Free As Good as Gold by Heidi Wessman Kneale Page A

figured each bag held about twenty pieces. She began to loosen the second to check they were all gold, when a shout broke her attention.
    “You!” It was the hostler. His bulk blocked the light from the larger street. His heavy finger pointed at her, and another shadow moved in behind him.
    Daywen cried out. She snatched several of the bags and fled down the little road, leaving the saddlebags behind. Clutching her treasure to her chest, she ran and ran, and not even the stitch in her side slowed her down until she reached her home.
    She flung open the back gate, but instead of retreating into the dubious safety of the house, she took a moment to think. Gusts of wind rustled leaves in trees and sent sheets, hung to bleach in the sun, flapping like ghosts.
    She had stolen. And gold, at that. No doubt that hostler would not stop his pursuit. Had he traced her here, it would be a simple matter for him to convince her father to force her to return it.
    No. She couldn’t. She would not end up like Llannyn.
    As if skipping through the back yard had been a ruse to throw off her pursuers, she skirted the house and exited through the front gate into the lane. Then, her feet pounding the dust, she fled Beltane.
    Into the woods and down the trails few men dared take, though plenty of women had trod these paths, she flew, her hundred tickets to freedom clutched to her chest.
    The old gypsy wagon was easy to spot amid the trees. Romanies loved bright colors and gaudy designs. Daywen hastened up the three wooden steps and knocked on the door.
    No answer. She knocked again.
    Nothing.
    A wave of weariness overcame her and she had to sit down. Spreading her skirts, she emptied the purses into them.
    By daylight, the gold glinted brighter than in the darkness of town.
    Lovely, lovely, it sang to her. She let the music lull her. It rustled through her hair and caressed her shoulders.
    “So, ye have a hundred gold, do ye?”
    The money’s music stopped and Daywen opened her eyes. She was not aware she had closed them.
    Alishandra Orona emerged from the copse of trees at the edge of the clearing. She had the olive skin and dark glittering eyes of her Romani race, and wore the colourful skirts and scarves one would expect of a gypsy. That she loved gold was evident. Heavy hoops swung from her ears and her fingers were heavy with rings. Her neck, wrists and ankles were festooned with golden charms that tinkled as she moved.
    She emerged into the sunlight, with a slow measured walk that reminded Daywen of dancing--not the stately, bouncy dances of figures and quadrilles that put villagers through their paces at festival times, but the languorous dances of tabletops in smoky taverns or out in these woods, forbidden dances, sensual dances.
    Alishandra was a woman who understood desire.
    Daywen rose to her feet, lifting her skirts so she would not lose a coin. As she felt the cool air about her naked ankles, her hands twitched in a desire to restore her modesty.
    The gypsy woman dipped both long-fingered hands into the pooled gold and lifted it up. She inhaled deeply, then clutched it tight in her fingers. She tilted her head as if to listen, then laid her face on her closed fists.
    “You can hear it too,” exclaimed Daywen.
    “Aye.” Alishandra let the gold trickle back into Daywen’s skirts, but for one piece. “Gold’s song is most sweet. Now ye know why it is so desired.” She studied the piece between her thumb and forefinger. “This is not a mark I recognize.”
    “It’s foreign.”
    Alishandra weighed the piece in her hand.
    Would the gypsy turn down her payment? She couldn’t! Daywen’s words rushed out. “Gold is gold. You never said the hundred pieces had to be local currency.”
    “Aye, that be true.” Alishandra bit the gold piece, leaving a faint dent. “This be real gold, and that be good enough for me.” She gave a nod at Daywen’s skirts. “Count me your hundred.”
    So she did, to the last coin. When the old