We sat in silence while the little stove crackled quietly for what might have been only a few seconds and might have been an awkward eternity. “That is,” he said at last, “very kind.” He smiled and chuckled softly, regarding me with his deep brown eyes.
“What?” I said. “What is it?”
“Sometimes you remind me of someone I have not seen in a very long time,” he said.
“Someone nice, I hope?”
He nodded. “You would like her. I love her—very much,” said Charlie. “My sister, Alina. She and I were always very close. I miss her terribly sometimes, but she is still with the family.”
“Oh,” I said, struggling to concentrate as my mind weighed the information that I was like a sister to Charlie. “May I ask . . . why did you leave? If it’s not too forward.”
Charlie looked around his humble cabin while he considered. “The Om-Caini have no home,” he said. “My people are nomads, always moving. We must, or we risk exposure. My grandfather has stories about . . .” His eyes caught mine in the firelight. “About dark times. With our family, though—away from outsiders—we can be safe. We can be ourselves.”
He took a deep breath. “But then there was Bucharest. I liked Bucharest. In the middle of town, they used to have a busy market—they probably still do. I saw a crook cut a man’s purse strings once and slip away between the stalls, and so on instinct I gave chase and I caught him. There could not have been much in the pouch, a handful of coins, but the stranger was so grateful when I returned it. His wife invited me to dine with them, but I declined. Already I had made a spectacle, drawn attention to myself. I knew I had to go . . . but something had changed. It felt right to run toward something for once, instead of always running away.”
“And so you came to America?”
“The land of opportunity.” He nodded. “Where I could be just another immigrant, starting over. I was not even twenty, and it was very hard, but it was right. My old life—the family life—gave me the freedom to be myself, but not on my own terms.”
I nodded. “Which isn’t really freedom at all.” My family could not have been more different from Charlie’s, but I knew that feeling very well. I wanted to remind Charlie that he could always be himself around me, in any form—but it felt like hypocrisy after days of reminding him that he should not. I reached my hand toward his, instead, while he sat gazing into the crackling fire—but I hesitated, and the moment slipped away.
“It’s getting late. I shouldn’t keep you up all night,” he said, rising to his feet. “I’m sure you need your rest after a day like today.”
I bade Charlie good night and sank into my bed. In my mind I could see Jenny Cavanaugh shaking her head in disappointment at my shoddy display, and then Nellie Fuller rolling her eyes at my having tried at all. I buried my head in the soft pillow and willed the images away. I might be better prepared to slay dragons, I decided, than to flirt with boys.
We wasted no time the following morning. Jackaby took the lead, and Charlie and I kept close behind as we hastened up the road. The sun was just climbing over the wooded hills and we had nearly reached the Brisbee farm, when Lamb’s carriage barreled down the road toward us, headed toward town. It teetered ominously on two wheels for just a moment as it rounded a bend, and then clattered down onto the packed earth, where it picked up still more speed. Mr. Murphy sat at the reins, his face so pale that even his freckles seemed to have been washed away. Mr. Bradley clung to the back, attempting to tether down a clumsy pile of tools as they hurtled away. He caught sight of us as his companion urged the horses on down the dusty path, and he shouted something that sounded very much like “Good luck!”