The commoners’ Torchev dialect rang out harsh and lazy as they laughed over shared crocks of spirits or hollered at ladies sauntering across brothel balconies with pushed-up curves that nearly spilled out from their bodices.
All of their auras mixed inside me, dark and jovial and rebellious . . . yet also sad. Exhausted after a long and hard day and now seeking release. I leaned against Anton, not wanting to taste them too deeply. His arms moved in closer at my sides, as if he understood my difficulty.
“We’re almost there.” His rumbled attempt to whisper breathed warmth against my ear.
A burst of raucous laughter split the air. I flinched, but it wasn’t directed at us. Five or six young people were playing some sort of game with rocks on the road. They clapped one of their comrades on the shoulder. The boy must have won. He was gangly but round-faced, probably no older than fourteen. His friend shoved coins into his pockets and tossed him toward the brothel doors. He grinned, but his foreboding drummed inside me. I closed my eyes, feeling at once sick and disgusted and sorry for the boy, a reflection of his own emotions. Trying to purge myself of his energy without losing the contents of my stomach, I turned my head into Anton’s chest and inhaled his pine scent like a lifeline.
“Just another moment, Sonya,” he promised.
I nodded. The auras of the peasants were harder for me to resist acting upon than those of the nobles in the palace. The city people were brasher, more open, and while the nobles weren’t any less decent at heart, they were more skillful at masking their feelings to survive the game of politics they played.
True to Anton’s word, he led us back around the brothel to an even narrower alleyway, thankfully empty of people. At its end, we passed through the gate of a small lodging. The prince helped me off the horse and tied him to a lone tree in the yard. Taking my hand, he led me to a door of patched-together wood. He rapped three times.
A middle-aged woman with frizzy hair and a red bulbous nose appeared on the threshold. She grunted. “He said you would be coming”—her small eyes looked the prince over before scrutinizing me—“but not another tart. We have enough of you around here.”
I would have been offended, but the woman’s aura radiated more fear than revulsion. I hoped Anton was right about no one recognizing us.
He broadened his chest. “Don’t insult her,” he said to the woman, while clutching my hand tighter. “She is respectable. I assure you he will want to see her once he knows she is here.”
Who were they were speaking about? Who would want to see me?
The woman pursed her lips. “If he says no, the girl leaves. No more words about it.”
“Agreed.”
The woman grunted again and spared me another glance before moving back to let us in. We entered a cramped lobby with peeling paint. A rack strung with shabby coats and shawls was the only decoration. The woman left us and hobbled up a flight of rickety stairs. She seemed to have an ailment in her leg.
“What is this place?” I asked Anton.
“A house for boarders, often fugitives or those seeking somewhere to stay when they travel to the city and don’t wish the authorities to know.” He let go of my hand and drew back his hood, unlacing his cloak and hanging it on the rack.
I did the same and adjusted my headscarf. “Why does the woman risk the occupation?”
“Her name is Ruta, and she is desperate”—he sighed—“like anyone dwelling in this quarter. She has no family and must make a life for herself the only way she can.”
I looked over my slumlike surroundings, more grateful for my own lot in the empire. “Who does Ruta think you are?” They seemed to know each other.
“A university friend of ‘the gypsy,’ as she calls him just to try to provoke him.”
Gypsy? My heart pounded faster. “Anton, who are we here to see?”
“You must call me Gavril.”
“Gavril, then,” I said impatiently, “who is here?”
The stairs creaked. A young man stood on the landing and held a candle. He wore a vest and flowing peasant shirt with the sleeves rolled back to expose his long arms. His legs were also long, stuffed into trousers and worn leather shoes. In fact, everything about him was long, even his endearing face. I gasped, my mouth stretching into a wide smile. “Tosya?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
TOSYA TOOK ONE STEP DOWN THE STAIRS, AND HIS GAZE NARROWED. Did he truly not recognize me? I had seen him every spring for eight years, though the last one we’d shared together was a full two years ago. Tosya had been my family among the Romska, the closest person I had to a brother. I pulled the scarf off my head. The motion brought my blonde braid over the front of my shoulder. His eyes popped wide. His lips parted as if to say my name.
Anton put a hand on my back. “Tosya, you remember Klara, don’t you?”
Tosya blinked, quickly catching on. “Yes, yes, of course.” He turned to Ruta, who had carefully watched his reaction. “It’s all right. This girl is, uh, Gavril’s . . .”
Tosya and Anton spoke over each together, finishing my introduction.
“Cousin.”
“Wife.”