The Star of Kazan

First, though, the silver handles. Whoever had crafted them had not been troubled about the people who would have to clean them. They were elaborately wrought with a design that soaked up the polish but took longer than she would have believed to produce a shine.

By the time she got to the actual drawers, Annika was tempted just to push them back in, but at this point, as so often when she tried to take short cuts, Sigrid seemed to be leaning over her shoulder, looking pained. So she removed the paper from each of the drawers, wiped it, replaced it back . . . When she reached the bottom drawer she found something wedged right under the lining at the back.

A letter. She took it out and held it in her hand for a minute, not sure what to do. Then she heard Gudrun calling her and she put it in her apron pocket.

It was time to get lunch.

C

HAPTER

N

INETEEN

G

YPSIES

Annika was just dropping off to sleep that night when she heard the creak of her bedroom door being opened. Then footsteps – but she had no time to feel frightened before she heard Zed’s voice.

‘Get up and get dressed. Put on warm things and come downstairs. Don’t let anyone see you.’

She fumbled her way into her clothes and found Zed in the hall, waiting.

‘What is it?’ she asked. ‘Is anything the matter?’

‘The gypsies are here. They’re camped on the other side of Felsen Woods. I said I’d take you.’

She followed him out of the house and into the courtyard. It was a clear, cold night, and in the lane she could make out Rocco, packed up and waiting.

‘Are we riding?’

‘You are. It isn’t far. I’ll lead you.’

Annika followed him, her eyes gradually getting used to the darkness. ‘But you can’t walk all that way.’

Zed ignored this. He helped her to mount and adjusted the stirrups.

‘Just grip hard with your knees.’

It was like being in a dream, except colder and more uncomfortable. The stirrup leathers pinched her legs.

‘Won’t they mind me?’

‘No. You’re my friend.’

‘Do you know them then? The ones that are camped here?’

Zed shrugged. ‘They’re from Hungary and on the way to the Horse Fair at Stettin. They may have known my mother, she came from there. But it doesn’t matter. They’ll welcome us.’

They met no one on the dark road.

‘Are you all right?’ Annika asked after an hour.

‘Don’t fuss.’

They had come to the part of the wood where they had hidden from the bailiffs. Now Rocco’s ears went forward. He whinnied excitedly and answering whinnies came from behind the trees. They skirted a coppice and came out at a patch of waste ground.

It was like coming suddenly to a lighted stage. Fires burned and crackled, lanterns hung between the trees. There were wagons and tethered horses – and everywhere movement and bustle and life.

Annika had thought she knew what gypsies were like. They lived in brightly painted caravans, they cooked hedgehogs in clay pots, the girls wore flounced petticoats and golden earrings. They made clothes pegs and told fortunes . . . they stole babies.

But these gypsies were not like that. Some of the wagons were brightly painted but some were ordinary wooden wagons of the kind used by tradesmen. The young girls who were busy with the cooking wore gold loops in their ears, and bangles, but most of the women looked like the village people Annika had met everywhere, with thick shawls and woollen skirts.

And they didn’t look at all like people who stole babies; they looked, after days of travelling, too tired for anything like that.

Now an elderly man came forward. He wore a baggy suit and a woollen cap; his black eyes were bright and eager, and his enormous moustache curved round his face like a scimitar.

‘Izidor,’ he said, introducing himself, and it was clear from the way the others hung back and let him speak that he was the ‘father’ of the group; the man who gave the orders.

Zed bowed his head. ‘Zedekiah Malakov,’ he replied, giving his full name.

There was a murmur from the onlookers. Old Izidor pulled Zed closer to the light of the fire and studied his face. Then he nodded.

‘You have her eyes,’ he said in his own language. ‘We remember her.’

Annika had dismounted and was holding Rocco, standing outside the circle of light. Now Zed turned and took the bridle and led him forward.

‘Rocco,’ he said, presenting his horse.

Izidor had been pleased to see Zed, but the sight of Rocco overwhelmed him. He whistled through his teeth, he passed his hands over Rocco’s flank . . . Carefully he removed Rocco’s saddle and handed it to a man standing by so that he could run his fingers over the horse’s back.

‘Zverno?’ he asked, recognizing the stud, and Zed nodded.

Two trusty youths were summoned and allowed to lead Rocco to the patch of grass where the other horses were tethered. Water was brought for him, and handfuls of hay . . . More and more admirers came to stroke him; girls as much as men.