He pulled a disgusted face. “That bit of rubbish? You needn’t worry, Auntie Julia. It is only a bit of glass. I found it stuffed in the bear.”
I stared at him. “The bear? You mean Maurice?”
He nodded and tucked another ginger cake into his pocket. “There is a hole under his arm where the stuffing is coming out. I saw it when we were playing hide-and-go-seek earlier. I put my hand in, and I felt something I thought might be pebbles or some choice marbles. It was only those bits of trumpery. I found these as well—you can have them if you like.”
He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out my bracelets. I felt a little weak as I looked at them. Thousands of pounds’ worth of perfectly matched pearls with diamond clasps, an empress’ treasure, lying serenely on a boy’s palm.
“Did you find earrings as well? And a great long rope of pearls?”
He shook his head. “But I did not have long to look. Grandfather was coming, and I had to hide.”
I nodded knowledgeably. “Of course you did.”
His face brightened. “Would you like for me to have a look round for you now? I know just where I found these bits. I daresay the others are there as well.”
I nodded and he led the way, careful to take a circuitous route to avoid the scalawag ways of his uncle Ly, who was laying plans to board his ship and overthrow him, Tarquin told me solemnly.
At length we reached Maurice the bear, and Tarquin made a careful search. He retrieved every last piece of the Grey Pearls, presenting them to me with as much ceremony as the chancellor handing the crown jewels to the queen.
As my hands closed over them, he turned to me, his young face quizzical. “Aunt Julia, they aren’t real, are they?”
I smiled at him. “Yes, they are, my dear boy. And I thought I would never see them again. Thank you.”
He goggled at me, and in return for his aid I promised to return to serve as his crew once I had secured the pearls in my room. I put them away, nestling them onto their bed of black satin, and paused. I thought of Charlotte, the last person to touch them. Poor greedy Charlotte, clever and avaricious and dishonest. For all her sins, there was something almost likeable about her. I wondered where she was, and if she had eluded Brisbane, if he would believe her if she claimed not to have the pearls. Hiding them in the hole in Maurice’s pelt had been a stroke of genius. It had been the merest accident they had been recovered. Perhaps she had thought to come back for them some day, or perhaps she had been happy enough to escape. It did not matter now.
I closed the lid with a snap. I was done with them.
* * *
The next day I left the Abbey directly after breakfast. It was a crisp, cold morning and I took care to wrap myself in my warmest clothes before setting out. I walked slowly, taking in deep draughts of fresh air and puffing them out in little clouds. The road was still muddy and my hems were deeply soiled by the time I reached my destination at the Gypsy camp. I lifted my nose, sniffing appreciatively at the little cooking fires kindled in the river meadow. Magda’s brother, Jasper, raised a hand in greeting and disappeared into one of the caravans. A moment later Magda appeared, her unruly hair plaited with scarlet ribbons. The cold must have driven her into her caravan, for I did not see her tent and the tiny chimney of her caravan was smoking heavily. She smiled broadly as she approached, wrapping a heavy woollen shawl about her shoulders.
“Come to cross my palm with silver?” she asked, giving me a throaty laugh.
“I wanted to thank you for your hospitality to my father’s aunt. She is not a very nice person. I am sure she did not express her appreciation for your kindness.”
Magda tipped her head, her bright black eyes snapping as she looked me over from head to toe. “There is more. You want answers, do you not? Perhaps it is time you got them.”
She turned and made for her caravan, never looking round to see if I followed. She led the way inside, and I paused on the threshold to admire her little home. It was compact and more orderly than I would have expected, all her possessions neatly stowed on pegs or in little cupboards fitted into the walls. There was a stove for warmth and a narrow bed snugged under the curved roof. A tiny table laid with a sprigged cloth and two chairs completed the furnishings, and yet there was no sense of meagreness about the place. The bed was spread with a yellow taffeta coverlet and curtains fashioned of flowered chintz covered the windows. The trim had been painted a bright blue, and the effect was one of exuberant high spirits.
She waved me to a chair and fussed a moment with the kettle and brightly patterned teacups. She arranged them on the table, careful to avoid the small crystal ball resting on its pedestal in the middle. When she had poured out and we had warmed our hands, she reached for mine, turning it over and stripping off the glove to read my palm. She peered closely at it, clucking once or twice, then released it. I pressed my hand against my teacup, but even through the warmth of the porcelain I could still feel the light stroke of her fingertips as she traced the lines.
“You want to know about him,” she said finally. “Very well. Ask.”
I did not stop to wonder why she was willing to speak now when she had never done so in the past. Perhaps she was in a generous mood, perhaps she felt badly for things that had been between us in the past. Or perhaps it was another means of making mischief for her. With Magda, there was simply no way to know.
“You spoke of a woman called Mariah Young,” I began.
“You told me about her months ago. You said she had died. Who was she?”
Magda took a deep swallow of her tea and settled back in her chair. She eased her feet out of her shoes, scratching one calf with the toes of the other foot. There was a hole in her stocking and it was badly worn at the heel. She scratched for a long moment. I knew better than to prod her. She had her own rhythms, and she would speak in her own time.
Finally, she put her shoes back on and put down her teacup. “Mariah Young was a Gypsy girl, known among the travellers of this isle for her gift. She had the second sight, and a powerful gift it was. But she had other gifts too. She was beautiful and lively, with a cloud of black hair down to her waist and the tiniest feet you ever saw. She danced for money and told fortunes and collected hearts. She broke them all too, all but one.”
Magda’s voice, accented by her native Romany tongue, was peculiarly suited to storytelling. It was low for a woman’s, and she had a way of speaking that held the listener in thrall. I glanced down at the crystal ball on the table between us, and for an instant I could almost see a tiny figure with high-arched feet, dancing and snapping her fingers.
“The one man Mariah Young loved was not a Romany. He was a rogue, come from an old and proud Scottish family, and his people hated Mariah. But he must have loved her in spite of his wicked ways, for they married, and after seven full moons had passed, she gave birth to a child, a boy with his mother’s witchcraft and his father’s wildness.”
Magda’s eyes sharpened. “But blood will out, and the noble rogue left his wife and son. Mariah did not grieve for him. His love of drink and other women had killed her love, and when she saw she was rid of him she danced as she had not danced since she was wed. She took her boy to her people, tried to teach him the ways of the travellers. But the child was a halfling, born between two worlds, belonging to neither. When he was but ten years old he ran away, leaving his mother behind, and for the first time in her life, Mariah Young knew what it was to have a broken heart.”