Page 31 of Roma Queen
“What law did she break?” Cleo asks, her voice deadly calm.
“The same law my son is breaking now. She fell in love with agadje. She wanted to sully our bloodline with an outsider. I gave her the choice. If she wanted the outsider so badly, she could become one herself. Or she could remain true to the clan and marry someone more appropriate.”
Cleo shakes her head, dismayed. “You told us all she drowned. We’ve all been mourning her for thirty fucking years. You took her from us, because…because she fell in love? Where’s your heart, woman?”
My mother seems to realize all of a sudden that she’s doing herself no favors by arguing this point with Cleo. She pulls herself together, reconstructing her calm, controlled exterior in one smooth, practiced maneuver; all it takes is a second, and all of the anger and vitriol that was wicking off her like heat from a flame vanishes.
“Kezia didn’t want to stay here with any of you. She chose her lot in life and she didn’t look back. Not once. When I told you all she was dead, I was simply trying to spare you knowledge that she’d rejected you. That’s all. In my mind, I thought of it as an act of kindness, but I can see now that maybe I was wrong. I should have told you the truth, even though it was ugly, and would have caused you even more pain.”
“ENOUGH!” The crowd gives way, and Archie pushes his way forward. Sharp, angular shadows fall across his face, making him look like a gargoyle as he dumps a beaten silver pail on the ground, a foot away from the fire. “We’ve all chosen our master already, one way or another. There’s no point all this bickering and sniping. Anyone who wants to be fucking royalty, come and put your damn bowl down on the table. Everyone else, get your rock and cast your vote.”
Shelta’s eyes are narrowed into vicious slits, aimed at Archie’s head. She says nothing, though. Stooping down, she collects a shining silver bowl from her feet, beautifully engraved with swirling grapevines and blossoming flowers. She sets it on top of the table that’s been placed a safe distance from the fire, and then steps aside.
This is when I realize that I’ve made a critical fucking error. For Christ’s sake. I’ve been to two of these things already. You’d have thought that I’d have the procedure memorized by now, but it turns out that, in the rush of it all, I’ve forgotten one of the most crucial components of the vote: I haven’t brought a fucking bowl with me.
The cold seems to have found its way beneath my jacket and the three layers beneath that too, and is slicing into me as I slowly walk around the fire. When I reach the table, I face Archie and I shrug. “Sorry,” I tell him sheepishly, as I hold my hands out and cup them together. Archie doesn’t seem impressed by my improvisation. Shelta sends me a pitying smirk at the sight of my cupped hands next to her beautiful, shining silver bowl.
Patrin…
I see him for the first time, standing amongst the crowd, his hands resting on his son’s shoulders, and I think he’s going to send me the same disparaging look as my mother. He doesn’t, though. He nods and smiles softly, a weird show of approval, as if this is actually how it’s supposed to be after all.
Slowly, one at a time, the members of the clan all bend to collect a rock out of Archie’s dented, rusting pail, and then they begin to form a line, snaking its way around the fire and off into the dark.
“Don’t worry, Pasha.” My mother folds her arms across her chest, cocking an eyebrow at me. “You’ll be happier once you get back to your empty glass box. Things will be much safer for yourgadjethere.”
Outwardly, I don’t react to her mocking comment. Inside, I’m ready to fucking kill the woman. If she makes one more veiled threat against Zara, I’m going to lose my fucking mind. Quickly, I risk a glance at my Firefly, and my heart lodges itself in my throat. She hasn’t moved an inch since I left her side. She stands alone, tall and proud, by the fire. Her hood has fallen down, and her hair, flowing in thick waves down over her shoulders, seems to burn even brighter than the flames. Our eyes meet, and so much passes between us:
I’m proud of you.
I’m amazed by you.
I’m here for you.
I willneverfucking leave you.
The sound of a metallictingrips my attention away from her. I look down, and there, in the bottom of Shelta’s bowl, lies a rock. A vote.
Otis Yancey, a man I’ve known my entire life, shrugs as he walks away. “Sorry, Pash. You know I like you and all. No hard feelings.” The next person steps forward—Anya Rivin, this time. A girl, a young woman now, who I used to swing around by the wrists when she was tiny. She casts her stone in Shelta’s bowl.
“My mother says what you’re doing with that girl is wrong.” She sniffs. It looks like she’s been crying. “You should have picked one of us.Thatwould have been the right thing to do.”
Three more people step forward, and each of them casting their votes for Shelta. I’m given an apologetic, “Sorry,” every time a metallictingsignals another stone hitting the bottom of Shelta’s bowl, and I begin to think that I’ve screwed myself over big time. It’s one thing to have every member of the clan vote for Shelta over me. It’s another thing entirely to have to stand here with outstretched, empty hands as each one of them walks by me and casts their vote elsewhere, though. Talk about humiliating.
I don’t dare look at my mother. The smug bitch is probably doing the Running Man. Instead, I keep my eyes locked front and center, my chin held high, as three more people cast their stones into Shelta’s bowl.
And then Shireen is standing in front of me, a small, teasing smile twitching at the corners of her mouth as she places her stone into Evelyn’s hands and says, “Go on, then. What do you think? Do we want him or not?”
Evelyn nods firmly, reaches out and places the rock into the center of my left palm. “Remember,” she whispers in a tiny voice. “Pancakes.”
I want to grin at the little girl, to laugh with her and share a secret smile, but I find that I can’t. There’s a lump the size of a fucking watermelon in my throat, and I can’t seem to shift it. “I’ll remember,” I choke out.
Shireen takes my hand and closes it around the rock, then squeezes it tight. “Remember the other stuff, too,” she says quickly. And then she’s walking away, hurrying off toward the gathering hall, and Evelyn is waving goodbye to me over her shoulder for the second time tonight.
Before I have chance to turn back to the line, another rock falls into my hands. Connie Rivin stands before me, as old as the hills, her wizened face even more lined than it was last time I saw her. Her hair is barely more than the suggestion of a white cloud on the top of her head. Completely at odds with the rest of her, she has the eyes of a mischievous fourteen-year-old. “I’ve been waiting to finally stick one to your mother before I died. I guess I can go now without a fight. Unless you plan on coming to eat one final meal with me. I suppose I can hang around a bit longer if I need to.”
I do laugh this time. Her skin feels like velvet as I cup the side of her face in my hand. “You’re not going anywhere for a long time yet, Con. I’m afraid I’m going to be needing you for the foreseeable.”
“What the hell for?” she grouses.
