I look up from the bale of hay I’m carrying at the sound of Ryah’s soft voice. She’s nose to nose with Dandelion and her eyes are closed. A small moment of calm and safety for her skittish horse, who remembers what it felt like to be trapped in a stall with a violent asshole.
Dad has come in with an armload of horse blankets and is waiting patiently while I stare at Ryah. I realize he’s asked me a question. “Oh, just leave the rugs there and we’ll sort them out. Thanks, Dad.”
I try to talk to Ryah several times over the next few hours but Mum or Dad or someone from the troupe needs me. I want to settle her in myself and show her around, but then I find that someone already has. Mum is taking Ryah over the house and showing her where the bathroom is and where she can get fresh towels. I stand at the other end of the corridor, watching them.
“A bath,” Ryah says in hallowed tones, staring into the bathroom with wide eyes.
Mum laughs. “You’ll be wanting one of those, I’m sure. Go ahead. There’s plenty of hot water.”
I smile to myself, and head into the living room. The fire is burning low and I add extra logs and stoke it, getting it going again. One by one, everyone from the circus floats in, helping themselves to chairs or c
ushions on the floor. Mum and Dad come in with mugs of steaming cider, helped by Anouk and Poul. I take a grateful gulp of the sweet, spiced drink, and feel my shoulders unclench.
Home.
The firelight flickers on everyone’s faces as they talk and laugh with Mum and Dad about everything that’s been happening since last year. My parents remember everything I’ve told them on the phone about the acts. They ask Aura and Arvid how they’re finding their new juggling act, and Anouk if she likes having a third person in her act with Elke.
That third person is still absent. I’m about to go looking for Ryah when she enters the room, her head ducked. She finds a spot on the rug near the fire and sits cross-legged in clean jeans and an oversized sweater. Her long hair is wet and lays in ribbons across her shoulders. She accepts a cup of mulled cider from Mum and buries her face in it.
I’m reminded of the days when she first arrived at the circus and seemed uncertain of her place. She’s the new one again, and I can tell she feels it keenly.
Over bowls of stew half an hour later, everyone exclaims repeatedly how good it is to be eating inside and sitting on cushions, and how soft they’re going to get over the next month.
After we eat, Dad stands up and announces that there’s going to be a bonfire in the field next to the house, because it’s the winter solstice tonight. Despite everyone saying how good it is to be inside for a change, we all hurry outside into the cold after the dishes have been washed and put away.
Dad lights the bonfire, and bags of marshmallows are passed around for roasting. Because we’re a bunch of circus performers, people can’t help but do tricks, tumbling in the grass and balancing one-handed on logs.
Sparks shoot high into the night sky, and the moon rises behind Red Hill. I look away quickly, because I don’t like that I associate that place with her, just because it’s where her body was found. She lived down here with us, and I feel her close to me because it’s a happy night. A night she would have enjoyed.
I go inside to get more mulled cider for everyone and find Ryah in the kitchen with Mum, already doing it. We head out with trays, but Ryah pauses before we reach the back door, studying the framed photographs on the wall.
“Is this your family?”
I put down my tray and go and stand by her side. “Yes. That’s my parents on their wedding day. That’s Dad with his brothers. That’s Mum with me and Mirrie.” She smiles mischievously up at the camera, her arms loosely around the neck of one of our dogs, her long black hair cascading down her back.
“Mirrie was your sister?” Ryah asks softly.
I swallow and nod. “And that’s my grandmother.”
Ryah studies the photograph of my mother’s mother, a woman with dark, magnetic eyes and long, long hair. Longer even than Mirrie’s was.
“She’s beautiful.” Ryah’s gaze flicks between the photograph and her face. “You have her eyes.”
I’ve been told that before. “She was Romani. She fell in love with my grandfather who was a Yorkshireman, and they bought this house. Up until then, she’d always been nomadic and had lived with her big family in wagons likes ours. When we were small, she’d take Mirrie and I mushroom picking and show us where to find wild watercress and sorrel. Because of her, I don’t think Mum was that surprised when I joined a traveling circus.”
Ryah turns to me sharply as if she’s just remembered something. “Wait, that farmer called you a pikey.”
I grimace. “Yes. The stupid thing is it’s not even the right slur. My grandmother was Romani, not Irish Traveller.” It’s all the same to people like that farmer. He probably doesn’t even know there’s a difference.
Ryah looks up at me, her eyes glittering with concern and indignation. “I’m so sorry. I thought he was just shouting every bad word that came into his head. I wish I’d known.”
I smile and tuck her hair behind her ear, wondering if she would have ridden Dandelion of over him if she had known I’m a quarter Romani. “One prejudiced idiot doesn’t matter. In that field, I was thinking only of you and the horses.”
She smiles up at me. “You’re always thinking of us and the horses.”
You and the horses, I correct her silently. The others matter too, but Ryah’s always first in my mind.
We head back outside and hand out the cider. Then we take our mugs to a picnic blanket and sit down together. As if it’s the most natural thing in the world, Ryah slips her hand into mine and leans her cheek against my shoulder. We don’t say anything. She doesn’t need to say anything. I just like her there.