Gypsies, Traps & Missing Thieves

by Rachael Stapleton

  After a moment everyone disappeared, and Mallory pulled on the book that opened the passage behind the shelf. She was used to traveling a different route than the guests. Like the rest of the staff and family, Mallory moved quietly through a maze of narrow passageways, dim stairways, and hidden doors in order to be as invisible as possible.

  Caravan Manor offered fifteen bedrooms, which were almost always occupied, a carriage house and two caravans that were located on the property for guests who desired more seclusion. It was situated at the edge of the woods overlooking the beach. Contrary to Nana, who preferred the main floor socials, Mallory quite enjoyed her privacy and quiet time. Not that Mallory didn’t love running the Manor, but today she longed to stay in their third-story suite, which included a cozy library and a sitting room with a wrought-iron balcony that overlooked the lake and gardens. Alas, duty called.

  Trotting down the second secret set of stairs, Mallory’s mind was focused on other things: the crystal chandeliers could use a dusting, the bedding in room five needed to be replaced, and Mallory needed to remember to ask Emilion if the squeaky boards on the porch had been fixed yet. Then she heard muffled voices. She paused to peek out the spyhole before entering the narrow hallway. The Manor had earned a reputation for its hidden passages, which is why they were careful to disappear and reappear when no one was looking. People loved trying to find them and, since Nana didn’t want the guests using them, being discreet was a must—especially this week, when they had a group of vloggers in-house attending the conference sessions. These new age YouTube celebs loved snooping for secrets and juicy gossip—their five minutes of fame depended on it. The last thing the ladies of the manor needed was another incident like they’d had at the Carnival party.

  Through the spyhole, all looked normal. The oil painting of a Romani violin player hung on the wood-paneled wall directly across from Mallory just as it always did, but the pocket doors to the Parlor that usually stood open were firmly closed. Mallory listened for only a moment before moving on. The last thing she wanted to do was embarrass the guests during some sort of heated exchange. Mallory kept going down the hall and exited through a closet. She didn’t like to use this door because it was so close to the main foyer, and the Victorian Ladies Society would be headed for their tea anytime now. Hopefully they would think Mallory was just grabbing something out of the broom closet if they caught her.

  Most guests coming to the Caravan Manor chose to be picked up from the parking lot in town by the manor’s driver, Emilion Grastari—Danior’s on-again-off-again boyfriend. In true Romani spirit, he wore an open chested pirate-styled shirt that showed off his muscled pecs, which were only exaggerated by the embroidered vest and chains that framed the muscles. His bovver boots were scuffed and manly, and his hair was chic and grungy—most often pulled up into a man bun. He was a good sport about playing the part. He even donned the eyeliner. She’d ridden along a few times and found it more than amusing. He would introduce himself, offer to take the luggage, and lead them to one of their brightly painted caravan transports. He would then steer the horses up the winding road and through the massive wrought-iron gates to Caravan Manor.

  A loud bang split the air. Mallory turned her head toward the entry foyer’s front desk where Raymond now stood looking angry and Lise Trix, the guest services greeter, stood looking irritated.

  “Why the hell not?” he said.

  Mallory ran her hand over the elegantly carved newel post as Nana stepped behind the counter. “Hello, Raymond,” she said. “What brings you to the reception desk so early?”

  “The Boho Theatre had a fire in its kitchen and now our banquet is ruined. The entire plan for Saturday is out the window.”

  “That’s unfortunate,” Nana said. Her fingers rubbed the gold of the hamsa amulet she always wore. It had been passed down from her mother-in-law, Simza. Mallory’s mother had loved it so, and she’d worn it right up until her disappearance. Somehow Nana had gotten it back and now she rarely took it off. Mallory knew it made Nana feel close to her daughter. It certainly calmed her to touch it when she was riled up. Her aura, which was usually white, was speckled with red now that Raymond was near. She let go of the necklace and leaned back against the counter on one elbow, holding her other hand in front of her as if she was inspecting her manicure. “What will you do?”

  The man scowled. “What do you think? We’ll have it here, as you suggested.”

  “I’m sorry, Raymond, but you turned down our event package months ago,” Nana said. “It’s Thursday morning. We couldn’t possibly accommodate a themed dinner and dance on such short notice.”

  “I have the money.”

  “That’s nice. It’s not about money,” Nana said.

  Like a cat with a mouse, Nana was enjoying this a little too much.

  “Hmm… yeah, right,” Raymond growled.

  Nana stiffened. Abby, Nana’s white Shih Tzu puppy bared her teeth and growled at Raymond.

  “Good morning again,” Mallory said. She stepped forward and held out her hand. “Could I be of assistance?”

  “I sure hope so,” he replied. He clamped his hand onto Mallory’s pretty hard, squishing her fingertips together.

  Mallory set the diary she was carrying on the counter and picked up the pad of paper, flipping to a blank page.

  “How many guests are in your party again?”

  “Twenty.”

  “Those numbers don’t add up. They’re not all staying here then, are they?”

  “No, some of them are commuting daily for the sessions.”

  Mallory nodded and went back to her paper.

  “What’s that?” Raymond asked, picking up the diary. “It looks old.”

  Mallory resisted the urge to rip it from his hands. “We found in the attic. We think it belonged to one of my grandfather’s family members. Now, this is short notice, but I’ll call some places around town and see what’s available. Do you require catering services as well? Music? Theme?”

  “The Boho Theatre was going to supply everything.”

  “Fabulous. They must still have the music and theme arranged even if their location is out. So really, you need a location. That shouldn’t be so hard—”

  “I canceled everything. They’re not getting a dime out of me. I want to have it here; then there’s no travel required.”

  It had been a while since she’d dealt with such a surly customer, but Mallory knew what he was asking wasn’t borderline impossible. For some reason Nana wanted to give him a hard time.

  “Who’s Simza? It says here she can find people.”

  “You can read that?” Mallory asked.

  “Of course. You can’t read German?”

  “No. What else does it say?”

  Raymond perused the first two pages. “She sounds like a witch,” Raymond said.

  Nana grabbed the book back from Raymond, snapping it closed on his finger. “I’m sorry, but we’ve already rented out our event hall for Saturday. It’s just not doable.” Nana said through clenched teeth.

  “Sure it is. Who is it? I’ll throw money at them and make them go away.”

  “Absolutely not,” Mallory interjected. “However, if you’re willing to share and you allow the remaining guests to join you, I could attempt to arrange the main dining hall and gardens to accommodate. We’d have to bring in additional staff, but it could be done.”

  “Mallory! The Victorian Ladies Society is not going to appreciate being lumped in with a male presence.”

  “Nana!” Mallory mimicked her tone. “They eat amongst our male guests every day. I don’t see why a special event is going to be a problem.” Mallory turned back to Raymond. “However, I will have to ask them first. I’m just on my way to meet with someone to have this book translated but when I return I’ll speak with them.”

  Nana snorted. “Good luck with Eve. She’s more crotchety than me.”

  “I find that rather impossible,” Raymond barked.

  Mallory
cleared her throat, ignoring the impulse to laugh. “Now, about the theme, we do offer a wide range of costumes; however—”

  “I like what that broad is wearing. She looks like a raven-haired mother of dragons. It’s perfect—gritty and historical. Yep, everyone comes as their favorite GOT characters: Cersei Lannister, Joffrey Baratheon.

  Mallory turned around and looked at Danior, who’d just breezed by. Her dark hair was braided, and she wore a long maxi dress.

  “That’s not a costume—that’s just how Danior dresses.” Mallory handed over their pamphlet with the theme breakdown. “This is our offering.”

  “This isn’t what I asked for.” Raymond shifted his weight and puffed up his chest.

  “No, it’s not.”

  “But I want Game of Thrones. Just change it. I’ll pay for it.”

  “Clean out your ears, Weasel.” Nana chimed in. “Or are you just too thick to under—.”

  Mallory gave Nana a look to button it and cut her off. “It is a great concept; however, we currently don’t offer that theme. We do offer a Medieval, as well as a Vikings theme. Those could be combined to produce something similar but it won’t be exact.”

  “Take it or leave it,” Nana interjected. She stepped around the desk and came between Raymond and Mallory.

  He smacked his hand down on the front desk. “Fine. This party better be deadly.”

  “Oh, it’ll be deadly, all right,” Nana snapped back.

  3

  B OHEMIAN Lake looked like it belonged to another era. The houses were mostly century homes, and the buildings were made of brick or stone and had leaded windows with diamond-shaped panes and thick oak doors polished to a high gloss. Perennials and flowering vines vied for space and sunlight in front of every shop, but Cookies and Corsets was the prettiest. Mallory Vianu loved coming here and yet she felt a burst of unexplainable nervous energy as she pushed open the door.

  Pike was bent over the cappuccino machine. The woman standing at the counter was engrossed in telling her a story and gesticulated with both arms, her expression one of awe and delight. Pike glanced up and winked at Mallory as she turned and served the lady her coffee. It was her way of saying “Give me a minute.”

  Mallory wandered over to the blackboard where she was easily distracted by the daily food and drink specials: Caramel Chocolate Latte, Avocado-Bacon Breakfast Sandwiches on Brioche Buns and Vanilla Bean Pistachio Cake.

  “What’ll it be, sugar?” Pike asked after her customer left.

  Mallory turned and smiled. “Peppermint Tea, please and I’ll take it to stay. I’m meeting someone.”

  “You’re meeting someone? Well, there’s only a few people in here and none of them look like your type. Would this be the mysterious ghost buster I heard so much about—”

  “No.” Mallory smirked. “I wish. Daemon had to leave for work—a haunted asylum—but he’ll be back to help Junie and Jack with their situation.”

  “Really? Junie hasn’t said anything, but that’s Junie for you. Full of surprises.” Pike moved to the counter with Mallory’s tea. “So, tell me about this mysterious Daemon Wraith,” Pike said in a dreamy voice, fluttering her lashes like a lovesick teen. “I’ve heard he looks like Jason …Oh what is that actor’s name… the one who played Khal Drago.”

  “He does, yes, but I don’t really know what’s happening there yet. There was definitely chemistry, but he had to leave town practically as soon as we met and he hasn’t really been in contact,” Mallory said. “So, that’s not gonna work for me if that’s how things are going to be.”

  At that moment, the shop filled with customers, “Ah, the morning rush,” Pike said and smiled.

  Mallory nodded and moved off to the side, “I’ll talk to you later.” She scanned the shop, her heart skipping just a little when her eyes found the silver-haired well–put together woman of sixty. She had on a green and white printed wrap dress and a fur collared sweater that could have come from the set of American Hustle.

  She made her way to the table and slid onto the bench opposite her, the vinyl seat squeaking as she scooted across it.

  “Elsa Dustfeather?” Mallory raised an eyebrow at the woman.

  “The one and only.” Elsa’s eyes, magnified by the thick lenses of her semi-rimless aviator glasses, glittered with amusement. She pushed her half-eaten sandwich to the side and shook Mallory’s hand.

  Mallory tugged at her jacket, self-consciously pulling it around her. “Nana speaks very highly of you,” she offered, finding her voice.

  “I suppose that simply means I’ve never angered her enough to curse me.”

  Mallory laughed. “I see you know her well.”

  Elsa smirked. “Who doesn’t know the formidable Madam Vianu? Is this the journal?”

  Mallory’s heartbeat picked up speed.

  “Yes.”

  “May I look inside?”

  “Of course.” Mallory opened the book. The paper itself was yellowed and brittle. She’d been almost too afraid to turn the pages for fear of them disintegrating. The scrolly writing, done with some sort of fountain pen was faded and marred with dots of ink. The paragraphs were long and looked like gibberish at a glance.

  Elsa turned the book around and read the first few pages and then glanced around the cafe. “It’s German.”

  Mallory nodded. Nana had recognized the name of her husband’s mother, Simza Horvath Vianu. But none of them knew German, thus the need for Elsa.

  A bead of sweat formed on her forehead. She picked a napkin up off the table and dabbed at her face.

  “This is very interesting.” She tugged at the collar of her sweater.

  “What does it say?” Mallory asked.

  “It says: I am the seventh daughter of the seventh daughter and trained since birth in all things magic. You will call me a seer—someone who can divine the future.”

  Mallory could feel an undercurrent of excitement rippling through Elsa and the feeling was infectious. “We were right, then, in our assumption. It belonged to my great-grandmother. She was known as a great seer. What else does it say?”

  “The power of intuition will have ebbed in your time, so you may not believe this story or, worse, may think it a fable. But I assure you that my tale is true. I will begin by telling you about my life as a girl.” Elsa paused. “A moment, please.” She pulled a notebook and a pencil from her bag and began to scribble. “Do you know the Roma word for grandmother?”

  “Yes, I believe it’s Mami.”

  Elsa smiled and went on with her translation. When she was finished, she ripped the paper out and handed it over to Mallory. “It’s a rough translation but I think it’s accurate.”

  My name is Simza and I am skilled in the art of finding things. I can locate missing people; I can track anyone using their possessions. Possessions are filled with the owner’s spirit, and if I listen closely enough, they whisper in my ear. I am also a seer, I can use anything to see the future—sticks, water, fire, dice, but what I prefer to use are my Mami-Nadya’s tarot playing cards.

  Let me begin at the beginning. My ancestors left our homeland hundreds of years ago to become nomads, traveling the endless road with no desTodotion. Because of this, outsiders call us gypsies, though we identify as Roma. We are travellers. No town wants us for long and there are restrictions everywhere we go, so we enter for just a day, our long caravan a chain of colorful moving houses on wheels. The band only stays in a town to trade and entertain. Then we head to the forest to camp in a clearing, our wagons ringed together in a circle. By morning we are on the road again, never to return to the same town. We only settle in the winter because we must and we make our living in a variety of trades: metalworking, carpentry, basket weaving, and blacksmithing. Many of us are also musicians—masters of the violin, flute, and zimbles—and we often play for money. Whenever I ask why we have to leave, my parents explain that we must protect our spiritual energy, which drains away when we spend too much time in the non-Romani world.


  Elsa was busy working on the next page while Mallory read the first. When they both looked up, Elsa’s black eyes bored into Mallory’s blue ones. “Miss Vianu, do you know what a cohalyi is?”

  “Yes, I’ve heard my nana use the word. It’s a Roma term that means witch-wife. Why?”

  She handed Mallory the second translated page. “It’s here in the letter. May I take the rest home to translate? I’m not familiar with all of your Romani terms and I’m not sure about this next part, so it may take me a little longer.”

  “So, you’ll do it then?”

  “Of course.”

  Mallory scribbled her number down on a napkin. “Call me when you’ve finished.”

  She shook Mallory’s hand and disappeared with the diary in her python-printed tote. Mallory looked down at the latest page of translation.

  Mami Nadya is the most powerful cohalyi the world has ever known. Not only is she the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter, trained since birth in all things mystical, she also descends from a powerful line of witches—gifted since she was old enough to read her mother’s grimoire. Books and reading are as uncommon amongst the Roma as caring for the dead. Something as simple as owning a book will get a Roma punished or cast out of the tribe, but no one dares to cross my grandmother’s family. To do so is to seal one’s fate.

  Nightfall was the only time Mami talked at length, telling stories by the fire. The campfire was the center of our lives, where we Roma passed down our history. This is where Mami first told me of her tarot cards, over a bowl of rabbit stew. I’d seen her use those cards many times but never had she spoken of them until that moment. She said the cards were passed down to her and came from a place called Milan. The paint was mixed with our magical blood and therefore made the cards unbelievably powerful. I still remember her words: these cards will be yours one day and they will be very important to you.