Free Unraveled Visions (A Shaman Mystery) by Nina Milton Page B

was a scribble of biro in Cyrillic script.
    “This is Kizzy’s?”
    “She carry it from home.”
    “She is a Christian?”
    “Of course. We all are.”
    “I stupidly imagined … after last night … when you summoned your god …”
    “Believe God, Devla, Madonna, and spirits of dead. Satan and bad spirits too. ”
    “Right, the full works!” I squeezed her arm. “We should apply the same principle. Your sister has to be somewhere. To be honest, some real-world searching wouldn’t be a bad thing.”
    “Where I look?” She paused. “Where you look?”
    Yep, there it was, that sinking feeling as my stomach hit my knees. I’d offered her a bed. I’d offered to work shamanically to find her sister. And now it looked like I was offering some practical help. “We should really report your sister missing officially. But let’s start by going back to the person in authority you both went to see. Who is he?”
    “Quigg.”
    “What?”
    “Mr. Quigg. Agency for Change . ”
    “Is that one of those charities that help displaced persons?”
    She shrugged. “Him no help.”
    “He might be waiting for you to go back to him. He must deal with disappearances all the time. He could be a lot of help, Mirela.”
    Her lip trembled. “I had lovely dream.”
    “Last night?”
    “About Itso. He was in big fight.”
    “Oh, no,” I cried. “That was a nightmare!”
    She laughed. “Good dream. Itso win. True dream; big fists, good punch—one! two! Itso tall, fast. Good at winning.” She raised a fist in a jab. “Him bare knuck since four, five.”
    “What …” I tried to be cautious. “You mean your boyfriend’s been fighting since he was little?”
    “’Course. All gypsy men must fight. Itso show his brother now he almost three. Learn moves. Fast on foots. Fist hard. Go-go for little-boy contests.”
    My head was throbbing with the images she painted. “That cannot be so. I don’t believe it.”
    “What if honour is threat?” Mirela pointed out. “What if other family steal horse? What do then?” Her face was taut with pride. “Itso fight when Kalaygia family steal his tatta’s horse. But that family coward. They sneak off. Disappear. With six horse.”
    “This was your dream?”
    “No! This is the true! Why Itso no money.”
    “Do Romanies have money, then?” It felt an uneducated question, but Mirela didn’t seem to mind.
    “Much money to metal and horse.”
    “So … you came to Britain in the hope of making enough money …”
    “Buy one, two, many horse. For Itso pay Mama and Tatta bride price. Then, I go home.”
    “Yes. You’re too young to be here on your own … exploited.” I felt my eyes narrow. Her skin was baby soft and her eyes were clear as jet dropped into milk. “How old did you say you were, Mirela?”
    She grinned at me. “I old enough to marry. Old enough to work.”
    “Old enough to know your own mind,” I admitted, thinking aloud.
    “Yeah. I am no leave without Kizzy. You will tell where she is.”
    “Mirela … I can’t promise to be of help.”
    “You already help. Good friend.”
    I sighed, hoping she didn’t hear. “Would you like an egg for breakfast?”
    Mirela was a charming combination of femme fatal, innocent child, and hoary old gypsy. She ate both double-yolkers, giggling when I called the bread slices “soldiers.”
    “Exactly when did Kizzy leave?” I asked. “Can you remember?”
    “Yes, easy. November six.”
    I took this in. I’d met Kizzy late on Friday night, bonfire night, November the fifth.
    “All start with carnival,” said Mirela, hardly noticing my shock. “We get up on lorry; wave to people, do little dance over and over. Mr. Papa make us.”
    It was hard to make sense of it all. “Your father?”
    She sort of giggled. “No. Papa Bulgaria?”
    “Right! Got you! The takeaway shop on the Quantock roundabout. Are they the people you work for?”
    “Yes. Good Bulgarian cooking.” It sounded like she’d been drilled into