Ever since I’d learned she was alive, I’d done everything in my power to find her, then to write to her with the vain hope I’d get to see her.
Today was the culmination of nearly six months of impatience.
Today was, also, not going how I’d predicted.
“What are your gifts?” She finally looked at me again, and I realized she kept darting glances away. I twisted around, not seeing anything in particular that could hold her interest, and it took me a good few minutes to figure out she couldn’t look at me because I was born in Nicodemus’s likeness.
Who she’d just said she loved, and who loved her, and who she’d murdered.
While defending me.
What the fuck was going on here?
I reached up and pinched the bridge of my nose. “Auras, I guess. Healing. Although not so much healing.”
She narrowed her eyes at me at that, and I finally gained one hundred percent of her focus. It was weird. It reminded me of my nanny, but there was a sharpness to it I’d never seen from ‘Leggy.’
“You got my mother’s talents,” she whispered, and her gaze turned inward. “That’s unusual.”
“It is? Why?”
“Because gifts tend to skip generations.”
I blinked—was that supposed to mean something?
Her brow puckered at my confusion, then she mumbled, “Where is Momma anyway?”
My mouth worked. “S-She died.”
Was I really having this conversation?
Genevieve’s nostrils flared at my words, but then she released a sigh. “Should have known when her letters stopped. Just thought she was ashamed of me. Being in here.” Then, after she released a sharp breath, she whispered, “Who looked after you? Nicodemus’s family?”
“No. I was put into state care. I-I just assumed he had no family, and that was why I was put into the foster system.”
Her jaw popped as she rocked it to one side then the other, making me wince at the noise. “Got into a fight,” she explained, seeing my flinch. “It dislocated. Ain’t never been the same since.”
“I-I’m sorry—” What did I call her? Momma? Mother? Mom?
“Don’t be.” Her nails tapped on the table, the dull sound resonating thanks to the concrete surface. “So, you know little of our heritage, not if you went into the system when I stopped getting letters from Momma.”
“I just know what she taught me.”
“And I’ll hazard a guess and say that wasn’t much.” Her lips twitched.
“She taught me about cleanliness,” I argued, a little pissed on Nanny’s behalf. “She taught me some of our ways.”
“The ones she considered important,” Genevieve countered. “There are more important things to life than just being mahrime, child.” Her shoulders slouched, and she rested her elbows on the table, leaning forward somewhat as she did so.
The move surprised me. She’d been keeping her distance thus far, but also, her scent.
I wasn’t sure how it was possible, but I remembered it.
Scent, I’d thought, came from the perfumes you wore and the soap you used, the shampoo you cleaned your hair with.
But this was different.
It was like it came from her pores—she smelled like outside.
Yeah, I knew that was crazy.
She was locked inside, and it hadn’t rained in four days—so how the fuck could she smell of petrichor?
But she did.
She smelled of the earth after a rainfall. Clean and fresh, raw and strong.
“We’re not like regular Roma,” she began, and I forced myself to concentrate, because this was damn important.
A lot more important than her smell—even if it reminded me of when I was a little girl.
Of a time when I’d been safe, and in my family’s arms.
Of course, I hadn’t been safe, had I? That was a lie, but if my memory chose to play tricks on me, I was okay with that some days.
“Why are we different?”
“Because most Roma don’t get gifts, and they’re damn lucky they don’t either.” She huffed. “Certain lines, old lines, they get the gifts and the curses.”
My heart pounded at that, but I asked, “We’re an old line?”
“One of the oldest,” she confirmed, nodding. “We can trace our line straight back to India—that’s where our people are from.” She smiled. “Funny, I used to be proud of that.” Her eyes fluttered shut. “Now, I don’t give a damn. Priorities change as your life changes, Theodosia. You’d be wise to remember that.”
I swallowed. “I know that already.”
“Reckon you do, considering you were raised in foster care.” Her mouth tightened, and anger flashed in her eyes. “They mistreat you?”
“Some. Not much. Mostly it was food.”
“Neglect is as painful as a fist to the face,” she whispered, and for the