Petra, the Great - (Book One)

"We have heard the chimes at midnight".

"I am no witch –" I begin to say but stop myself. No lies the phantom said and no lies it will receive. For the time being anyway, until I figure out exactly what it wishes from me. I will be the Zingari's witch as I had been the Florentian's fortune-teller. I have many skills and deception is my best of them.

"Excellent," the Zingari whispers and a cool rush of air flitters around the dead forest; everything from the leaves to the blades of grass to the sky comes back to color. And the music – the music returns like the soft embrace of lover, of a kiss that I had only felt in my dreams. Through the curtain of hazy music, I see outlines of people surrounding the clearing in which I stand, alone, bewitched and barefoot.

"You are now ready." The haze of smoky magic lifts, like a curtain and there before me is a squat old woman, with hair as silver as any of Giovanni's blades. I cannot tell how old she is. Her wrinkled bark colored skin tells me ancient, but her eyes tell me otherwise, eyes as surreal as this magical night. All around me I find myself encircled by brown skinned silver haired people, ethereal and colorful.

"We are the Zingari and we have waited for you, Petra of the Shazastar. We have waited."

The old woman reaches a gnarled hand to me and I take it, for I too have waited. I have waited a very long time for some answers.

The Zingari lead me further into the forest into an enclosure of brightly colored tents and campfires. There are people here, not dark and silver haired, and not ethereal, but normal people, the kind I have seen in Florentia and from all around my travels.

"They are not Zingari by blood like us," the old woman explains. "They are people who heeded the call to join us. The music and our magic pulls some of these desperate souls to our care." I watch as a couple non-Zingari women stir a pot of stew. They are nothing spectacular, and when compared to the Zingari's magical splendor they look washed out and pathetic.

"Old lady," I ask the old woman Zingari holding my hand and leading me to the center of the camp. "Are they cursed?"

"Call me Saboykan. And no!" She chuckles and all around me I hear the sounds of the Zingari holding back their laughter. "To join us is a blessing my dear.  We call out to those of our most desperate need."

Old lady Saboykan leads me further into the enclosure until we reach a small circle and a modest tent.  There stands a man, slender and tall, skin the color of the trees that surround us, and hair as silver and as Giovanni's most intense glare.

I scoff under my breath. Giovanni? Why was I even thinking about him? The idiotic potato. "Stupid Giovanni de Luca and his stupid eyes."

"Did you say something, my dear?" Saboykan looks up at me, eyebrows curiously furrowed.

"I only asked who that man is?"

"Oh," Saboykan smiles fondly. "That is my son Lavik and where is Isabella? Why the two are barely ever apart."

We walk up to the man beside the tent and just as Saboykan is to introduce me to her son, a non-Zingari woman exits the tent.

Even among the Zingari, the woman is beautiful. She contrasts Lavik in everyway, light to his dark, long blond hair to his silver and a friendly timid face to his scowling harsh angles. I continue to stare at her, unable to look away, not of her beauty. But of something else.

"Ah! Here she is!" Saboykan embraces the blonde lady and says, "Isabella, my son's wife."

But I cannot look away. I know that perhaps my unabashed staring made the poor Isabella uncomfortable, but I had to know what was making me uneasy. Her face is kind, but there is something familiar about it. Her eyes blue, but not cold with resentment. Her mouth played with a timid smile, not an arrogant scowl. Her hands nervously twisted the ends of her blouse.