Prologue
As they approached the encampment along the wood line furthest from his manor, Logan kept his eyes pinned to the gathering, only half listening to the man hurrying along beside him.
“According to the report from Magister Jones, the old woman is the one we should talk to,” Harry said, pointing to a large group in the middle of the camp by the fire. Seated in prominence at the center of a wide circle, the old woman in question spoke with a loud, compelling voice. The ring of dark little heads followed the motion of her arms as she signaled the end of her tale with a flourish of her hands—hands peppered with age spots and wrinkles. They were unlike hands one would see on a woman of theTon, where hands were always gloved, smeared in all manner of rose-scented creams and oils, and would never lift anything heavier or coarser than a fine bone china teacup.
“She had better be the one.” Logan drew his lips into a thin line when the old woman caught sight of them.
Spearing him with her sharp gaze, she rose with slow, purposeful movements and advanced toward them, the wall of children splitting to allow her passage.
Like Moses and the Red Sea, he thought, not once taking his gaze from the figure moving through the gaggle of shoddily clad children.
After a long minute, the short, gray-haired woman stood before him. In silence, he watched, wary, as she straightened shoulders stooped and narrowed with age, and lifted her chin to meet him, eye to eye. She was taking stock of his stature, his features, and even the air surrounding him, as though it were speaking…and she was listening. Looking. Seeking.
Then, she tipped her head as if she were listening to someone whispering into her ear, her eyes narrowing, and a strange heaviness pressed down upon his chest.
He fought the urge to adjust his cloak, to pull it closed around him against the growing chill in the air.
Still, he waited for the woman to speak, Harry shuffling his feet nervously next to him. The man wasn’t usually the nervous sort, but it wasn’t every day they faced down tiny Romany women…with dark eyes and unsettling manner.
Long moments of silence passed. Each ticking second grated against his patience.
“You look for Esmae.” When she finally spoke, Logan lifted an eyebrow. That wasn’t a question; the woman wasn’t surprised by his presence in her encampment. Not for the first time, he wondered about just how much the secretive group of people knew about things going on in the corners and shadows—places most didn’t bother to look.
Tipping his head in curt greeting, Logan explained, “We would like to inquire about the sheep that have gone missing from the pastures east of here. We hope you have some information we need.”
The old woman lifted her chin a notch and, with more speed than he’d ever expected, she grabbed his cravat, pulling his headdown until their foreheads nearly touched, her spindly fingers like spider’s legs, her nails like claws.
Taken aback but not intimidated, he remained still, holding his breath. Despite how little and frail she appeared, she had a tight grip. Tilting her head, she leveled her gaze with his, daring him to look away.
He didn’t.
Dropping her hands, she rested them on her walking stick, standing tall, straight, and proud.
Straightening, Logan noticed that the group that had been there moments before had disbursed into their wagons, leaving the once crowded clearing in haunting emptiness.
Esmae dragged her gaze from his face, then peered into the darkness behind him once again. Her eyes followed the swirling breeze as if she could decipher the murmuring wind. “You have strong spirit…you come, seek Esmae not for sheep.” She grinned, revealing a mouth with few remaining teeth.
Blinking, he swallowed. “I have no idea what you mean.”
Say what needs to be said and be done.
“Someone is stealing my sheep,” he repeated. “Now, I know it is unfair to blame your people, but the thefts did not start until your caravan set up camp near my pastures.” The hairs on the back of his neck rose. He glanced up. From all corners of the camp, dark, curious eyes watched them from behind window curtains. He cleared his throat.
I should have visited during the day….
The chill in the air intensified, and he shuddered, the thick cloak over his shoulders doing nothing to stave off the growing apprehension in his bones.
“We mean no disrespect,” he continued. “If you have any information regarding who might be stealing the sheep, we will reward you.” Despite his desire to expedite matters, he knewangering the large group of proud nomads would be detrimental to his future peace.
Unlike other landowners who saw the Romany as pests, Logan had no problem with them…as long as they kept to themselves and didn’t cause trouble in the village. They usually only stayed through the fall, picking up work during the harvest, and then moving on to warmer climes during the winter.
Before him, the woman’s expression darkened at the mention of reward. “Yougadjeand you money. You not buy everything,” she snapped. “We no need you money. But I answer what you did not ask.” Looking from side to side conspiratorially, she motioned him forward with a vigorous wave of her gnarled hand, her other gripping his cravat once more.
Already regretting his decision to visit the Romany camp, he leaned forward, eager to know what the old woman had to say if only to get away faster.
“Time spins and change comes…you must choose.”
Taken aback, he lifted his head to peer down at the woman.
