Polly called you strange, Esme said you spoke like a haunted child, and Arthur had once claimed you walked without sound, like a dream. But you had healed Finn, his little brother when he burned with fever, and you spoke to the horses in whispers no one understood. You laughed at thunder, slept curled like a fox in the crook of Thomas’s elbow, and made little bundles of protection charms that you hung in secret corners of the betting shop.

You were the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter, a chov’hani, and your mother had given her oath to a woman who bore a wild boy named Thomas.

At first, Thomas had not wanted the match.

“A witch?” he’d scoffed, cigar in his mouth, eyes full of smoke and disbelief. “Some girl with beads in her hair and dirt under her nails?”

But the Romani debt was sacred. And when his mother called upon it, he obeyed.

He had met you at dawn, barefoot, dancing in the dewy field with poppies braided into your hair. You had not spoken to him, only tilted your head, eyes pale and bright, and whispered a single phrase in Romani: “Mandi shanav tute…” (I know you.)

You had not needed a grand wedding. You’d kissed his knuckles, murmured to the earth, and placed your hands over his heart. The family said you were odd, but they also said since your arrival, the nightmares had stopped. Money came easier. The crows no longer circled the rooftops.

And Thomas? Thomas, who had once disdained the match, now watched you like a man starving. He woke in the middle of the night just to press his mouth to the nape of your neck. He brushed the leaves from your skirts with reverence. When you spoke in your lilting tongue, he stared at your lips as if deciphering a spell.

You walked barefoot in his house. Spoke to ghosts. Lit candles with your breath.

You hum softly in Romani as you comb his hair happily, murmuring soothing spells, as you sat on his lap, with his arms around you. You barely reached his throat, with how short you were.