But Samantha knew that the king’s wealth would certainly not last forever. No, the king’s empire would crumble very soon. The cards had told her that. And she’d warned him.
In the grass by the riverbed, listlessly weaving a wreath of ivy and flowers to float out with the other blessings, Sam thought about that hot afternoon in the caravan.
Unlike tonight by the river, then she’d sensed something Other. More than just the spirits within her cards. Something dark had been there too. And then there was the buttery light she’d conjured somehow and used on Scarface and Milosh. These happenings appeared real, but no one had ever explained them to her or seemed to be able to do the same thing.
Questions about where she came from arose again. Maybe someone in her birth family could explain why she was able to do these things? She slapped the thought away, furious with herself. Every time she thought about the people who’d abandoned her at birth, it felt as though she’d as good as spat in Lala’s face.
She shifted in the grass and yawned, heavy with fatigue. She’d been awake since three that morning, but she couldn’t relax. Nothing had felt the same since the king had visited the camp. And then there was Scarface and the shootout. A nagging tug of worry tightened the back of her neck. She stretched it from side to side to try to loosen it, to shake the feeling of dread. She tried to regain her sense of wonder in this evening. Fifty metres behind her, darkness waited, but here, along the winding riverbank, it seemed that midnight had laid a tablecloth of stars over the grass. Candles and lanterns blinked and winked, pinpricks of fire paying homage to their leader – the roaring bonfire in the centre of them all.
Next to her, Lala crooned softly, singing the spell-songs she’d taught Samantha since she’d been in the cradle. Some of the other gypsies were equally devout, bent over rafts bearing gifts, their lips moving soundlessly as they prayed. But many more of the women were less serene; they shouted in laughter, slurped from goblets, punched plumes of cigarette smoke into the night. Samantha watched as one of the wealthiest witches in Pantelimon, Violka Dragos, rose from the cluster of others fawning around her and lurched sideways, directly into a platter of candles. The molten wax caught the hem of her ribboned skirt and a corner of fabric flared orange with flame. Violka shrieked with laughter as one of the witches doused the fire with wine and then stumbled over to gossip with another group.
Samantha knew what they gossiped about. They made sure of it. She heard snatches of their whispers blowing down-wind with the candle smoke.
She’s ruining our business and she’s not even Roma… You know that they call her the Gaje Princess – stolen by the gypsies! It’s an insult… Have you heard that the king has fallen in love with her?… I’ve been told that she does a little bit more than read cards when she closes the doors of that flea-bitten caravan, if you know what I mean. Why do you think she is so popular?… She’s a fraud! She can’t even read the cards properly… I’ll be casting a special spell for her this enchanted evening, don’t you worry about that… Well, I’ll be doing a little more than casting a spell. I’m going to take this further. We can’t have Gaje harlots pretending to be respectable Roma witches…
The volume of Lala’s singing increased as she tried to block out their words, but Samantha didn’t miss the grief and worry emanating from her. She stopped weaving and placed her hand over Lala’s, willing her peace and calm. Lala raised dark, wet eyes and smiled sadly. A tear found a pathway through a crevice in her weather-ravaged cheeks.
‘I love you, my kitten,’ she said.
‘I love you too, Lala. Thank you for saving me.’
‘I haven’t saved you yet, my child.’
Samantha bowed her face back to her work to ensure her tears could not be seen by the crones on the riverbank. She told herself that the anxiety she felt welling inside her was just the fear from her Lala, residue emotion that always found its way to her heart.
Tonight, she knew she was lying.
A camp on the outskirts of Pantelimon, Bucharest, Romania
‘Look,’ said Mirela. ‘We have to go. How can we not go? It’s the Carnivale!’
‘Yes, I do realise the Carnivale is on tonight,’ said Samantha. ‘It is only the coolest thing that happens all year. And I haven’t forgotten that we’ve both been counting the days since spring.’ She turned another page of her novel, and spoke into the book. ‘And then there’s the fact that you’ve been blathering on about it all week.’
‘So? Get ready! We have to go.’
‘Oh, okay, sure,’ said Samantha. ‘I’ll just pop out and let your mum know that we’ll need a ride into town then, shall I?’
‘Ha ha. You’re hilarious. Believe me, we don’t need to worry about my mother. And Lala’s already asleep because you guys were out until dawn this morning.’
‘Yes, I remember,’ said Samantha, stretching.
She was curled up on the lounge in the caravan, reading.
Sooking is what you’re doing, Mirela had told her when she’d found her.
‘And you know that my mother has Fifika over for cards tonight,’ said Mirela. ‘Can’t you hear them from here?’
‘I can hear them from here,’ said Samantha.
‘Well! They’re drunk as lords already. Fifika is sleeping over and in another hour they won’t know which country they’re in.’
‘Doesn’t mean they won’t notice we’re missing.’
‘Puh-lease,’ said Mirela. ‘Last time Fifika was over, you, me and the boys cooked up a midnight feast. We roasted half a pig!’
Samantha laughed. Esmeralda was a tyrant with the food. She always knew exactly how much she had of every little thing.
‘And then in the morning you convinced her that she and Fifika had cooked it and eaten it!’ she laughed.
Mirela snorted. ‘She still thinks they did. She talks about it sometimes, promises never to get so drunk when Fifika visits. But they only see each other once or twice a year, and tonight’s the night. And they’re already blotto. Come on, Sam!’
‘How would we even get there?’ said Samantha, a flutter of excitement growing.
‘The boys are waiting.’
Samantha threw her clothes on super-fast, Mirela making comments the whole time.
‘Jeans! You can’t wear jeans! It’s summer.’
Mirela flitted about the cramped caravan, wearing Samantha’s favourite top: a frilly white bodice that was laced with pink ribbon up the front. Her crimson skirt, ringed at the hem in tiny mirrors, fell past her ankles and sat low on her hips, leaving her flat, brown midriff bare. The filmy fabric jangled with bells each time she moved.
‘I don’t feel like wearing a skirt,’ said Samantha.
‘I told you Tamas was coming, didn’t I?’
Samantha poked out her tongue.
‘Move over,’ she said, as Mirela pulled clothes from the chest under the dining table. Sam hopped about the room, struggling into her super-skinny black jeans.
‘And Birthday Jones will definitely be there,’ said Mirela.
Samantha pulled on an aqua T-shirt. Her nails were mandarin orange today. She thought it worked quite well.