My Own True Love (7 page)

* * *

Sara didn't recognize the man's deep voice, but his words drew her out of a comfortable doze. You're not the only one, she thought as she opened her eyes, and discovered she was still in the tent. She groaned and screwed her eyes shut again.

"We all want to go home." It was Beng who spoke this time. The men were just outside the tent opening. "But what can we do? The
gajos
blockade the Channel. We can't leave England."

"Bororavia's a long way," a third man said. She recognized this voice, Evan, the old man they'd rescued from the muggers. "A long way to travel, with war and cossacks every step of the way."

"There are old trails, or so I've heard. Paths only Rom know," the stranger said. "It's getting past the blockade that will be hard. We need a ship."

"We can't get a ship," Beng said.

"Toma says he can," Evan replied.

"Toma." Beng hawked and spat, then went on. “Why you listen to that Calderash boy? He's not even
rom baro."

Not a man, Sara interpreted. Oh, great, she'd ended up involved with an old-fashioned tribe where you had to be married before anyone would listen to you.

"I like the boy," Evan said.

/
do too,
she thought, pleased at the old man's opinion of Toma.

"That's the problem," the stranger said. "He'll never be anything but a boy unless Beng gives in."

"He's not marrying my Sara. He's half
gajo."

And what's wrong with that?
Sara wondered indignantly. Not that she planned to marry Toma, of course.

"Sara spends most of her time with
gajo,"
Evan answered. "Your own sister married one, Beng. If Sara spends more time with the
gajo
maybe she'll want to marry one like your sister did."

"I won't talk about what my sister did. Someone has to deal with the English, and Sara is good at it.

That's all there is to it," Beng said. "She earns a good living. She helps the whole
familia.
"

"But no one but Toma has offered a bride-price for her," the stranger said. "Men suspect the virtue of one who deals too much with the
gajo.
Not I," he added quickly. "But some do. Toma cares for her."

"Toma is not one of us."

"He's a good lad,"'Evan defended him. "Let him marry the girl."

"No. And what has Sara's marriage got to do with our returning to Bororavia?"

Yeah,
Sara thought, more curious than disturbed by the conversation. She didn't feel as if they were really talking about her.
What's the connection between me and Bororavia?

"If Toma can get us past the English blockade," the stranger said, "and the French ships beyond the English ships, he deserves the girl for his efforts."

"No," Beng said again.

A voice called them from across the camp before the discussion could go on. The men moved away in response, to see after the horses. Sara wondered where the bathroom was as she got up, then remembered there wasn't one. She was thankful when she spotted a wide-mouthed pot, but not at all happy about having to use it. She was just thankful Beth was already awake and out of the tent so she could answer the call of nature in private.

When she was done she found a jug of water and splashed some over her hands. The water reminded her that she hadn't eaten or drunk anything since she'd woken up the day before. Just thinking about food made her stomach growl. There were copper pots and a small chest next to the fire pit, and a small mound of twigs lying on the ashes of the last fire. Sara thought about where the water came from and decided boiling it before trying to drink it might be safer. Fortunately, it didn't take her long to figure out how to use the flint and steel she found among the cooking things, though it did take a while to get it to work. She found a flat loaf of bread and some fruit in the food chest. There was also a bag of loose tea.

She threw some leaves into the pot of water and ate while she waited for the tea to boil. She was waiting for the tea to cool when she noticed the big bag Evan had given to her the night before.

There was something familiar about the curve of the covered shape. She picked the thing up. She untied the cord holding the bag closed, then slid the cloth carefully down, revealing the rounded, honey-colored body of a finely made guitar. She held the instrument up, examining it with critical pleasure. The neck was narrow, dark wood inlaid with mother of pearl. She cradled it, strummed a D

chord across the wire strings, then adjusted the tuning pegs and tried again.

"Sweet," she said, as familiar pleasure spread through her at the sound. "Beautiful."

She tried a few more chords, then looked at the fingertips of her left hand. They were already red and throbbing slightly. Sara the pickpocket and burglar had beautiful, sensitive, delicate fingers; their skill obviously made them too valuable to exercise on any rough work.

"Tough," Sara said.

It was going to hurt like hell to get them callused up enough to play properly, but at least she would have music. She hugged the guitar, comforted to have found something to help get her through the next year.

She dropped to sit cross-legged on the floor of the tent and pulled the bag to her. Inside she found smaller bags holding replacement strings and picks carved from thin slices of tortoiseshell, flexible but strong. "All right!" she crowed happily.

She was practicing Segovia scales when Beth came in. She switched to "Stairway to Heaven" after the girl just stood there gaping for a while, round-eyed with surprise.

"What the 'ell is that?" Beth finally blurted out.

"Led Zeppelin. I've always thought Jimmy Page's acoustic stuff is really great but—"

"What are you doing?" The little girl plopped down in front of her. She gingerly touched the body of the guitar. "Where'd you get this thing?"

"It's stolen, I guess. Beautiful, isn't it?"

"I reckon. You know 'ow to play it?"

Sara flexed her aching fingers. "More or less. Maybe well enough to ..." she trailed off, then shrugged.

"All right, I'll say it out loud. I think, maybe, I've figured out how I can make a living for the next year."

Beth cocked her head. The look she gave Sara was a blend of annoyance and curiosity. "Your fingers are all red," she pointed out. "Can't pick locks if you 'urt your 'ands. Mother Cummings won't like that."

"Do I care? Anyway," she went on hastily, "I think I'm almost pretty sure that I can maybe, like, get a gig, you know, like a street musician or something. Or maybe audition for whatever passes for agents in this time. Maybe play Albert Hall or something. No, it hasn't been built yet. Maybe I could start here at the fair. Today. Maybe." She closed her eyes, then took a steadying breath and looked at the gaping child. "I really hate playing in public, but I'm going to do it."

"Fair's over today," Beth said. She rocked back on her heels and gave Sara a cunning look. "Could work," she said. "You gather in the crowd, I'll pick their pockets. Could make a bit that way." She nodded emphatically. "I like it."

Sara scowled at the girl. "Oh, no. No picking pockets. \'o stealing. Do you know what will happen to you if you get caught?"

Beth said indifferently, "Transported, maybe ‘anged."

Sara's first reaction was disbelief at the girl's casual attitude. She was a child, she reminded herself.

She didn't believe in her own mortality. And no one had ever taught her anything about morality. "Where are your parents, anyway?" she demanded. "Don't you have a home to go to?"

Beth looked as if she were about to cry. "You said you'd take care of me. You promised I could stay with you and you'd teach me." She sprang to her feet. "You ain't sending me back to Mother Cummings!

I ain't going!"

Sara hastily put aside the guitar and grabbed Beth by the shoulders. "Of course not!" The girl was as lost in this uncaring world as she was. They were both scared. Sara hugged her. "I'll take care of you, I promise." At least for the next year, she added to herself. She didn't dare try to think past the next St.

Bartholomew's Day.

Beth stepped back, her panic instantly turned off. "We want to eat, we better earn some money."

Sara couldn't argue with the girl's practical attitude. She did have to swallow hard on her own panic at facing the crowd. The time for stage fright was long past, and she knew it. She could try her hand at being a thief, or she could play in front of an audience.

"Get transported to Australia, or get rotten fruit thrown at you. The choice really isn't all that hard," she said. She picked up the guitar and put it back in the canvas bag to protect it until it was time to play.

"Okay, let's go." She wagged a finger at Beth. "No pickpocketing."

Beth grimaced. "You crazy? 'Course I'll—"

"No you won't."

"Dammit, Sara!"

"And no swearing." Oh, God, Sara thought, I sound just like my mother. She almost didn't blame Beth for giving her a disgusted look and running out of the tent.

Sara called after her, but when she got no answer she clutched the bag to her chest and followed the girl to the bustle of the fair. It was a bright and beautiful morning, except for the ever-present smoke in the air. The sky overhead reminded Sara of her one trip to Los Angeles a few years back. "A few years forward. Whatever."
I'm talking to myself. That's crazy. You listening to me?
she asked the ring. It didn't answer. She decided to ignore it as well, and plunged into the crowd.

She was lost instantly, of course. Beth was nowhere in sight. She never had gotten her bearings the day before when she'd had the ring or Beth or Toma as a guide at all times. She wondered where Toma was now, and remembered where she'd first seen him. Maybe she could find him now. Maybe he could help her find Beth and find a place where she could play for the fairgoers. Toma. She got a warm, sweet feeling from just thinking about him. It was disgusting, that was what it was. Pure, mush-brained, romantic tripe. All the ring's fault. She just wished it didn't feel so good.

"Hmmph," she complained, hefted her guitar, and wandered down a jammed pathway that looked vaguely familiar. She smiled triumphantly a few minutes later when she recognized the alley that led behind Toma's stage: The stage must be around the next turning. She hurried forward as fast as she could dodge around the fairgoers, many of them excitedly chattering women. She felt a stab of jealousy at the realization that the women were chattering about Toma the Magnificent. She found herself tossing her dark curls, smug in the knowledge that she was the one Toma the Magnificent wanted to marry. Not that she could marry him, of course, but it was nice to be wanted.

Toma emerged from the alley just as she reached it. He was bare chested, with a blue silk headband holding back his long black hair. Beth was with him, A smile lit his face as he saw her; Sara thought for a second she was going to melt. He took her arm and drew her into the privacy of the alley.

"She's crazy, Toma," Beth said as they looked deep into each other's eyes. "She belongs in Bedlam, I swear!"

Toma gave Beth a stern look. "Hush, mud lark. Let me talk to her." He looked back at Sara. "I don't have much time."

She nodded. "Show time. I know."

"Beth's been raving at me. Is any of it true?"

Sara nodded. "I can't steal."

"You can't do anything else."

He looked so frustrated she wanted to comfort him. She supposed trying to explain magic rings and time travel and reincarnation would only make things worse. "I'm going to play the guitar," she said, since it was the only thing she really could explain. "Instead of stealing. Make an honest living."

"You
see!"
Beth chimed in. "Crazy. Mother Cummings'll kill us all!"

Toma ignored the girl. Sara would have tried to say something reassuring, but Toma had caught her gaze with his, and she couldn't turn away. His look was so intense, so pleading, she didn't know what to do. He wanted something from her. Lost in his gaze she wanted nothing more than to give him anything he wanted.

"I need you," he said. "Do you know how much I need you?" His hands tightened on her shoulders.

For a moment she thought he was going to shake her. But he dropped his hands to his sides and balled them into fists instead. "You can't understand." The intensity bordering on anger left his face. "Why do you want to make an honest living?"

She was almost too shocked to answer him for a moment. To her it seemed so obvious, but how could she make someone who had never known anything but poverty and prejudice understand? "I have to."

"Mother Cummings won't like it." He brushed his hand through her curls. "Beng won't like it."

"I don't care."

He touched the tip of her chin. "I can tell. I can read your stubbornness right there."

"Help me," she pleaded.

"Toma!" Beth warned.

He sighed, then nodded. "How?"

She would have thrown her arms around him if it hadn't meant dropping the guitar. "1 need somewhere to play," she explained. "Some way to get paid for it. I think you English call it busking. You know, being a street musician. I've seen people do it in Dinkytown back home, over by the university, and in Seattle, but ! don't know where your equivalent of Pike Place Market is, so—"

"Sara?" This time he did shake her. "What are you talking about? Where are these places?" He touched the bag, sounding a muffled thrum from the bass string. "Guitar?" She nodded. "Can you really play the thing?"

Sara had to battle a combination of uncertainty and hard-earned, private pride before she could raise her head and say, "Of course."

Toma gave a curt nod. "Very well. Come with me."

She followed him to the steps behind the stage where Sandor waited, shifting nervously from foot to foot.

Sandor frowned at her and said to Toma, "Big crowd for the last day. Ready?"

"Not yet," Toma said. He pulled Sara up the steps. They were standing on the stage before she realized what he was doing. A burst of applause froze her in place. She couldn't bring herself to look out at the audience not twenty feet away.