Free Gypsy Jewel by Patricia McAllister

possible.”
    Naturally hesitant to get involved, Damien tried to demur, but Jingo proved most insistent.
    “I ask only this one thing of you. Nobody knows you here. My people have not seen a romani rei before, but your kind are met with respect among Rom, and I myself will be responsible for your decision. Please, will you not help me to settle this matter and ease the hearts of my people?”
    Though his conscience warned against it, Damien considered it long enough to be swayed. He finally accepted Jingo’s request, saying, “Does this mean I can stay with the Lowara?”
    Privately he was thinking that nothing would be easier. First he would make an impartial ruling on the incident in the woods, then cozy into the camp as one of the gypsies himself. It would open a back door into Czar Nicholas’s homeland. And, if he could find the lovely young nymph who had haunted him at the stream, then so much the better.
    “You are welcome to stay as long as you wish to,” Jingo said, and once reassured of the newcomer’s assistance, he was friendlier. Damien let out a deep breath of relief as he realized he had secured the necessary cover for entering the Russian front.
     
    “T HERE’S THE GAJO ,” A PRIL told Tzigane. She was careful, though, not to let her obvious interest show as she gestured out the back of the fortune teller’s wagon toward the figures of Jingo and Damien walking through the gypsy camp.
    “He’s not a gajo , he’s a romani rei ,” Tzigane corrected her daughter. Letting the flap fall closed again, the seer returned to her sewing and bit the length of string dangling from her needle and tied it off.
    Holding up the beautiful skirt she had just finished, of bright emerald green muslin with a satin-like sheen, Tzigane nodded with satisfaction. By the light of the lamp she worked by, the skirt danced with tiny reflections of gold along the elaborately embroidered, layered flounces.
    Across from her April returned to stabbing ineffectually at her own material, pushing the needle hastily through the cotton of the white ruffled blouse on which she was working. She tried to wrench her thoughts from Damien, but couldn’t. To deny her own curiosity, April said firmly, “He’s not one of us.”
    “Not of our blood, but of our beliefs,” Tzigane answered. “There are those who understand our ways who were not born Rom. This man is one of those. I could tell at once.”
    “You are not suspicious of him?” April asked curiously. Tzigane rarely trusted anyone at first sight, and she was frankly amazed.
    “I have seen him in the cards,” her mother replied vaguely, but said nothing more. Instead Tzigane smiled in secret pleasure as she finished hemming the green skirt with its swirling gold embroidery. She had coaxed April to work on the blouse under the pretense of making it for another woman in the band.
    Restless tonight, April proved an impatient pupil. She knew why, though she did not wish to admit it to Tzigane or even herself. She was thinking of Damien, of the way his blue eyes caressed her, as his hands obviously longed to. And she felt the strangest, bittersweet sensations pulling their souls together, while she fought to keep their bodies apart.
    Tzigane could tell something was troubling the girl. She assumed it was because of the trial to come, where April’s fate as well as Nicky’s would be decided. If Jingo did not find someone to resolve the conflict soon, there would be grave trouble. Her motherly heart bled for the beautiful child-woman who was bent over the blouse now, tears of frustration in her eyes.
    “The rei will distract the others for awhile,” Tzigane said, “and I saw he carried a violin. Now that everyone’s attentions are occupied, you will perhaps be able to do more.”
    “Can I ride Prince Adar?” April asked, her voice raw with longing and an inner pain reflecting deep in her eyes as she looked over at her mother.
    Tzigane hesitated. She knew how vehemently the