The Gypsy's Dagger

Chapter Three

In fact, Micaela did not go back that afternoon.

After being frightened by the guardhouse' officers, she decided it'd be safer to try again the following day, at a different time. Her evening was spent turning Mrs. Garcia's letter in her hands, resisting the temptation to tear it open and read it. She knew what most of the letter would say anyway.

Mrs. Garcia was dying.

She wanted Jose to go back home, to the roaring hills and swarming sunsets of Marchena; days overstuffed with flowers, running, and familiarity. Back home to her, and their little house; back home to Micaela.

Mrs. Garcia wanted to say goodbye to her son.

That first summer night, Micaela dreamed of Jose.

What would he look like now? What if he was stern, and what if he refused to go back?

She also dreamed of wolves.

Wolves turning into green suited men, grinning at her with sharp teeth, snarling, harking diminishing words at her—brawling on who should have the first bite off her round cheeks. Birdie. After-laughter and profanity swirled around the scenes in her dreams—nightmares. The officer with the scarred face appeared constantly as her nightmares shifted. He hadn't seemed a bad person, Micaela thought, just to have cracked under peer pressure—the awful taunts of all those armed officers. Give a man a gun and he'll become the threat.

The snarling wolves from her dreams sank their teeth into her calves.

She woke up with a cold sweat. Blood roared on her ears.

It took her a few moments shake the fear off, withering without the refuge of the night. Dim sunlight flooded in through the thin curtains of her inn room, tinging the place several different tones of peach. She blinked sleep away, standing up from the—also thin—mattress. The stone floor chilled the soles of her feet. The feeling sent a jolt through her she didn't recognize as unpleasant. After detangling her brunette mane of hair and slipping into a different set of light-blue garments, she reached for her bag and made for the inn's dining hall—a small ballroom/terrace area that overlooked Calle Meco. It wasn't long before a plate of food was settled in front of her—fruits and eggs—along with a mosaic-painted cup of coffee.

Micaela peered up at her server—she hadn't seen her around yesterday. A young woman who could have been in her mid-twenties. Her skin was ashy dark, same as her hair. She wore a simple orange dress, which drew attention to her blue eyes.

"Thank you," Micaela offered. Even though she hadn't asked for food, she appreciated the gesture. The dark woman took the seat next to her at the table.

Micaela was growing tired of people sitting with her uninvited.

"Seville is pretty during summer," the woman said, like they'd been in the middle of a conversation. "Bonito," she prompted when Micaela just stared at her blankly.

"I wouldn't know." She nibbled at the grapes on the plate.

"You're not from Seville?"

Micaela shook her head. The woman offered a kind smile.

"What's your name?"

"Micaela."

"Mi-ca-e-la," she repeated. "What does it mean?"

"She who is like God."

The dark woman raised an eyebrow, leaning back on her chair. A playful grin splayed across her features, and Micaela decided she liked her, though she wouldn't have been able to determine why.