I parked near the gypsy caravans. The fires hadn’t been banked yet, and I carried Nicolae’s body into their camp, where they stood in grim silence. They watched me with flat, frightened eyes. Had the fortune-teller foretold this?
I staggered to a halt, not knowing where to take him. The crowd parted, and the stooped figure of the old woman, Syeira, shuffled forward, pain etched in her movements, but whether physical or emotional, I couldn’t tell. She gestured to the ground, and I lay Nicolae down before her.
In the fitful light of a flaming torch I could see that although sorrow etched her features, tears didn’t stream down her wrinkled cheeks. She stared at the cooling body and murmured in heavily accented English, “Nicolae. Poor, foolish Nicolae.”
Her claw-like hand reached out and se
