Page 63 of The Spirit Key
The fact that he was asking meant a lot to me. “Only if you’re with me.”
He leaned forward and brushed our lips together. “Until the end of time.”
I smiled and glanced over at George. “We’re in.”
GEORGE HADlit incense, and the room was filled with a pleasant, light smoke.
“This is my own blend. It’s patchouli, cedarwood, and a bit of spearmint. It’s taken many years to perfect the combination, and I don’t sell it in the store. This acts like a mild hallucinogen, stripping away the worries, slowing down the mind, and letting important thoughts come out.”
I had to say, it seemed to be working for me. The lids of my eyes were heavy, and I thought I could fall asleep at any second. Leaning back against Tim’s solid form reminded me he was there.
“Don’t do anything stupid.”
I was nervous about what we were doing, but when Tim wrapped his arms around me, I surrendered to his strength and let myself feel safe enough to doze off….
The dream started almost immediately, and though I knew it was a dream, it still seemed hyperrealistic.
I was wandering down a verdant road, the sides of which were covered in fragrant flowers of every hue. As I approached a small brook, a green bow top wagon with a red door came into view. I was mesmerized by the intricacies of the wood carving, the detail of the craftsmanship, and the pot of stew over the fire made my stomach rumble. I’d never had such an intense experience in a dream before.
“Did you finish your work? You know your father isn’t going to be happy if you’ve been daydreaming again, young lady.”
I spun around, surprised to find an older woman, her back hunched, stirring the pot of stew, staring at me. I didn’t know what language she was speaking, but I understood it as though it was English.
Then I realized I was watching things as they unfolded, just as I had with Burton. Our lives were connected, and it was hard to tell where one of us ended and the other one began. I—she—we were young, maybe seventeen or eighteen. Her skin was a shade lighter than Tim’s, and she had a fashion sense that would rival any of the young ladies I saw today. I got the feeling that she took great pride in it, because her mother had made it for her. Bright, colorful cloths, woven together as a skirt. Her clothing was worn, and I could see spots where it had become threadbare, but it was obvious she loved her mother’s handiwork.
“Yes, Mama, I got everything done.”
“And your studies? Have you finished those?”
I bit my lip. “No.” Then I huffed and put my hands on my hips. “Why do I have to look at those old books anyway? None of it matters anymore.”
Mama clucked her tongue. “It matters because your father and I say it does.” Her gaze softened. “Sofia, the world is a dangerous place. Every day, more and more Romani disappear. We want a better life for you.”
“I know, Mama, but—”
“Listen to your mama, child. She knows what’s best.”
I turned around and found three men. I’d seen them before at the show we’d held at the beginning of the week. They’d been drunk and loud, and before they left, they’d knocked over Papa’s display of medicine, laughing belligerently.
They stalked closer, and Mama put herself between me and the men. “Go inside, Sofia. Lock the door.”
“She can stay. She’s young, pretty.” One of the men sneered. “And probably a whore like the rest of your kind.”
His words chilled me. All my life I’d heard people call us bad words, but never had I seen it so blatant. “Mama?”
“Inside, now.”
I turned and ran for the wagon, but the biggest of the men was on me before I could get to the door. He knocked me down to the ground, grabbed my shoulder, and rolled me over. Mama was screaming for Papa, and when I looked for her, I saw the other two men were holding her down as well.
The door to the wagon burst open, and Papa came out wearing nothing but his nightclothes. His eyes were wild when he saw what was happening to me and Mama. He rushed forward, knocking the man off me, then went to help Mama. He only made it a few steps before the big guy got to his feet and tackled Papa from behind. I screamed and rushed to help him. A big, meaty fist flew back and hit me in the face, knocking me toward the wagon. I tripped, fell, and struck my head. Pain shot through me, but it was only a brief flash. Then darkness clouded my vision and I breathed my last.
I couldn’t recall being dead, but Mama and Papa insist it was so. Their screams brought the constable, who rousted the men. Papa said the constable assured him that he would see they were taken to jail, but he knew it wouldn’t happen. A Romani was considered less than human, and justice was usually nothing more than a slap on the wrist, followed by drinks at the tavern.
My body was being prepared for burial when I opened my eyes and sat up. Mama screamed and fainted. Papa grabbed his chest and leaped out of his chair, uncertain what was happening. My grandparents, who traveled with us since I was born, fell to their knees and prayed.
My life after that was not the same. Every time I met another traveler, my story was told. Each person we came across prayed over me and asked me for a blessing. And then, one day, I saw a man who I told Mama was a part of me. I didn’t understand it, but I knew it to be true. When our parents arranged for the two of us to meet, my eyes were opened.
His name was Vano, and when he looked at me, I felt warmth rush through my body. I believed we were meant to be together, and we were, but not for the reasons I thought. His parents began to travel with our caravan, and Vano and I spent much time together. He was dour, stern, and unforgiving around others, but he was kind toward me.
