here?”
“The girl left signs.”
Stephen frowned into his cup. “Signs?”
“We call it vurma . Signals along the way.”
“Bits of cloth?” Stephen inquired. “Thread? Hair? Things like that?”
Laszlo helped himself to another cup of malmsey from the jug on the table. “Yes.”
Now Stephen understood why Juliana had ridden too close to the hedgerows, torn her skirts along the way. The wily female. He should have known. He could not trust her at all.
“She was to have married Rodion, the bearward and captain of the kumpania ,” Laszlo commented. He watched Stephen’s face closely as if trying to read it like a map.
“Then she must have fled to escape the marriage,” Stephen concluded. “Is it not true that your people allow a woman to make up her own mind on such matters?”
“Yes. If she knows her own mind.” Laszlo shook his head, and for a moment he seemed to forget where he was. “Juliana did not. Always dreaming, that one. Always planning to go back.”
“Go back? To where?”
“To her Gajo home.”
“I thought you said you were her father.”
“ You said I was her father.”
“And you did not deny it.”
Laszlo picked up a clockwork horse made of tin. He frowned at the movable joints. Stephen had invented it to amuse the tenants’ children.
“Well?” His patience thinned. “Are you?”
Laszlo cranked the spring mechanism on the underside of the horse. “Am I what?”
“Juliana’s father!” Stephen’s voice rang with frustration.
“Are you truly her husband?” Laszlo set down the toy. It skittered across the tabletop and crashed to the floor. With a startled yelp, the gypsy backed off, muttering and making signs against evil.
In spite of himself, Stephen felt a glimmer of humor. “By order of the king, we were formally wed.”
“And why would the Gajo king give such an order?”
Stephen hauled in a deep breath. He did not want to insult Laszlo by admitting that, for him, marriage to Juliana was a punishment. “It’s a long story.”
“But you wasted no time bedding her.”
Stephen thought of how soft she had felt to him last night. How sweet she had smelled. How very much he had wanted her.
Fool, he told himself. That was undoubtedly part of her plan—to entice him into her bed so that he would have no grounds for annulment later. “That is none of your affair.”
“If she is to be your wife,” Laszlo said stolidly, “you must perform the plotchka .”
“Laszlo, no!” Juliana said from the doorway. Her maid had done something artful with her hair, pulling it back with combs and letting the great length of it cascade down her back. Before he could stop himself, Stephen imagined touching her hair as he had done last night, while she slept.
Ungainly as a roe deer, Pavlo bounded into the roomand launched himself joyously at Laszlo. The old man laughed and scratched the dog’s ears.
“Laszlo, no plotchka ,” Juliana said, folding her arms beneath her breasts.
Stephen stared at her. Each day she looked more lovely than she had the day before. She wore a gown of vivid peacock-blue, and he wondered where she had gotten it. Meg had never owned anything in that garish color.
“It is not good!” Laszlo yelled, pushing the eager dog down. “You are not properly wed until you perform the rite.”
“Exactly!” she said. “I don’t want to be properly wed.” She let forth with a stream of conversation in her strange tongue. Laszlo responded rapidly in kind, poking the air with his finger. Her chin came up, and she replied, but he seemed unmoved and, finally, ended the argument in a ringing shout.
Juliana’s face drained of color. A hunted look haunted her eyes. She glanced at Stephen and then back at Laszlo. Her narrow shoulders seemed to constrict. Though he had not understood the exchange, Stephen sensed her torment, and for once he did not question his own need to end it.
“What did he say to you, Juliana?” he asked softly.
“I told him
“The girl left signs.”
Stephen frowned into his cup. “Signs?”
“We call it vurma . Signals along the way.”
“Bits of cloth?” Stephen inquired. “Thread? Hair? Things like that?”
Laszlo helped himself to another cup of malmsey from the jug on the table. “Yes.”
Now Stephen understood why Juliana had ridden too close to the hedgerows, torn her skirts along the way. The wily female. He should have known. He could not trust her at all.
“She was to have married Rodion, the bearward and captain of the kumpania ,” Laszlo commented. He watched Stephen’s face closely as if trying to read it like a map.
“Then she must have fled to escape the marriage,” Stephen concluded. “Is it not true that your people allow a woman to make up her own mind on such matters?”
“Yes. If she knows her own mind.” Laszlo shook his head, and for a moment he seemed to forget where he was. “Juliana did not. Always dreaming, that one. Always planning to go back.”
“Go back? To where?”
“To her Gajo home.”
“I thought you said you were her father.”
“ You said I was her father.”
“And you did not deny it.”
Laszlo picked up a clockwork horse made of tin. He frowned at the movable joints. Stephen had invented it to amuse the tenants’ children.
“Well?” His patience thinned. “Are you?”
Laszlo cranked the spring mechanism on the underside of the horse. “Am I what?”
“Juliana’s father!” Stephen’s voice rang with frustration.
“Are you truly her husband?” Laszlo set down the toy. It skittered across the tabletop and crashed to the floor. With a startled yelp, the gypsy backed off, muttering and making signs against evil.
In spite of himself, Stephen felt a glimmer of humor. “By order of the king, we were formally wed.”
“And why would the Gajo king give such an order?”
Stephen hauled in a deep breath. He did not want to insult Laszlo by admitting that, for him, marriage to Juliana was a punishment. “It’s a long story.”
“But you wasted no time bedding her.”
Stephen thought of how soft she had felt to him last night. How sweet she had smelled. How very much he had wanted her.
Fool, he told himself. That was undoubtedly part of her plan—to entice him into her bed so that he would have no grounds for annulment later. “That is none of your affair.”
“If she is to be your wife,” Laszlo said stolidly, “you must perform the plotchka .”
“Laszlo, no!” Juliana said from the doorway. Her maid had done something artful with her hair, pulling it back with combs and letting the great length of it cascade down her back. Before he could stop himself, Stephen imagined touching her hair as he had done last night, while she slept.
Ungainly as a roe deer, Pavlo bounded into the roomand launched himself joyously at Laszlo. The old man laughed and scratched the dog’s ears.
“Laszlo, no plotchka ,” Juliana said, folding her arms beneath her breasts.
Stephen stared at her. Each day she looked more lovely than she had the day before. She wore a gown of vivid peacock-blue, and he wondered where she had gotten it. Meg had never owned anything in that garish color.
“It is not good!” Laszlo yelled, pushing the eager dog down. “You are not properly wed until you perform the rite.”
“Exactly!” she said. “I don’t want to be properly wed.” She let forth with a stream of conversation in her strange tongue. Laszlo responded rapidly in kind, poking the air with his finger. Her chin came up, and she replied, but he seemed unmoved and, finally, ended the argument in a ringing shout.
Juliana’s face drained of color. A hunted look haunted her eyes. She glanced at Stephen and then back at Laszlo. Her narrow shoulders seemed to constrict. Though he had not understood the exchange, Stephen sensed her torment, and for once he did not question his own need to end it.
“What did he say to you, Juliana?” he asked softly.
“I told him
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