Zamora's eyes narrowed as she took a step toward Tobias.
"My medicine is as powerful as yours, maybe more powerful."
"Then why didn't you use it?" Tobias was weary, his eyes were red rimmed, his usually even manner was fast fading.
Zamora sniffed indignantly. "Because she repays my kindness by insisting that I send for you. But I understand what is in her heart. It speaks what her words will not say. And because of that, I am willing to do as she asks. Now, plague me no more, you fool!" She thrust a crooked finger toward the doorway. "You can sleep in the boy's room. He will not mind, and he will not be inclined to slit your throat." She turned to Elyse.
"I'll stay with him," Elyse announced. She had no idea why there was such animosity between Zamora and Tobias, and she didn't care. She just wanted to be with Zach if he should wake.
The old woman shrugged her shoulders as if to say it made no difference to her where Elyse slept, but her keen eyes watched as Elyse dropped into the rocking chair beside the bed, then pulled it closer and laid her head on her arm beside him.
She had dozed off. She wakened suddenly at the pressure of a hand at her shoulder.
There was confusion at first, waking in an unfamiliar place, then her gaze fastened on Zach, and she immediately came upright in the chair. Zamora's wrinkled hand was gentle on her shoulder.
"He is all right and still sleeps."
She slowly relaxed. A single lantern cast a faint glow in the room. It was still dark. How long had she slept?
Zamora waved a hand toward the small table, where bowls had been set. Streamers of steam curled lazily above each, and Elyse thought vaguely of the tea leaves Tobias had mentioned earlier. She hesitated, wondering if the woman really was a Gypsy.
"You must eat," Zamora told her. "How can you care for him if you are weak? Come. There is nothing you can do for him. More than anything, he needs rest. There may be fever, and then you will work very hard.”
Elyse rose slowly, a hand-stitched blanket falling from her lap. She picked it up, slightly confused. She didn't remember having the blanket earlier.
The old Gypsy smiled. "It gets cold at night so close to the water." She motioned to a chair. "You were restless and did not sleep well."
"I kept seeing things."
Zamora's eyes narrowed as she placed a basket of bread on the table. "Ah yes, he dreams. Sit and eat." She took the chair opposite, positioning her small body on the chair seat as if she were a small watchful bird.
"What about the fever?" She glanced back over her shoulder at him. He seemed to be resting peacefully enough.
"The fever will come when his body fights off the poison that comes from the wound. I have seen it many times." Zamora smiled as she gestured to the bowl of steaming liquid. "It will keep the hunger away."
Elyse thought nothing had ever smelled quite so delicious. Chunks of meat and fresh vegetables filled the well-seasoned broth, with long strands of noodles and chunks of a rich dough. It made her think of the ensopado she'd enjoyed at the restaurant the day before. Was that only the day before? It seemed a lifetime.
As her questioning gaze met the old Gypsy's, she wondered what other ingredients might be in the soup. It was as if the old woman read her thoughts.
"I am a good cook. My grandmother taught me." She smiled. "There is nothing in the soup that will harm you."
"It's delicious," Elyse told her. "My grandmother's cook would pay handsomely to know what you've put in it." At the thought, a wave of sadness washed over her as she thought of her grandmother and others, not knowing her fate. Her eyes filled with tears.
Zamora watched her with keen eyes, instinctively understanding there was a great sadness in this young woman. "I know you have come a great distance and I would gladly tell you what is in the soup. It is made with a little of this and a little of that, a pinch of herbs and whatever else can be found in my kitchen."
Elyse smiled through her tears. "No magic Gypsy potions?"
"Bah!" Zamora exclaimed. "That old fool Tobias would have you believe I chant incantations over a witch's brew and fly about on a broom." She gestured about the small room. "Do you see a black caldron?"
"I see a pot of soup," Elyse confessed.
"Yes, and you must remember everything is not always as it seems." Zamora pushed the basket of warm bread toward her.
Aware of the old woman's keen gaze, Elyse commented, "Everything is not always as it seems. That pot of soup just might be a witch's caldron."
"Only to that old fool of a man." Zamora laughed with her. "Being a Gypsy is my heritage, not my profession. He would have you believe we ride around in brightly painted wagons, make campfires in the hills, and steal from rich travelers."
"But you don't," Elyse surmised.
