The Gypsy King by Maureen Fergus Page A

fetch bread and cheese. When she got back she was surprised to hear the owner praising her.
    â€œâ€¦ terribly strong,” he said, giving Persephone’s thin biceps a squeeze, “though you wouldn’t think it to look at her.”
    â€œNo, you wouldn’t,” agreed the thief. “She looks rather scrawny.”
    Setting the bread and cheese down on the table, Persephone smiled pleasantly at the thief, then calmly cast about for something to plunge into his eye.
    â€œNot scrawny,” protested the owner hastily. “Wiry. Like a plough horse.”
    â€œA plough horse,” mused the thief. His eyes wandered over Persephone. “Yes, I see what you mean.”
    I don’t need something to plunge into his eye , Persephone corrected herself. I need something to plunge into his heart .
    â€œPlus, she don’t eat much,” bragged the owner. “And she knows her way around animals, and you can set her to almost any task and she’ll do it twice as good as you ever could have done it yourself and—”
    â€œI thought you said she was a lazy, useless good-for-nothing,” interrupted the thief.
    The owner began to laugh so hard that his whole head turned the colour of a blood blister. “Oh, ho!” he blustered. “I said that—yes! But … but.…”
    â€œBut you didn’t mean it?” prompted the thief.
    â€œExactly!” exclaimed the owner. “I only said it because … because.…”
    â€œBecause you’re in the habit of insulting her?” suggested the thief.
    â€œYes!” cried the owner, clearly relieved to find himself so well understood. “Yes, it’s nothing but a habit! The truth is, I’m terribly fond of the girl.”
    Persephone watched in amazement as the owner punctuated this remarkable statement with a sniffle . In the five years since he’d acquired her, he’d never once asked her name nor anything else about her. She was his slave—more important than his goats and chickens, less important than his cows and horses. If there was one thing she was sure of in this world, it was that the owner was not fond of her.
    â€œIn fact, I don’t know what I’d do around here withouther,” he mumbled now as he gazed up at Persephone with what he obviously believed was a kindly expression on his fat, ugly face.
    It was like being ogled by a demented hog.
    â€œEven so,” said the thief, “you must be reasonable.”
    â€œReasonable!” said the owner, flinging his arms into the air so that the ripe smell of unwashed armpits wafted through the low-ceilinged room. “What is reasonable, m’lord, when we’re speaking of such a jewel?”
    Casually, the thief took a small velvet bag from the front of his doublet and tossed it onto the table.
    At the sound of clinking coins, Persephone froze. She’d seen purses like that change hands before, and she knew what it meant when they did. The blood in her veins turned to ice as she realized what a fool she’d been to listen to the men’s conversation but not to hear it, and to have forgotten—even for an instant—that, like the owner’s horses and cows and chickens and goats, she could and would be sold if it suited his purposes.
    As it did now, it would seem.
    Biting the inside of her cheek to keep from immediately crying out in protest, Persephone desperately sought a way to prevent this from happening. It wasn’t as though she liked the owner—she didn’t, she hated him—but she knew him, and, more importantly, she knew how to control him. Moreover, this farm was the closest thing she’d had to a home since the merchant had lost her in a game of dice on that terrible night so long ago. And she knew and loved all the animals—even the ill-tempered old sow—and if she sometimes didn’t get quite enough to eat, and if shesuffered the occasional