The Hollow Girl Page 5

  “Of course, drabarni. Of course. Your mercy is appreciated.”

  Florica hauled a sniffling Tomašis back to their tent. I was satisfied by the way she tugged on his ear and pinched his arm, telling him how he’d been raised better and ought to be ashamed of himself. He whined and squirmed; she struck him on the back of the head and hissed recriminations.

  We stayed a bit longer so people could pay their respects to Gran, but we saw neither hide nor hair of Silas. Unfortunately, Tomašis’s harassment had soured my mood. When the dancing began, Gran said she had better things to do than watch a bunch of young people twirling in circles, and I was happy to help her home.

  After scrubbing our dishes, piling our clothes for washing, and helping Gran prepare for bed, I layered shifts against the autumnal cool and pulled my own soft, thin mattress onto the floor. I thought of the day’s events, and Gran’s strange premonition, and I hoped my magic training would begin soon. Gran wouldn’t always be there to protect me. I had to learn to take care of myself, especially if Silas and his friends had me in their sights.

  Sleep didn’t come easy, but when it did, it came hard. And thanks to the woven web of colorful yarns Gran had hung from the ceiling above our heads—a variation on something she’d read about from the mystics to the west—my own dark dreams were held at bay.

  I woke to a rooster’s crow and a still-gray sky. Gran stirred in her bed beside me. She’d be demanding food soon, and I needed to eat so I could leave for market. I washed, dressed in a white blouse and a blue skirt, and collected our dishes. The women would just be setting up breakfast, but at least there’d be bread, honey, and tea ready, and that’s all Gran and I ever needed.

  I walked to the great fire, the tall grass sighing as I pressed through. A cluster of matrons was already hard at work cooking. Among the women was Tomašis’s mother, who chattered away while cracking eggs in a bowl, but when I crested the clearing, she went quiet and jerked her gaze away. I wondered if she’d been gossiping about me, somehow blaming me for her son’s misbehavior. I nodded my respects and collected our bread, keeping to myself so I wouldn’t draw ire.

  The skies were turning blue when I returned home, the muddied shades of dawn fading. Gran had fallen back to sleep after I’d left, her snores rivaling those of a hibernating bear, so I left her breakfast on the table and took the poultice basket from the shelf. I ate and dashed for the door, almost forgetting the black scarf folded on the bureau.

  I tied it around my waist with a weary sigh, hurrying to Anwen’s Crossing so I wouldn’t have to rush my setup. Before venturing through the main gate into town, I wound the soft cloth over my head, over my mouth, and around my neck, arranging my hair so it didn’t get tacked down. I was early enough that I could have claimed a table across from the well, but Martyn’s offer made returning to the spot between the farm stand and the baker the smarter choice. The blond diddicoy’s attention might not have been completely proper, but it had certainly sold a lot of medicine bags.

  I approached the table, but seeing a paper tacked to one of the fence posts, I paused in my approach, worried someone had beat me to the space. It took a moment to realize the sign was for me. In the middle of the page, drawn as if lifted from my reflection, was a charcoal picture of me with my scarf. Someone—and I knew exactly who—had drawn my portrait and put it up as if to stake my claim.

  I abandoned my basket on the tabletop and reached for the drawing. He’d captured the heavy lids of my eyes and the curve of my cheeks. He’d even re-created the way my birthmark darkened my face by my temple before sweeping down to my jaw, and the spray of freckles on my nose. For him to do it from memory was uncanny, and I swallowed hard at the realization that he must have been studying me all throughout the previous day to get it so detailed. There were words I couldn’t read above and below, but they didn’t matter—I was too transfixed by my own image to care what had actually been written.

  “Do you like it?”

  I lowered the page to peer at Martyn, who smiled at me from the farm stand. I didn’t know what to say—I was flattered by his attention even if I shouldn’t have been. He knew it, too, and his smile ratcheted up a notch.

  “I take that as a yes. You want to know what’s funny?” I returned the poster to the pole, trying to collect my thoughts. He took my silence as a sign that he should keep talking. “I can draw you, but I don’t even know your name. That’s why the title is so generic. I hope it’s okay?”

  I peered at the arched row of letters at the top of the picture, drawn in an elaborate, swirling style, and shrugged. I had no idea what it said, but I didn’t want to confess that to him. It did make me think I should ask Gran for reading lessons, but that was probably too much right now—there were only so many hours in a day. Later, though, after my magic training…

  “Bethan,” I said, ignoring the matter of the title. I began displaying my herb bags and charms, my chest tight, like I was short of breath. My eyes stung like I might cry, too, but it wasn’t sadness. Oh, no, it was far worse. I was touched by his kindness, which threatened the necessary distance propriety dictated I maintain.

  Martyn leaned over the half door that locked him inside his stand, tucking a cigarillo between his lips and lighting it with a match. He watched as I arranged my bags into artful rows, the gray clouds of his smoke souring the air. Our men sometimes smoked pipes at night by the fire, but the cigarillo was not as sweet and therefore not as pleasant. “Bethan. Pretty name for a pretty one. I think I’ll call you Bet.” He peered at me through his thick lashes. “If you’re all right with that.”

  I’d never had a nickname beyond Annoying Girl and, sometimes, Stupid Child, but they didn’t really count—Gran was always irritable when she used them, so they were more criticism than terms of endearment. “Is Bethan too complicated of a name for you to say? Too long to hold your attention, diddicoy?”

  I’d meant it as a jab, but he smirked and pulled out a knife from beneath his counter, using it to dig out dirt from beneath his fingernails. “Hardly, Miss Bet. I simply like the idea of having a name for you that I came up with.”

  “Oh? And why is that?”

  “Because you’re interesting. And pretty.” It was such an audacious flirt, so very direct, I had to stop arranging my bags out of fear that I’d mess them up. He must have noticed how flustered I was because he chuckled from his stand. “Awful, aren’t I?”

  “That’s one word,” I croaked, forcing myself to focus on my satchels. I nudged them into straighter lines, my fingers toying with the red yarn on the bottommost bags. “You should know I can’t encourage this flirtation.”

  “You don’t have to encourage anything. All I ask is if I say something stupid, tell me so I can stop being an arsehole.”

  My smile was not intentional, which made it all the more frustrating. “Fine. Well, yes, you may call me Bet. If you insist.”

  “I do insist, and I insist you tell me if you like the title. I’ve been worrying about it since last night.”

  I winced, looking back at the poster with my likeness and the artful wording. I didn’t like to confess my ignorance, but there was no way around it when he’d asked me outright, and outright lying to other Roma—diddicoy included—was frowned upon. “What does it say?”

  If he was surprised I couldn’t read, he didn’t indicate it, instead letting himself out of his stand so he could point at the words as he read them aloud. “ ‘The Wandering Girl’s Wonders,’ ” he said before moving his finger to the words at the bottom. “ ‘Herbal Remedies and Mystic Charms.’ I didn’t want to use the g-word. No offense meant, saying…you know.” He ran a hand over the back of his neck before returning to his stand, his cheeks flushed. “I’m sorry. I probably shouldn’t mention it in a roundabout way either.”

  He was so earnest, I didn’t want to smile, afraid he’d interpret it as mockery. “That’s…Thank you. No one’s ever drawn me before. You’re very talented. And gypsy is fine among Roma. You are one,
yes?”

  “It’s in my blood—not my brain, though.” He plucked another apple from his stock, rolling it across the counter and then tossing it high, almost to the cloth roof of his stand, before catching it again. His cigarillo was almost burnt down, a pillar of ash dangling from the end and threatening to plummet. “Drawing’s my hobby. I can’t be farming all the time, you know.” He looked like he had more to say, but then a tall, broad man walked into the stand from the other side, a crate of lettuce balanced on one shoulder, potatoes on the other. Martyn threw the cigarillo to the ground before stomping it out, the ghost of his smoke drifting on the air.

  The newcomer was a giant of a man, his arms so thick with muscle, I doubted I could put both of my hands around one and have my fingers touch. The similarities between him and Martyn were undeniable—they had the same wheat-colored hair, the same bump on the bridges of their noses, the same cleft in their chins. The older man wore a red shirt to Martyn’s blue, though, and deep lines crinkled the tanned skin around his eyes and the corners of his mouth.

  When he dropped his crops behind the counter, dust rose up to fill the stand.

  “Da, this is Bet. Bet, this is my da, Hal.”

  Martyn’s father not-so-gently thwacked Martyn on the back of his big skull. Martyn flinched, but he tossed me a wink all the same. “Mr. Woodard would be more appropriate, I think. Good morning, Bet,” his father said. He offered me a cursory nod before making his way behind the farm stand, assessing the various piles of goods in the back. Martyn watched him a minute or so before turning my way and dropping his voice to a whisper.

  “I’ll be busy today with him here, but maybe we can have lunch together?”

  I liked Martyn and the picture he’d drawn of me, but the point remained that he was not of my people and I couldn’t in good conscience let him pursue me with any amount of seriousness. “I’m not certain it’s a good idea, but thank you.”

  “Please? I’ll beg. I’m good at it.” I sputtered for an answer, but was saved by a pair of women strolling over to shop the displays. I pointed at them as if their presence could ward him off, but he groaned my name, stretching out the vowel until it bordered on unseemly.

  “Stop that!”

  “Please have lunch with me?”

  “I really shouldn’t.”

  “That’s what makes it more fun.” He leaned so far over the half door of his stand, I was fairly certain his feet no longer touched the ground on the other side. “I’m trying to grovel politely, but if I’m bothering you, you can tell me to piss off.”

  “No I can’t, that’s impolite!”

  “It’ll be our secret. Bet the medicine girl is impolite. Another secret? She’s having lunch with a diddicoy named Martyn today. Don’t tell anyone.”

  He made such a clown of himself that I had no choice but to laugh. I didn’t get to do that a lot at home—not with Gran and her perpetual seriousness, not with the others in my camp who treated me differently because I was the drabarni’s apprentice. Martyn was a freedom from that gravity. He was a way to allow myself frivolity that I would never otherwise get.

  Which is why, in the end, I relented.

  “Fine. If it will shut you up, we’ll have lunch.”

  “I knew you couldn’t resist.” He flashed me those blinding white teeth before lobbing an apple my way, narrowly avoiding walloping me in the side of the face with it. The problem was less his throwing and more my lack of reflexes. I snagged it at the last second, lifting it up to stroke the smooth, polished skin against my scarf. We shared a look, he spared a smile, and then he was gone, ducking behind his stand to help his father prepare their goods for the onslaught.

  With his father looming, Martyn couldn’t volunteer free produce to help bolster my sales, but he talked up my goods so well, I’d sold half my stock by midday. Customers from the previous day stopped by to repurchase, too. One woman even claimed she’d suffered headaches for years and the only thing that helped was Gran’s willowbark tea. She bought all of my green-tied bags that Friday, shoving her coins into my hand with pleas for me to return with more tea the following Monday. Markets closed on Sundays for church and community functions, and people’s needs were met by the stores midtown.

  I’d just assisted an elderly couple with a good-luck charm for their granddaughter when Martyn approached my table, a canvas bag clasped in one of his pawlike hands, a blanket in the other. “Shall we, wandering girl?” I looked out at the square. It was bustling. A dozen people less than twenty feet away were actively browsing tables. Martyn followed my gaze and tutted, shaking the bag of food beneath my nose so I couldn’t ignore it. “You can’t work if you die from hunger.”

  My stomach grumbled its agreement. I stood, fretful Gran wouldn’t approve of what I was about to do, but I had to eat, and Martyn had been helpful.

  He tucked his lunch bag beneath his arm so he could help me gather my remaining bags and put them into the basket. “You could leave the lot with my father, if you’d like. He’d make sure no one snatched it.”

  It was considerate, but I didn’t dare; if Gran discovered I’d abandoned our goods to a gadjo’s care, even for a short while, there’d be fire and brimstone and so much stinkweed picking, I’d want to cast myself into the river. “Thank you, but I’ll take them with me. No offense, I hope.” I glanced over at the water barrel inside his stand. “Do you mind if I wash quickly? Before we eat.”

  “No, not at all.” Martyn stood to the side and let me dunk my hands. With no proper towel, I wiped them off on my scarf before following him to the baker’s stand on the other side of my table so he could buy crispy bread. Despite its paper wrapping, I could smell it—oven fresh with a hint of garlic—and I followed its promise of deliciousness as much as the man holding it, outside the gates.

  The field beyond the market was well worn, like it’d seen scores of picnickers, horses, and wagons before us. It was empty now, though, save for a doe and her fawn grazing to our north. Martyn chose a spot not too far from town, spreading the blanket so we’d have a place to sit. I watched the food to make sure it never touched the ground, especially the bread. Fallen bread was always burned in the great fire back at home. To not do so invited bad fortune.

  “I hope you like Caerphilly cheese,” he said, opening his canvas bag. “My mother makes it fresh.” I didn’t know the name, but cheese was cheese. I took the bread from him and broke off a piece from the end, keeping it for myself and giving him the softer middle portion of the loaf—the better portion, as was polite. He did the same, breaking off a piece of a pale cheese with a paler rind with his fingers and offering it to me. I laid the remaining loaf of bread across my lap and accepted, murmuring my thanks.

  I eyed the bread and cheese a moment, considering wedging it up under the wrap of my scarf and eating that way, but that seemed needlessly complicated. It was only Martyn and me outside the gates, so I took the scarf off my face but let it cover my hair for modesty’s sake. It felt good to be free, cooler by degrees, and I tilted my face up to the sky, enjoying the sun that precluded the nighttime chill.

  “Is it good?” he asked.

  “Very.” And it was. The cheese was on the milder side, and salty—but tasty, too. We had our own cheeses in the caravan, some similar to the Caerphilly, but nothing that quite matched the flavor.

  “Good. I prefer cheddar, but it’s harder to get. Sometimes we can buy it at market, but I haven’t seen many of the English traders out this way lately.”

  “They’re in the far south mostly,” I said. “At least, that is what the chieftain says, usually when he talks about horse trading. Many English stay between Abertawe and Caerdydd before returning to Gloucester. They complain about Welsh weather being too harsh, like it’s much better over there.”

  I nibbled on my cheese and bread, my gaze drifting to the deer. They were alert, their ears pricked, watching us to see if we were a threat, and it struck me that it was similar to how I reacted to the gadjos—always ready to fl
ee, never quite comfortable in their presence. I was the hunted, and they were the hunters. How odd that I was at ease with Martyn, who was far more them than us. He was warm, funny, and considerate, and though it all could have been a ruse, my gut instinct told me otherwise.

  “Sometimes we know things and it has nothing to do with our minds,” Gran had said to me numerous times before. “It is bigger, something spiritual. It is a sight in its own right. It is not like mine, not as developed, but it should never be ignored.”

  Allowing myself to sit with Martyn was me paying attention.

  He tore into his bread, his tongue flicking out to catch the crumbs on his lower lip. “How far do you travel during the year?”

  “Not as far as you might think. Just here in the fall to work the harvest, and out to Caerfyrddin in the spring for the trading. We make camp for winter in the valleys, and spend our summers on the coast.”

  “Not north, then?”

  I shook my head. “We have family in the north, but we are separate. They have their circuit as we have ours. We both breed horses. It would be poor showing to intrude upon another caravan’s business.”

  “That makes sense.”

  I smiled. “Most things do, if you only stop to ask questions.”

  Amicable silence stretched between us as we finished our meal. Martyn packed away his cheese and I offered him the remaining portion of bread, but he refused it. “Take it home to your gran. I lost mine last year to fever. I miss her. She was good to me and my brothers and sisters.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss. I will pray for her,” I said.

  “You pray?” His brows lifted in surprise, and I had to stop myself from rolling my eyes. I had said he should ask questions. What I hadn’t realized was that he’d assume I was unlike him in every way and ask stupid questions.