold softly snores next to me.
Instead of sleeping in Irving’s new gypsy cart, we opted to stay in the crowded inn. The room Marigold and I received is barely larger than a cupboard, and I think we may have been better off in the cart.
I sit up, careful not to jostle Marigold. I peek out the shutters and peer at the night sky. Stars shine bright, and the horizon is as black as pitch.
It won’t be morning anytime soon.
There is a cold chill in the air, and music drifts through the open window. Despite the time, the festivities are still in full swing. I drum my fingers against the windowsill.
Now would be a dangerous time to wander the streets alone.
I close the shutters and only pause a moment before slipping on my boots and tying my corset belt over my bodice. As a last minute thought, I pull a long velvet scarf over my head and shoulders to hide my conspicuous blond hair.
Tonight I want to blend in with the gypsies.
Tapered candles burn in glass lanterns; their glow lights the halls. Wax pools around the bases, and the wicks threaten to snuff out soon. It must be later than I thought if the candles are that low.
The inn isn’t a beautiful one. The boards are graying, and they creak with each step I take. Threadbare rugs dot the floors in alcoves and nooks, and they too are faded and old. Our linens on the bed were clean, though, and that is what is most important.
A few old men linger in the main room. Red embers from a dying fire burn near their table where they drink and smoke and talk. A pretty and efficient looking barmaid is wiping the counter. She looks up when I enter the room but only nods in greeting as I pass by her and out the door into the village square.
I shiver under my wrap, nervous. I follow the street, making my way to the fortune teller’s tent. Perhaps she’ll be asleep, and I’ll have to turn around.
I pause. She’s most likely already retired for the night. I should go back now.
My feet move on, almost of their own accord.
The tent is still tied open. In it, the gypsy woman sits, her head bowed over her ball. A man sits across from her, mystified by the colored clouds swirling in the glass orb.
My stomach knots, and I chew my bottom lip, thinking. Hugging my scarf close, I turn to leave.
“Wait!” She turns her head toward me sharply as she holds her hand in the air. “Wait,” she says again, her voice softer.
I stop, my eyes wide, but I feel like I should run. The gypsy dismisses the man. He leaves with a strange, bemused expression on his face.
The woman waves me toward the chair opposite her ball. “Come.”
Reluctantly, I sit in the chair and then cringe. It’s still warm from the man before me. The woman slides the now black, empty ball to the side of her silk-covered table.
“You are searching for someone,” she says, her voice dark and lilting.
I blink, startled. Galinor’s warning echoes in my mind, and I stand. “I think this was a mistake. I have no money, anyway.”
She grabs my hand, holding me firm. “I’m not reading your fortune, child,” she says, agitated. “I am giving you information.”
I sit back down with a thump. Fleetingly, I think to argue about her calling me a child. She’s not much older than I am, if at all.
I keep my thoughts to myself.
I meet her eyes and withdraw my hand. “What information?”
She clasps her hands on the table and tilts her head. “You are looking for Dimitri, prince of Bandolia, are you not?”
I hesitate before I answer. “I am, yes.”
“His troupe was here yesterday morning. They and several others left when the festival’s future was uncertain.”
I lean forward. “Where did he go?”
“The others with him were traveling to the Castle Lenrook. The queen will give birth soon. There will be a celebration.”
“Which road did he take?”
“I don’t know.” She motions to a stack of cards at her left, a small smile on her lips. “I could tell you, if you wish.”
I stare at the cards, both intrigued and terrified. After several moments, I shake my head.
“Your choice,” she says and once again lays her hands on the table.
I stand to leave, but stop. “Why did you help me when none of the others would?”
She smiles with a cryptic shrug and nods again to the cards. “Did you change your mind? Would you like me to share your future?”
“No.”
“Then no more questions.”
I leave feeling vaguely nauseous.
***
“You did what?”
I cringe and glance around the inn’s tables to see if everyone is staring at us thanks to Galinor’s outburst. They are.
“She didn’t read my fortune,” I answer. “She told me where Dimitri is headed.”
He leans in. “It’s not only that, Anwen. You wandered the streets by yourself in the dead of night. Do you know what kind of mischief occurs during these festivals?”
“I was careful,” I hiss.
The attention makes me edgy.
He raises a disbelieving eyebrow, studies me for a moment longer, then sits back. “What did she tell you? Where did he go?”
“To Lenrook. The royal family is expecting a child soon.”
Galinor nods. “We’ll leave today.”
I lean forward and whisper, “What about Pika?”
He scowls at me. “I think we need to worry more about Irving and his new gypsy cart.”
I laugh and take a drink of my tea. Soon Marigold, Dristan, and Bran join us. We’ve almost finished our breakfast when Irving finally graces us with his presence.
I spy the dark circles under his eyes. “Where have you been all morning?”
He lays his head on the table. “I was up most of the night with Rosalina. We stretched out in the meadow grass and talked about the stars.”
Marigold looks at him sharply. “Who is Rosalina?”
Irving smiles, his face dreamy and faraway. “She’s the most beautiful girl. Her eyes are precious jewels. Her hair is spun silk.”
Marigold and I exchange a glance. I look for signs of a night spent with too much mead, but other than tired, he seems fine. We all listen idly as he tells us about Rosalina—his Rosie’s—virtues. Acco
rding to Irving, they are innumerable.
Irving sighs. “She has the sweetest singing voice as well. Like a songbird.”
I nod and smile, almost giggling when I meet Galinor’s eyes.
“I’ve asked her to marry me, and she’s said yes,” Irving finishes.
Marigold’s tea sloshes over her lap. I think there’s an excellent chance she may faint.
“Irving, what have you done?” I ask.
Irving sits up, looking at me. “Now don’t tell me you’ve changed your mind! I asked you first—you said no.”
“And the answer is still no,” I snap. “But you can’t ask a girl you’ve only met the night before to become Queen of Primewood.” I lean forward and glance around the room before I quietly add, “Especially a gypsy! What were you thinking?”
Irving looks at the men. “I most certainly can. Can’t I, Galinor? Bran, Dristan?”
Dristan and Bran shrug and continue eating so they won’t have to join the conversation. Irving stares at Galinor, waiting for his answer.
Galinor clears his throat. “Perhaps you should get to know her a little better?”
Irving narrows his eyes, and then, quite suddenly, he exhales and smiles. “You all just have to meet her. You’ll love her.”
His usual carefree, jovial expression returns to his face, and he helps himself to breakfast.
I narrow my eyes at him. “I’m sure that’s all well and fine, but we’re leaving for Lenrook today.”
Irving nods, his mouth full. “Lenrook is fine. She’s agreed to come with us wherever we go.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Snatching a sweet roll from the tray in front of us, I push away from the table. Marigold murmurs a farewell and follows me.
She grabs my arm once we’re out in the sunshine. “What are we going to do?” Her other hand is on her head, and her voice is faint. “He can’t marry a gypsy.”
Deep down I know I should take insult to this, but when I hear her say it, I know she’s right. What was I thinking running away with Dimitri?
“He’ll tire of her,” I say, confident. “He always does.”
She eyes me. “Are you all right? Does it bother you very much?”
“A little,” I admit. “But only because it stings my pride. I don’t love him anymore.”
She shuts her eyes. “What will his father say? Or the queen?” she asks, working herself up again.
I shake her very gently. “They won’t say anything. This fling will be over before we reach home.”
She opens her eyes and gives me a helpless look. “I don’t think I can do this, Anwen.” She motions at her hastily constructed gypsy gown.
“Of course you can!” I give her an encouraging smile. “You look lovely.”
“You realize we’ll have to travel with this girl, don’t you? Sleep together in this infamous gypsy cart of Irving’s?”
I chew my lip. We have yet to see the cart in question.
“I’m sure everything will work out just fine.”
Even I don’t believe my words.
“Are we truly traveling to Lenrook? That’s a least a week’s ride.”
We could make our way back up to Glendon, go through Primewood, drop Marigold off at the castle, and then drop back down and travel to Lenrook, but that would add another three or four days to our trip. Dimitri might be gone by then.
“Please, Marigold. For me?”
We shouldn’t be going through dragon territory, so I know Marigold will be fine.
I nudge her and grin. “It will be an adventure.”
She groans. “I don’t have a choice, do I?”
“Not really.”
She sighs, staring at the horizon. “Promise me one thing?”
I nod, waiting for her to continue.
“No matter where we are on our way home, tell me we’ll travel through Glendon?” Her hazel eyes twinkle even as her cheeks turn pink.
Laughing, I promise, “I don’t care if we’re all the way in Ptarma—we’ll loop back up just so you may see Teagan again.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Rosalina
The gypsy cart is oddly enchanting. Narrow double doors open up to a cozy little room. A bed on a platform is at the very end with two steps to climb up into it. A small bench doubles as another bed, and a little table nook sits across from it. There are cabinets and dozens of little drawers built into the walls. Soft silks and furs are draped everywhere, many with tassels hanging from them. I run my hand along the wood trim. It’s dark and gleaming.
“We’ll share the bed,” Marigold whispers conspiratorially. “Irving’s trollop can take the bench.”
I giggle, elbowing her in the side.
A feminine someone clears her throat behind us, and we both freeze. Together, we slowly turn, already knowing who we’re going to find.
The girl raises her eyebrows and gives us a wry smile. “I’m Rosalina—Rosie.”
I was expecting a lovely gypsy girl, sixteen maybe seventeen years old with black hair and darker eyes. Either that, or a woman a little too old and experienced to be good company for the Crown Prince of Primewood. The girl smiling back at us is neither.
“Anwen,” I respond, dipping my head to be polite.
“I’m Marigold.” My friend’s eyes fall to the floor. She looks like she’s going to cry from embarrassment.
“You’re not exactly what I was expecting,” I admit.
Rosie pushes her chestnut hair behind her ear and smiles, her deep green eyes lighting with humor. “I’m not what anyone ever expects.”
The accent is Bandolian perfect, even if the girl’s coloring is all wrong—she has light freckles across her nose, for goodness sake. Yet, the angle of her eyes and her high cheekbones, even the thickness of her hair, proclaim Bandolian heritage.
“How old are you?” I ask, unable to guess myself.
“Anwen!” Marigold hisses under her breath.
I shrug.
“I’m nineteen,” Rosie answers, seemingly unconcerned with the question.
“How exactly did you meet Irving?”
“We bumped into each other yesterday.” Rosie sets her bag on the bench. “I take it this is mine, right?” She smiles.
“I’m so sorry,” Marigold murmurs. Two red blotches travel from her cheeks to her ears.
“It’s all right,” Rosie says. “I’m sure this is as unexpected for you as it is for me.”
With Irving, it’s not really all that unexpected. I’m not sure it would be a good time to share that, though.
“Why would a gypsy run away with a king’s stable hand, right?” Rosie laughs. “It’s absurd.”
Marigold’s jaw drops—mimicking mine, I’m sure. She starts to protest, “Irving isn’t—”
“—going to want us in here gawking all morning,” I finish, giving Marigold a stern look.
Rosie nods. “I’m sure we’ll all spend so much time in here, we’ll be sick of it soon anyway.”
She’s the first to leave, and when she does, Marigold turns toward me. “A stable hand?”
“I have no idea,” I say. “But I think it will be best to go with it for now.”
***
Marigold was wrong when she said it would take a week to get to Lenrook. In fact, it has taken us nine days. Traveling with a gypsy cart is slow.
It’s so slow, I believe we would have caught up to Dimitri’s group—provided they went this way—if we’d simply traveled on horseback. Of course, then we would have had to sleep in the woods. Despite the fact that I have done just that twice now in a very short period of time, I’ve never tried it on purpose.
I don’t think I would enjoy it much.
Castle Lenrook towers in the distance. Just beyond the castle gates, I can make out the tops of shops and cottages. Most are roofed in red to match the Lenrook royal colors of crimson and white, but there are a few simply thatched.
The crowds thicken as we near the city. I glance at the road behind us, concerned
. Pika has been following us all this time, darting into the trees when people come near. Hopefully she’s found a place to hide now.
As we ride through the city gates, we are stopped.
“State your business,” the guard says to Irving, who is driving the cart with Rosie beside him.
Irving cocks his head and motions to the gypsy cart with a flourish. “We are gypsies,” he says in a voice that is both bold and loud.
I roll my eyes. Next to me, Galinor snorts.
“Troupe name?” the bored guard asks.
For once, Irving has no response. He opens his mouth and then closes it again.
Rosie leans over Irving and bats her eyelashes at the guard. “We are The Great Balodenkas,” she says sweetly.
Irving told Rosie we are tracking down a horse stolen from the king—which is not exactly a lie, considering Mara did come from royal stock. It’s not exactly the truth, either. Rosie hasn’t questioned his story, but she has certainly noticed how bad we are at blending in. She’s been immensely helpful.
The guard is mesmerized by Rosie’s pretty face.
Her smile widens. “May we enter now?”
The guard shakes himself and steps aside, holding out his hand as a welcome. “Of course.”
Irving kisses Rosie square on the mouth once we’re in the gates. “You are a treasure.”
Marigold rolls her eyes, but we don’t get too worked up over the declaration. Rosie is a treasure. She’s incredibly knowledgeable about gypsy routes, festival schedules, and customs. She’s also surprisingly sweet and very humble despite her disarming beauty.
“What does Balodenka mean?” Irving asks her.
Rosie’s smile falters for just a moment. “It was my father’s name.”
“Ah.” Irving’s own smile softens. “Thank you for sharing it with us.” He kisses her again, and I look away.
I ache for whatever strange, fleeting thing it is they have found. Unfortunately, my eyes travel to Galinor. He smiles and raises an eyebrow.
I’ve gotten used to Bran and Dristan in their gypsy garb. I’ve even gotten used to Irving’s ostentatious ensemble—which we later found out was courtesy of Rosie herself—but I can’t get used to Galinor.
He bought a white shirt like the ones the Triblue brothers favor. He wears it now under the vest I hastily constructed for him, but at Rosie’s insistence, he’s rolled the sleeves up high on his muscular, tanned arms. The prince refuses to wear any scarves except for a long, woven one that ties at his waist. Even that he hates.
Anwen of Primewood Page 11
