Page 27 of Roma Queen
ZARA
God only knowswhere Archie's gone, but he doesn't come back to thevardo. Throughout the day, numerous other people come to talk to Pasha, and I’m left to pace up and down the wagon's narrow walkway, chewing on my thumbnails as I wonder what the hell is going on outside. Raised voices meet my ears a number of times, none of which belong to Pasha. At one point, I watch Cleo arrive, still in the overalls she wore last night, leaning heavily against a long, lacquered staff. She casually props it against her body, giving it a purely aesthetic appearance. I see the way the woman shifts her weight and moves the staff from one side to the other, occasionally relying on it to keep her upright. She stays with Pasha for about an hour. They take it in turns to address a group of people who all seem deeply upset. Mostly men, their shoulders are tensed against the cold, collars popped up to protect their necks. Their eyes display their misgivings clearly for all to see. I don’t need to be standing out there in the cold with them to know they're not happy about the vote this evening, and what it could mean for them. I can't tell if they're for or against Pasha, but either way, they're nervous.
At around three in the afternoon, Pasha disappears to the gathering hall with most of the other clan members. He doesn't ask if I want to join him, and I don't offer. I have no place in the clan, and have no business being present when they discuss their politics. Instead, I remain inside thevardo, watching the snow as it begins to fall again, wondering how the hell we're going to get back to the parking lot where Pasha left the Mustang. Regardless of what happens with the vote tonight, we're going to have to get back to Spokane pretty damn soon, and we won't be able to do that if we have to hike back the way we came in. Like Pasha said earlier, the snow has obliterated every single landmark, and the world is a blank, white canvas, nearly two-foot-deep in snow.
I watch out of thevardo'slittle round windows as people begin to carry large stones into the center of the Rivin camp. An area of ground has been left free ofvardosand trailers, and one after the other, members of the clan hulk huge rocks on their shoulders, dumping them onto the ground in the snow.
After an hour or so, the pile of rocks is about five feet high, and a tall man with a bushy mustache begins to direct people, having them shift the rocks one by one to lay them on the ground in a circle. Pretty quickly, it becomes obvious that they’re building a fire pit. They bring in firewood next. God knows where they get it from, but it's pre-chopped and dry, which means they must have had it stored somewhere overnight at least. The sun’s beginning to go down when they finally light the tinder and bundle it inside their purposefully stacked pieces of wood. In no time at all, the fire is blazing, leaping up to meet the dusky early-evening sky, and the snow in the clearing begins to melt. My frustration levels peak at around 6 pm. Pasha still hasn't returned, and I have no idea what's going on anymore. I'm beginning to feel like a spare part.
Perhaps I should have stayed at home in the city. At least in my own apartment I could be doing something useful, researching on the internet, or going door to door in my building, asking if anyone saw Sarah with a man two nights ago. Fuck, I could be doing my damned laundry. Even housework would beat this waiting around, not being able to do or accomplish anything. I feel fucking useless.
It's pitch black outside when a rap comes at thevardodoor. Pasha left to get us breakfast this morning and told me not to answer the door, but he's been gone for well over six hours now, and I am sick and tired of wearing a hole in the floorboards, doing nothing but twiddling my thumbs.
I answer the door, and I'm met with a wide, shit-eating grin and a fluorescent orange jacket. It's Leo, the kid from the Midnight Fair, the teenager who tried to flirt with me when I first went down those subway stairs with Garrett and everything changed. He is also the boy Pasha caught Lazlo trying to assault.
“Ha! I knew I'd see you again,” he says as he bustles past me into thevardo, stomping his feet against the floorboards and knocking off the layer of snow that cakes his shoes. He's taller than I remember, an inch taller than me, in fact. His hands are bare, bright red, his knuckles almost purple from the biting cold. He claps them together as he moves to stand in front of the wood burner, amusement pouring off him as he looks at me out of the corner of his eye.
“Quite a stink going on out there,” he tells me, laughing softly. “They're all bitching and moaning, complaining that an outsider shouldn't be here for one of our most private, important rituals. They're all being fucking ridiculous, if you ask me. I, for one, am glad you're here. It's about time my uncle found himself a beautiful woman to settle down with.” He blushes as he gives me his compliment, and I almost feel the need to hug the poor boy.
“Pasha sent me down here to collect you. They're going to be starting the voting soon. Patrin and his boys are already gathered by the fire. Shelta will be down any second. If I were you, I'd put on a couple more layers. Did you bring anything warm with you?”
Luckily, I did bring a down jacket with me. The layer fits nicely over my sweater and underneath my jacket. Leo chats amiably as I get dressed, wittering on about the arguments that are taking place all over the camp. He tells me that his friend, a girl named Anya, has been crying all morning because her mother had been promising her that Pasha would come back and marry her for the last six months. Apparently, the poor girl is beside herself. Leo seems to think the whole thing’s funny, though.
“She's sixteen-years-old. Hasn't even finished her GED yet. I don't know why the hell she thought Pasha would be interested in her. Her mom, Kitty, is the real problem. She married into the clan. She still holds to some of the old ways. Kitty keeps telling Anya that she'll die an old spinster if she doesn't find a man this summer. How fucked up is that?”
I have to agree with him. When I was sixteen years old, the very last thing I was thinking about was finding myself a husband. Jesus, I wasn't even really thinking about boys back then. Lacrosse, volleyball, getting my driver's license, hanging out with my girlfriends. The boys in my year at my high school weren't even on my radar yet. They were all pimple-faced morons with bad breath, though, so that obviously played a part. If an insanely attractive, handsome older guy like Pasha had been on the scene then I probably would have been very interested.
I’ve fooled myself into thinking that I'm ready to step outside; the icy blasts of air that blustered their way into thevardoevery time Pasha came or went should have primed me for the weather. But now, stepping outside into the frozen glen, I realize that I’m dramatically unprepared.
My coat, my down jacket, and my sweater do little to protect me from the driving cold. As Leo grabs my hand, dragging me across the clearing toward the huge fire that's now roaring into the night, it feels as though a thousand icy blades are knifing through my clothing, cutting through my skin and driving in between my ribs. It isn't just cold. It feels fucking arctic out here, though no one else seems to mind. The people gathered around the fire, wrapped up in their coats and hats, chat raucously with one another, laughing loudly and waving their arms around as they try to make their point.
Eyes skate over me, some friendly, some not, as I weave my way through the bundled figures, following closely behind Leo. A whispered, hissed susurrus follows in my wake, and I begin to wish that I'd stayed inside thevardo. I could keep my head down, keep my eyes on the ground, and hope that nobody notices me, but that would be futile. Even in the dark, my hair is unbelievably bright, unbelievably red. Even with my hood up, it's pretty hard to miss. We find Pasha standing at the edge of the fire next to Shireen, who has a small child balanced on her hip.
The little girl's hair is dark, black as ink, but there's no denying that she's Shireen’s daughter. She shares the same features as her mother, the beautiful almond-shaped cat-like eyes, the slim upturned nose, and the same heart-shaped face. The little girl squeals, hiding in her mother's hair when I smile at her. “Don't believe theshy as a church mouseact for one second,” Shireen says, laughing. “Lord knows what's gotten into her. Give her five minutes and she'll be raising hell. Just you wait and see.”
Pasha's eyes haven't darkened one bit from the arrival of nighttime. If anything, they're even brighter than usual, their pale green hue seeming to glow as the light of the fire hits them and refracts. Slowly, he smiles, brushing a strand of hair back behind my ear. His face is full of so many emotions as he looks down at me, but when our eyes meet, all I see there is adoration. Stepping closer to me, he snakes a hand around my waist and rests it in the small of my back, drawing me to him. His huge frame bows over me as he leans down and places his mouth next to my ear, then whispers, “Fuck me dead, Firefly. You're beautiful during the daylight but at night, with the glow of a fire on your skin, God, you look like a phoenix wreathed in flames.”
I've never known a man to just say whatever the hell he's thinking, without caring if it makes him seem vulnerable. But there's such an innocence to Pasha sometimes. Perhaps it was his upbringing, but there's no guard to him. Hedidgo to high school, therefore must have spent time around jocks and other testosterone-drunk teenaged boys. Shit, he fights in a cage for a fucking living. But even that doesn't seem to have hardened him to stone. When he whispers things like that to me, so reverently, as if he's making a confession, there is no embarrassment. No shame. My beautiful, open, honest Pasha, who wears his heart on his sleeve. He is a breath of fresh air. A revelation. I wouldn’t have him any other way.
I lean my forehead against his chest, closing my eyes tightly. He plants a tender kiss against my temple. “I hope you're ready, Firefly,” he tells me. “This is probably going to get messy. According to Patrin, my mother’s losing her goddamn mind right now.”
I don’t know what I need to be ready for. I have no part to play in the theatre of this evening’s ritual. I’m nothing more than an unwelcome bystander, agadje, who has absolutely no right to witness the Rivin people choose their new leader. Does he think there might be trouble for me if he doesn’t win? What happens tohimif he doesn’t win? I already have a pretty decent idea what will happen toSarah, and it doesn’t even bear thinking about. But my own fate? Pasha’s? That remains to be seen. I’m just hoping we won’t be spurned from the camp, forced to leave in the middle of the night, in the middle of a snow storm no less, with the freezing cold wind clawing at our backs.
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. Iamgoing 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. “Idoknow,” 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 aking?”
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.
