Cold Spell

by Jackson Pearce

  “We’re not like that,” I say defensively.

  “You’ll have a hell of a time convincing me of that,” Flannery says, laughing loud. “But I wager I’ll have a hell of a time convincing you we’re more than just thieves and vagrants, so we’re square.”

  I’m not sure we’re square at all, seeing as how I’m being held prisoner, but I keep my mouth shut. Flannery sticks her fingers into the possum’s cage for a moment; when he ignores her, she speaks again.

  “Maybe she’s right. More proof I’ll be a shit queen.”

  “Shit queen of what, exactly?” I ask, voice rising in something too akin to disdain for Flannery’s taste. She whirls around and glares, and I see her fingers itch for her knife. It makes me jump backward; I trip over the console between the driver’s and passenger’s seats, and my elbow hits the gearshift. I wince as she laughs at me, looking down. I’ll probably have an imprint of the little numbers on the shifter bruised into my skin.

  “I didn’t mean it like that,” I grumble, finding my feet. “I just don’t get it. Who are you people? What are you doing out here?”

  Flannery relaxes and smiles—her smiles look so wicked. “We’re the Pavee. Tinkers. The Other Folk.”

  “I don’t know what any of that means.”

  Flannery snorts, puts away the cornflakes, and flips off the light. “We’re Travellers,” she says. “Well, mostly. We broke off from the other Traveller groups years ago, started a new clan when we came down to Kentucky.”

  “And so you’re the… the princess.”

  “The Princess of Kentucky,” Flannery says matter-of-factly. “But I’m shit at it, you know. So shit, in fact,” she says, pausing dramatically, “that my mother thinks if I don’t get married, have a husband to back me up when I inherit her title, that the clan’ll overthrow me, take my crown before she’s even cold in the ground.” Flannery jumps out of Wallace and waits for me to do the same.

  “Is your mother married?” I ask as my feet hit the dirt.

  “Nope,” Flannery says, snorting at the hypocrisy. “My dad ran off a thousand years ago, but when they tried to take my mother’s crown she fought back. I could fight back, too—hell, I’m stronger than my mother, braver, and I can handle a knife better. But she doesn’t care. Thinks I’m weak. Says she’ll just arrange the marriage herself if I don’t pick someone soon.”

  “Would she really do that?” I ask.

  “Damn straight,” Flannery says. “She can’t just leave well enough alone.” Flannery spits on the ground and walks away. I follow her; we cross back into the more populated area of camp, though most people are inside now, silhouettes in their lit windows. There’s a group of men drinking around a small fire in a pit; one points us out to the others as Flannery and I grow closer.

  “Oy, there she is! The Princess of Kentucky herself, and her prize!” He waves a bottle of liquor at us so emphatically that he topples over and nearly rolls into the fire.

  “Better watch out, Flannery,” another one yells. “Them boys won’t forget about this. Might be inclined to teach you a lesson.”

  “They’ll have a hard time doing that from the ground,” Flannery says coolly, and we keep walking. The men are too drunk to be insulted, laughing and whistling. We’re nearly out of earshot when one man calls out, loud enough that his voice shoots across the camp.

  “Should’ve killed the buffer girl straight out. I bet we have to, to settle this whole thing.”

  Flannery keeps moving, while I struggle to keep breathing. She glances back at me, dark hair flying into her face from a breeze.

  “Don’t worry,” she says. “I won’t let them kill you.” I nod meekly, feeling at least mildly comforted until she adds, “If you need to be killed, I promise I’ll off you myself.”

  Everyone has a memory they treasure. A bright moment in the past to return to when things are too dark to live in the present. When I was small, it was a memory of dying Easter eggs with my mother. Then, when I needed something bigger, more powerful, it was the memory of finding the rose garden with Kai. Thousands of blooms in front of a graying twilight sky, a summer breeze, the feeling that we’d found our very own version of Narnia.

  But now all I can think of is Kai destroying the roses, the things he said to me, the way Mora sneered at my pain. So in the ever-darkening present, I turn to a different memory instead, one that’s still pure, beautiful, perfect.

  The second time Kai and I kissed.

  The first time we kissed, we were excited, dreaming about the music intensive, about New York and the adventures we’d have there. Everything felt big, everything felt grand, and it was like kissing was the only way to get the joy out of our hearts and into the world.

  But the second time, we weren’t distracted. There was no letter, no dreaming, no plans. There was just me and Kai, and the knowledge that one kiss was a simple diversion, but two kisses was a pattern. It was evening in the autumn, the trees red and fiery and the air crisp. We were on the brick bridge leading into the park, watching the dogs in the fenced area below roughhouse. There were dogs barking, and there was the sunset, and then there was Kai’s hand taking mine. He turned me toward him, and I reached up, wrapping my arms around his neck without thinking, and we were kissing as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

  The memory is enough to light the darkness.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  I’m given a sleeping bag on the floor of Flannery’s bedroom. It’s old, but admittedly warm and comfortable, all things considered. Flannery has a twin bed that’s pressed up against a wall, which she leans against as she sleeps—I know, because I lie awake for hours. I think back to the hotel, how eager I was to someday tell Kai about lying my way in. Flannery snores loudly and rolls over. All this is going to make for a much more interesting story, if I escape.

  I wake up the following day to Flannery tying her hair in an elaborate series of braids and buns and knots. She casts me a rather disdainful look as I stretch and stand. My hair is a mess of tangles, and finger-combing doesn’t do much good. Flannery watches me, then sighs.

  “Here,” she says, handing me an elastic. “Don’t lose it.” I nod and knot my hair up into a ponytail. Flannery gives me a displeased look, but then rolls her eyes and wipes her face with the back of her hand.

  “Come on,” she says. “There’re scones in the kitchen. Maybe.”

  I sigh and follow her. The knife is once again tucked against her waistband, threatening me if I don’t.

  There are, in fact, scones—spotted with raisins and delicious, clearly made from scratch. We eat them, then walk outside. It’s still cold, but the ground is soggy from melted snow and the sun is bright—it’s nearly midday, I realize. I follow Flannery across the camp, a far less threatening place in the daylight. Children are playing freeze tag, and women are lined up inside RVs, talking among themselves. I suspect the topic of conversation is Flannery and me, based on the hush that falls over people when we walk by. Most of the men, I notice, are gathered around a few RVs near the back of camp, running in and out like bees at a hive. They’re repairing them—patching the roofs and ripping up carpet, arms elbow-deep in engines.

  “Almost done?” Flannery shouts out to a woman standing near the closest RV.

  “Two days!” she answers. She can’t be much older than me, but there’s a baby bundled in a knitted blanket on her hip. “Jolie can’t want to be out of the tent.”

  “Wager that’s true, in this weather,” Flannery answers, grinning as we take a sharp right.

  A few moments later we reach a massive structure that’s part tent, part camper—like the owner built an addition onto the place out of tarps and metal rods, with a few moving blankets on the interior for insulation. We duck through the makeshift doors, growing warmer as each layer is pushed aside. Five layers deep, we reach the center—a room illuminated by camping lanterns, covered in beaten rugs and cheap furniture. Three people sit at a table in the center—Bracelets is among them, alo
ng with another boy I think I recognize from yesterday. They welcome Flannery and offer her the last empty seat at the table; Bracelets rises, grabs a chair for me, and drags it over without a second glance.

  “Ginny, this is Callum,” Flannery says as I sit down. She points to Bracelets. “And all you need to know about him—well, all of them, really”—she motions to the other two at the table—“is that they’re the Kentucky nobles, and their money is about to be mine.”

  The other two boys jeer at Flannery for a moment, then introduce themselves—Declan and Ardan—Ardan is one I recognize from yesterday at my car. Bracelets—Callum, rather—pulls out a battered deck of playing cards and begins to distribute them among the others, passing over me.

  “All right, bastards: Aces are high, lucky hearts, and bets in before the drop. And I swear to god, Ardan, if you’re opening your mouth to suggest one of your candy-ass rules, we’ll throw you out and let the buffer play instead. What the hell, Declan, already?” Callum says when Declan passes him a beaten thermos. I can smell the alcohol inside from across the table.

  “What? It’s almost noon,” Declan says, grinning.

  Callum rolls his eyes. “You make us look bad. But I can’t have that shit anyway. You know that.”

  “Then pass it here,” Ardan says, lunging across me to reach for the thermos. Callum sees me watching the exchange as he shuffles the deck again.

  “You drink, buffer?” he asks.

  “Ginny,” I say firmly, patience worn. Callum raises his eyebrows at me. “My name’s Ginny, and I’m getting tired of being called the buffer.”

  Flannery snickers, and Callum, for a moment, looks as if he’s going to mock me again. Instead, he shrugs. “All right, then. You want a first name, that means you want to be like us. People like us play cards.”

  “What’s the game?” I ask, trying to sound bold. I feel bold, honestly—I’m good at cards. And I really, really want to win at something right now.

  “Widow’s Lover,” Callum says, dealing me six cards.

  “I don’t know that one,” I say.

  “You’ll be easy to beat, then. You betting Flannery’s money, or your own?”

  “She’s not betting my money!” Flannery protests, looking astounded that Callum would even suggest it.

  “She’s got money,” Ardan says. “Hang on.” He rises and sprints out into the melting snow. A few moments later he returns with a pillowcase. He empties its contents out on the floor; the bag of dimes hits the ground with a solid chlank, followed by the red heels and the other odds and ends from the backseat of the station wagon.

  “Don’t look so surprised,” Ardan says to me. “Just because we kidnapped you doesn’t mean we’re grifters.”

  “That’s hardly going to be enough for a half dozen hands,” Declan says, pouting a little as he points to the bag of dimes.

  “Look at those shoes,” Flannery says, eyes widening. She reaches forward and runs a finger along the cherry-colored leather. “Where’d you get those?”

  “They were a gift,” I say, suddenly protective of them and the memory of Ella and Lucas. I snatch the shoes up, along with a sweater and a flowery umbrella that I remember seeing under Grandma Dalia’s passenger seat, and stick them behind me. I wonder what the hotel has done with the rest of my stuff.

  “What would you do with shoes like that, Flannery?” Declan teases. “You’d look ridiculous.”

  “Not when I used the heel to stab you in the throat,” Flannery snarls, and Declan quiets but continues to smirk. Callum finally smacks him on the side of the head, wiping the smile from Declan’s lips.

  “I,” Callum says, clearing his throat, “think you’d look fine in those shoes, Flannery.”

  “Shut up, Callum,” Flannery growls. “Just play.”

  They bet fifty cents a round, starting with Callum. The game is some strange combination of poker and hearts; they drop cards into a pile, trade them for new ones, and fold out of the hand—though when anyone folds, the other Travellers mock him or her for being spineless.

  “I’m staying in,” I say on the first hand, keeping my cards close to my chest.

  “Riding,” Callum says. “You’re riding the hand, buffer.” I glare at him, drawing another card when he offers me the deck. We go around the table twice more, and I ride another hand, and then we reveal our cards to one another on the count of three.

  I lose—Flannery squeals in a more feminine way than I’d have expected and slides everyone’s money toward her.

  It’s four rounds before I have a clue what’s going on; I watch the others carefully, and when cards are revealed I backtrack and remember how they reacted, how they used them. The bag of dimes is getting depleted quickly, but finally—

  “You won the hand,” Ardan says, looking dumbfounded. I reach in and slide the money toward me, ignoring the daggers in Flannery’s eyes—and the one on her hip.

  “Beginner’s luck,” she says, and we play again.

  But then I win a second hand a few rounds later, then a third, and I’m back to where I started money-wise. I focus, watching where Callum places the discarded cards in the deck. I’m not good enough to count them all, but I keep an eye on when several hearts or high cards are put down at once, betting higher than the fifty-cent minimum when I think they’re about to reappear. It works, and after a few hours, I’m slightly above Flannery and Callum. Ardan and Declan are teetering on bankruptcy.

  “Where’d you learn this game?” Ardan says accusingly. He turns to Flannery. “Did you teach this to her last night? Brigit’s gonna be pissed.”

  “Sit down,” Flannery scolds. “I didn’t teach her anything. I know better than that.”

  “I’m good with cards, is all,” I say quickly. And then, while I have their attention: “Thought your people would be, too.”

  It gets the reaction I’m hoping for; Ardan snarls and rises, and Declan has to force him down. Callum and Flannery make eye contact and go uncomfortably still.

  “Our people?” Callum says. “That’s the thing about you, you buffers. You think you know all about us. But fine—you’re so good at cards? Up the wager.”

  “Okay,” I say. “To what?”

  “Three dollars a hand.”

  I shrug. “That’s it?” My stomach is in knots. If I lose a few hands at that high a bet, I’m out—and not just of the game. Of bargaining tools.

  “You have a better idea?”

  “We’re not letting you go,” Flannery says before I can speak. “If that was your idea—play for your freedom? Not a chance. We’d get shunned. Thrown out. Travellers don’t just betray their family.”

  “All right,” I say, trying to look disappointed. I’m not—because I’m not surprised. I never planned to ask for my freedom; that’s clearly something that will have to be stolen, not won. I pretend to think for a moment, then raise my chin a little. “Information. I win, you tell me what you know.”

  “About what?” Declan asks. I can tell Flannery knows where this is headed before I say the name.

  “About Grohkta-Nap,” I say.

  Callum laughs out loud. “You think you can walk in here and win our history from us?”

  “I just want to know what you know about her,” I say.

  “Well… you know, we’ve got a song about her. Legends about her, stories that would make your head spin. I know what buffers think about legends, though—the same thing they think about us.” She motions to herself and the boys. “That we aren’t real. But listen here, Ginny Andersen: We’re real, realer than anything you’ve got in your world. Real enough that it’ll cost a lot more than three dollars,” Flannery says, voice sharp.

  “Five,” I say, and Ardan shifts, looking as if he’s about to agree. The others glare at him.

  “What? Our stories aren’t that great. And you hate our traditions more than anyone, Flannery,” he says.

  “But they’re our traditions,” Callum says firmly, and Ardan falls silent.

  I exh
ale. “All right…” I reach behind my back and pull out the red shoes. “What about for these?”

  Flannery twitches a little, and Ardan rolls his eyes. “What would I want with ladies’ shoes?” he asks.

  “I wouldn’t think to tell you what to do with your winnings,” I say, “but I think a girl might be grateful to get these as a gift.”

  “Very, very grateful,” Declan says, grinning mischievously. I decide not to dwell too long on what he means.

  “Red’s against the rules here,” Flannery says. “Draws the monsters in.” I didn’t notice it before this moment, but now that she’s pointed it out I realize she’s right—the camp is blue, green, yellow, purple, a million colors, but not red. I shrug.

  “If you’re worried—”

  “Don’t you try that on her,” Callum threatens, glowering at me. Even as he says this, though, he puts down a few coins, counting himself in. Arden finally relents as well. It’s down to Flannery, who looks at the shoes for a long time.

  “Come on, Flannery. Hey—maybe we can sweeten the pot. You marry the winner?” Declan waggles his eyebrows at her in a way that makes me want to slap him.

  Flannery’s face tightens. “You’ll be inclined to remember, Declan, that while I may be the Princess of Kentucky, I’m still a fuckin’ lady.” She looks at me. “Deal. Three rounds, two drops.”

  The cards are dealt, and the table is quiet; outside, we can hear the muffled sounds of roosters and dogs and children. I lift my cards, surveying them for a moment. It’s not the best hand, but I’ve had worse in the past few hours. I save my hearts and a single ace, and drop the other cards. I draw the queen of hearts, trying not to let my relief show—it’s a good hand, an extremely good hand.

  “I’m done,” Ardan says, putting his cards down; Declan follows. Callum studies me, and then glances toward Flannery.

  “You’re a bunch of asses. It’s the first time she’s played. Don’t let her scare you off.” Callum says. He draws a card on the third round, but I ride it out—the hand is already strong enough, I think.