Lions in the Garden

  “Are you all right?” I asked Marc.

  “Everything is coming to a head. Kingdoms are aligning themselves for battle.”

  “I wonder what Rudolf thinks of this news.” I leaned back on my hands and crossed my ankles in front of me. The grass felt soft under my palms. I watched the fire’s flames soar taller than a man, licking the sky above.

  “Rudolf is a strange man,” Marc said. “I’ve never fully understood any of his decisions. He’s a member of the Catholic Habsburgs, but he tolerates Protestants. His family and the church want him off the throne, but instead of fighting back, he’s busy having séances with wizards or trying to turn metal into gold with his alchemists.”

  “He’s always been like that.” I glanced up at the sky. I always felt defensive of the king, even though I knew he did a poor job of ruling the kingdom. He meant well. He was just . . . different. “I guess Rudolf is like the Gypsies in that way—a free spirit. He’s more interested in science and the arts than what’s going on around him politically.”

  “Maybe he should concentrate more on ruling,” Marc said.

  I didn’t say anything. I didn’t want to argue with him. I understood Marc wanted to improve the lives of peasants, but couldn’t that be done without trying to topple the Catholic Church?

  “Drink these.” Zora appeared out of nowhere and pushed two cups into our hands. She stood with a whirl of skirts and paraded around the fire with a handful of other women.

  I sniffed the cup. A pungent whiff of herbs and berries assaulted my nose. “What is this?”

  Marc took a drink and lifted an eyebrow. “I don’t know, but it’s good.”

  I cautiously sipped from the cup. A bitter warm liquid filled my mouth. It was good—tastier than beer or wine, with a fruity, earthy flavor. I swallowed another drink. “I think I like this nomadic lifestyle.”

  “Do you foresee yourself becoming a Gypsy?”

  “Maybe.”

  He laughed.

  “What? You don’t think I could be like Zora? All fluttery and wispy?” I smiled at him from around my cup. “You don’t think I can let my hair down and have a good time?”

  “I’m certain you can.” Marc lifted his glass at me in salute. “I’ve just never seen it. Whenever I’m with you, it’s always strict castle rules or men trying to attack you or propose to you.” His smile widened, displaying a row of straight white teeth. “Sadly, I’ve never seen hair-down, guard-down, laughing-in-the-wind Mila.”

  I tipped my cup back and drained the last drops of the Gypsy concoction. “Well, you haven’t been around me long enough.”

  “Is that so?”

  I stole his cup from his hand and finished his drink, too. The liquid burned as it slid down my throat and lit a fire deep in my belly. A wonderful fuzziness burrowed into my head. I stood and shook my hair down. It fell in dark waves down my back. “I’ll be back.”

  Marc sat up straight. “Where are you going?”

  “To dance.” I held up my palm to stop him from following me. I took a page from Zora’s book and walked away before he could respond.

  I felt weightless on my feet as I glided over the grass toward the Gypsy. Zora banged the heel of her hand against a tambourine while she twirled in circles around the flames. She extended a hand to me and I fell into line with the dancers. The rapid sounds of drums and tambourines filled the night air. My gray skirt fluttered away from my legs, catching in the wind. My head was cloudy, but I felt wonderfully free.

  I stretched my arms high overhead. I whirled one way, stopped and clapped, and then moved in the opposite direction, copying the moves of the women around me. The fire warmed my body. The heat ignited us—like some ancient pagan ritual compelling us to dance faster as the flames soared higher.

  I caught sight of Marc as we rotated around the campfire. He was propped on an elbow with his legs stretched out on the grass. He absently ran the tip of his finger over the brim of the empty cup. A smile played on his lips. His eyes followed me as I danced around the pit. Flames reflected off his dark pupils.

  I danced beside Zora as the music’s tempo increased. We spun faster. Objects raced by. Faces blurred. The trees merged and became one indistinct background. Drums boomed through the forest and echoed in the wind.

  I searched for Marc. The world was spinning too fast and I needed my anchor, but I was on the opposite side of the flames. My head whirled. I was going too fast. Something flashed before me—in between the wagons, deep in the dark forest, pairs of luminous yellow eyes reflected off the firelight.

  Wolves.

  Dozens of wolves watched us from the trees. I turned to see if anyone had noticed the beasts, but the others were drinking and dancing. Were we in danger? I spun faster. I tried to zero in on the spot where I’d seen the wolves, but the glowing eyes were gone.

  Had I imagined them?

  The music stopped and another song started. One dance was enough to exhaust me, so I nodded to Zora and stumbled back to Marc. He took my hand as I clumsily lowered myself to the grass. I stretched out my legs and fell back. I wanted to watch the stars fill the sky.

  “I take back everything I said.” Marc’s handsome face replaced my view of the stars. “You could definitely be a Gypsy. Where did you learn those moves?”

  “I can’t reveal my secrets.” I smiled.

  “I didn’t think they taught dance moves like that in etiquette school.”

  “You’d be surprised. The ladies of the court are quite improper.”

  He laughed and propped himself on his elbow beside me.

  The fire crackled behind us, but with my muddled mind and Marc so close, the campfire felt kingdoms away. I stretched my arm toward the sky and traced a constellation with my finger. “When I look up at the stars, it feels like the world is spinning out of control.”

  “Two cups of Gypsy juice will do that to you. I think you may be drunk.”

  “It’s magical out here. It feels so far away from normal life. I don’t think I want to go back.”

  “That’s the allure of Gypsy life.” Marc brushed his finger down the length of my bare arm.

  I shivered at his touch and his eyes moved to mine. There were no other words for it—his eyes drank me in and absorbed every aspect of me. His lips parted and I wanted him to kiss me again.

  I sucked in my breath as he slowly lowered his head—

  “—the legend of the Golem.”

  I blinked and the spell broke.

  Marc and I turned to the voice. The music had stopped and the old man—the same one who’d delivered the news of Henrik IV’s assassination to Zora—waited patiently in a chair to our left. All eyes focused on him. The atmosphere shifted from jovial dancing to quiet anticipation. It was storytelling time.

  Sparks blew upward in an explosion of brilliant orange against the black sky. They floated over our heads like fairies escaping the fire.

  Marc and I sat forward, but the effort of rising to a sitting position sloshed my drunken brain. The campsite spun and I teetered to the side. If I’d been standing, I would have fallen flat on my face. Luckily, I was seated and Marc slipped his arm around my shoulders before I could topple over. He drew me to him, lowering my head to his lap. I closed my eyes and waited for the world to stop spinning.

  “Bohemia is full of the supernatural, but no place is more attuned to the other side than Prague,” the old man said. “Prague is a haunted city. Full of dungeons and dark alleys. It is the birthplace of a long list of murderers and madmen. Evil walks the streets.”

  Marc ran his hand though my hair. His fingertips brushed my forehead and I closed my eyes like a cat being petted. The spinning had slowed, but it was replaced by an immeasurable exhaustion.

  The flames warmed my face as the old man told his story. “Many years ago, when Rudolf first came to Prague, there was a small rebellion in town. To combat the uprising, the king ordered attacks on the city. For two weeks, Rudolf’s Royal Army terrorized the streets. Many innocent pe
ople were killed.”

  A chill ran up my spine. If my head hadn’t been spinning out of control, I would’ve sat up. What the old man was saying wasn’t true—King Rudolf’s Royal Army terrorizing the streets? That wasn’t how I’d heard the story. I’d heard the peasants revolted because they were unhappy about Rudolf’s arrival, so they tried to storm the castle. Rudolf would never “terrorize” anyone.

  Wolves howled in the distance. Was the pack still watching us from the forest? I remembered the rows of yellow eyes glowing from behind the trees.

  “A Jewish rabbi, known to be a mystic in some circles, created an artificial model of a man from the mud of the banks of the Vltava River. The doll, which became known as the Golem, was brought to life through incantations. Before long, the abomination haunted the streets of Prague.”

  I kept my eyes closed as the old man told his stories of magic and evil running rampant through my hometown. Marc stroked my hair and the old man’s voice grew farther away until I drifted off into a dreamless sleep.

  Chapter Twelve

  I woke in Marc’s arms.

  We were on the grass in the same spot as the night before during the campfire. Smoke rose in the early morning air. A blanket had been thrown over us, but sometime in the night we had sought each other’s warmth. His arms protectively held me to him. I lifted my head to see if we were alone. We weren’t. People were sprawled out everywhere around the camp, as if they had simply lain down wherever they grew tired.

  I snuggled deeper into Marc’s embrace, burying my face in his chest. My brain pounded from behind my skull and I vowed never to drink anything from a Gypsy again.

  “How do you feel?” Marc’s eyes were closed, but his grip around me tightened.

  “Like I fell off a horse and landed on my head.”

  He laughed. “Gypsy juice.”

  “When did I fall asleep? I don’t remember much after I laid my head down.”

  “After the Golem story.” Marc squinted in the harsh sunlight. “Don’t worry, I nodded off soon after that. Zora must’ve given us the blanket.”

  A chicken strutted toward us. Its scrawny form sauntered by like we were invisible.

  “Sharing my bed with the livestock.” Marc closed his eyes again. “Notwithstanding the poultry, I think the last two nights were the best nights of sleep I’ve ever had.”

  “Me, too.”

  Despite my yearning to go back to sleep in Marc’s arms, it was time to wake for the day. The morning air was crisp. I rubbed the goose bumps on my arms and Marc wrapped the blanket around my shoulders. “Let’s find some food.”

  Apparently, Gypsy juice had no effect on Zora, because she was already awake. She held a pan of fish over an open fire. She smiled brightly at me. “Good morning! How do you feel?”

  “Horrible?”

  “That means you had a good night.” She pointed to the pan. “This will make you feel better.”

  “Fish?”

  She nodded. “Rainbow trout will do the trick. Trust me.”

  The smell threatened to make me sick, but Zora knew what she was talking about. After eating a plate of cheese and fish—a combination I never would’ve tried at the castle—my grogginess disappeared and my head stopped throbbing.

  Zora handed me the dress that Marc had bartered for. The gown was buttermilk with pale pink flowers. The fabric felt light and airy, nothing like my usual heavy dresses and bone-laced corsets. I’d actually be able to breathe in this dress.

  “I’ll help you,” Zora said.

  I followed her to the back of the wagon. She retrieved a blanket, a bowl of water, and a rag for washing. She wrapped the blanket around us to provide protection from prying eyes.

  I peeled off the gray gown and stepped into Zora’s dress.

  “Turn,” she said.

  I held my hair off my back as she tied up the laces.

  “Marc is not complicated,” she whispered. “He’s loyal and fierce when he has to be. He’s an extraordinary man.”

  “I know.”

  “He cares for you.”

  I glanced over my shoulder, but she didn’t give me a chance to reply. “I heard you were engaged, but I know how they do things in the castle. Do you have feelings for the duke?”

  I shook my head. I didn’t feel comfortable talking about Marc and Radek to someone I hardly knew.

  “I like you,” Zora said. “Please don’t hurt my friend.” She finished lacing the dress. She kissed my cheek and stepped outside the divider.

  I followed, rattled by the odd, one-sided discussion.

  Marc was gathering our belongings. “We should go, Mila. The caravan is packing up to leave. We’re not—” He glanced up. His eyes slid over my new dress from top to bottom and then back up.

  I blushed, feeling Zora’s eyes on me. “I’m ready to leave whenever you are.”

  “Then let’s head out.”

  Zora walked us from the dismantled circle of caravans to Jiri’s mare. Marc busied himself with arranging our newly acquired supplies on the horse.

  She tapped my shoulder. “May I read?”

  “Read what?” I asked.

  “Your palm.”

  I looked to Marc, but he just winked at me.

  “I suppose,” I said. “What will you see?”

  “Your life path.”

  I blanched. The idea seemed daunting, but she was eager and she’d been extremely kind to us. I didn’t want to disappoint her. I lifted my palm and she brought my hand close to her face. She dragged her long fingernail down my palm lines.

  I shifted from my right foot to my left. “Well?”

  “You are strong-willed and passionate.”

  Marc snorted. “That’s an understatement.”

  “You have important decisions to make. I see two paths. One direction shows a long life path. It has a constant line—steady and content. The other path is much shorter.” She watched my expression. Her vivid green eyes were the color of lush grass at the height of the rainy season.

  “A shorter line means an earlier death,” I said.

  “Yes, but the shorter path is a much fuller life. Crammed with love, passion, and war. It is a difficult line.” She squeezed my fingers before she released me. Her hand felt dry, like paper.

  My heart fluttered. “What about Marc? What does his palm say?”

  “I’ve already read Marc’s palm before. The lines usually do not change.”

  “And?” Marc’s eyes fell on me, but I focused on the beautiful Gypsy. I had to know what she’d seen for his future.

  Zora shrugged good-naturedly. “Marc is a catalyst for change. He has always been destined for greatness.”

  Our leisurely pace through the forest was slower than the one I’d experienced during Urek’s flight from the castle. I didn’t mind. Apparently, Marc didn’t either. We enjoyed each other’s company and, even though it was unspoken, neither of us was in a hurry to get back to Prague.

  We knew what awaited us there.

  A few hours after we left Zora and the caravan of Gypsies, we stopped at a creek not far from the road. Marc led Jiri’s mare to drink from the stream, and we decided to eat a late lunch, choosing the cured sausage and fruit from the sack full of food Zora had given us. The starving pains I’d experienced while in Urek’s captivity had disappeared. It was a comforting feeling knowing we had food to spare.

  After lunch, Marc drew his dagger from the inseam of his boot. “All right, Mila, we’ve lounged around for long enough. It’s time to get some work done. I owe you a lesson, remember?”

  My eyebrows rose. “A lesson?”

  He flipped the dagger in the air and caught it by the handle. “You wanted to learn how to defend yourself, right? I’ve only known you for a few weeks, but it’s safe to say trouble seeks you out.”

  “Me?” I brushed the dirt from my pale dress. “Every time I’ve been in trouble, I’ve been near you. Maybe trouble seeks you out and I’m just an innocent bystander.”

 
Marc grinned. “That’s a possibility. Either way, trouble finds us and it’ll be useful if you learn a few moves.” He tossed the dagger in the air and caught it by the blade. He shoved the handle in my direction.

  My mother’s slashed wrists appeared before my eyes. Blood mixed with water pooled over the rim of the tub.

  Marc stepped forward. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” I swallowed and took the dagger.

  The metal felt heavy in my sweaty hands. My heartbeat raced. I’d had the same feeling of panic when I held the dagger to Niklas’s neck. I couldn’t do it—I was too weak.

  “Mila?”

  My throat constricted and I couldn’t swallow. My mother’s ivory skin, so shockingly bright against the red blood, invaded my mind. I no longer saw Marc or the forest—only my dead mother.

  “Mila?”

  I blinked.

  He took the blade from my hand. “What’s wrong?”

  “I . . . I . . .” I couldn’t finish. I exhaled. I had no words. I was weak like my mother.

  “I didn’t mean to scare you. I thought you wanted to learn how to use a weapon. You mentioned it when we were in Vladislav Hall that day.”

  I shook my head. “No, it’s not that. It’s just. . . .”

  Marc waited for me to finish my sentence. My knees wobbled and I sank to the grass before I fainted.

  He crouched beside me. “Mila? What’s wrong?”

  “My mother died from a dagger like that. Actually, she died from the one I had with me on the day we met. Do you remember?”

  “The one with the garnet dragons? You kept the knife that killed your mother?”

  I squeezed my hands together. My knuckle popped under the pressure. “Morbid, right? I stole the dagger from the scene. I don’t know why. I just—”

  “I get it.”

  “You heard about my mother’s death?”

  “I was young.” Marc watched my face closely. “But I remember hearing that she . . . died.”

  “She didn’t just die. She slit her wrists while taking a bath.” My vision went blurry, and when I blinked, tears spilled down my cheeks. I angrily wiped at them. “Did you know under the Catholic Church’s laws that suicide is a mortal sin? Your soul can’t gain access to Heaven. The church even forbids a proper burial on consecrated grounds.”