Verdu, Spain, 1843

It was without a doubt the driest spring in my memory.

Since the fourteenth century, the annual fair at Verdu had been a traditional meeting place for Gypsies. That was what my mother told me, at the very least.

It was the first time in my short ten years that I was permitted to attend. Mother went every year, but I . . . I was not a true-born Romany like my mother.

Poshratt was what we were called. Half-breeds. My father had not been a Gypsy, but a Spanish soldier; a gorigo; an outsider.

I had stayed with him for days at a time every year when mother vanished to Verdu, but it was not so on this occasion.

Several months prior, father had fallen to sickness and died shortly there-after, leaving my mother to take me to live with her and her large Romany family permanently.

"¡Tzipporah!" Mother snapped in my native Spanish, bringing me from my daydreams. She turned me violently by the shoulders to face her and scowled, marring her lovely face. "You have not been listening to a word I've said, have you?" I shook my head at length and she groaned "¡Idiota! Fine, if you remember nothing else of what I've told you, remember this;" she held my small head in place and made sure I was listening. "Under no circumstances are you ever to approach the chorody—the wanderer—Javert. Neither are you to even lay mortal eyes upon his slave. The boy is young, but horrifying! They say he hides his grotesque face with a mask, but he is still fearsome. He kills anyone who lays eyes upon him! ¡Dios mío! He is surely the devil wrapped in human flesh!"

I could only stare at my strong Romany mother in shock as she raved of horrors unbelonging to this world, of a boy sorcerer who caused deaths and rode dragons.

The images came so vividly to my young mind, that when mother began dragging me to the fairgrounds I wished to turn tail and flee.

Such wishes were forgotten, though, as the splendor of the fair bombarded my senses. The smells of roasted meats; the sounds of music and laughter; the sight of women dancing around a campfire; it was all just too much to take in.

An all-too-familiar ringing penetrated my ears at the excitement and my hands began to grow numb. My hazel eyes went wide with fear as my heart began to beat at such terrifying speeds.

"Mama . . ." I breathed, clutching at my mother's skirts with a numb and shaking hand.

But she did not hear me. A woman had called out to her to join in the dances and mother was eager to join.

Tearing my hand from the fabric of her skirts, my lovely mother glared down at me and pointed to the festivities. "Go and play with the other children, Tzipporah. But remember Javert and his slave!"

With that final warning, mother pushed me into the heart of the festivities.

My hands were still numb and shaking as I glanced around, searching for someone my age.

I stumbled forward on quickly numbing feet, moving to walk by the tents that skirted the edge of the fairgrounds. My ears still rang, drowning out the voices of children as they called out to me. No, this wasn't right. I had to find a medicine man's tent soon . . . or a holy man . . .

"Mama . . ." I croaked, turning blindly to the firelight. My vision was beginning to blur dangerously. "¡Mama!"

I didn't get two steps in before stumbling sideways and colliding with someone walking past.

The boy—I could only just tell it was a boy—snarled in disgust and pushed me off of him with hands that felt as cold and skeletal as a corpse's. I bowed as much as I could and mumbled a shaking apology, unable to see whom I had collided with.

I turned back to the fire and tried to move forward to find my mother, only to have a cold hand grasp the sleeve of my shirt and hold me back. "What is wrong with you?" The boy breathed in confusion. I could tell from his blurred height that he was young, but his voice was as deep and beautiful as the ocean.

"A-An attack . . ." I replied with trembling lips. My heart felt as though it would burst if it raced any faster, and my gut lurched.

I leaned over to vomit, emptying my stomach of what little I had eaten that morning. The ringing intensified at that, and I felt my numb limbs seize up. I toppled to the ground, convulsing uncontrollably, my jaws locked around my tongue.

The music stopped and I heard someone scream. "It's Erik! He's put a spell upon that poor girl! See how she shakes! See the blood coming from her mouth!" Murmurs of fear came after that, but my mother's voice rose up to quell the storm.

"I'm sorry! Tzipporah—my daughter—has been plagued by demons all her life! They attack like this at times. Por favor, is there a holy man amongst us?"

At my mother's words the boy behind me snarled. "Are you all blind? This is not the work of demons, this is a seizure!"

I could do nothing but listen at the accusations that came the boy's- Erik's way and taste the blood coming from my tongue, but soon I found I could not even do that much.

Erik's cold, skeletal hands gripped my locked jaw and carefully pulled my teeth away from my tongue, replacing the bleeding muscle with a firm piece of wood.

"You better know what the hell it is you're doing, little corpse." A fat shadow scoffed as my violently convulsing body was lifted into a pair of, surprisingly strong, skeletal arms.

I heard Erik growl under his breath as he hurriedly carried me away from the crowd. "When do I not, Javert?" I wouldn't understand the meaning of this simple sentence until later.

Erik set me down in a tent that smelled all-too-strongly of herbs.

His figure disappeared from my blurred line of sight for a few moments, only to return with a vial of something dark and foul smelling in his hand.

"Drink." He ordered harshly, prying my mouth open once again and removing the wooden block. I shook my head, but once I started the action I could not stop. My body wouldn't let me stop.

"Drink it, you miserable child!" That handsome voice snarled viciously, trying to keep my thrashing head still whilst at the same time attempting to force the vile smelling potion down my throat.

I choked and gagged as the syrup slid down my gullet and my jaw clenched as hard as it could.

My teeth bit flesh and I tasted blood, but it was not my own.

Erik cursed in a language that sounded like French and swiftly yanked his thumb out of my mouth. "Insolent poshratt!" He nearly screamed, one blurred hand raised in a striking position.

I waited several agonizing seconds for the pain that I could do nothing to stop, only to have that same threatening hand lay softly against my face and close my eyelids. "No matter what you may think of me . . . I do not harm women. I do not harm anyone . . ." Erik sighed heavily, pulling his hand away.

I wished to thank the boy, but could not seem to find the words as my muscles began to relax all over and I felt the pull of slumber tugging at my mind.

I heard Erik sigh again. "Sleep now, you shall be better when you wake."

And, like some mindless puppet following her master's orders, I did just that; sent off by the smell of herbs and the faint sounds of someone singing.

I dreamt of music that night . . . and of the boy that conducted it.