“I’m not sure. Ours is largely an oral tradition,” Dika says. “It was safest that way. There were times when our language was forbidden. You could be jailed or killed for speaking it, let alone sharing Romani stories in writing.” She motions toward the bookshelf. “That’s the only book I’ve ever seen that tells the tale that particular way. You could reach out to the author. She might have more information, or at least a record of her source materials.” She pulls her cell from a pocket hidden in the folds of her skirt. “I would help, but it’s almost time to close, and I promised my grandsons we’d make iced moon cookies this afternoon.”
“No w-worries,” Lizzy says, circling around me. “We can find it online. Thank you s-so much for your help.” She opens the purse slung across her chest, pulling out a hundred-dollar bill and pressing it into Dika’s hand. “For the book.”
“I’ll get your change,” the older woman says, but Lizzy shakes her head.
“No, keep it, please. You’ve b-been such a help. I appreciate it m-more than you know.” She takes my hand as she asks, “Ready?”
“Yes.” I thank Dika and follow Elizabeth across the shop and through the green curtain to where we left our shoes, biting my tongue the entire time. I want to ask Dika about the time discrepancy, but Lizzy’s right. That part of the story throws everything into doubt, and…it doesn’t really matter.
One way or the other, our next step is still to track down this woman. This woman who might actually exist.
Elizabeth sets the book on the entry table while she zips up her boots, glancing up at me from her bent position. “This is good news,” she whispers.
“It is,” I agree, opening the door for her.
She pauses on her way through. “So, why do you look so worried?”
“I’m not worried,” I lie. I’m worried because all I’ve accomplished so far is to reinforce Elizabeth’s belief that she’s cursed. I hadn’t expected to find anyone who would tacitly endorse this idea, let alone to so easily pick up the trail of a woman who, when I suggested this plan, I wasn’t sure existed.
As Lizzy and I step into the sunny afternoon, shutting the door behind us, she lifts the pink piece of paper and reads, “Kaula Young.”
Her boogeyman has a name.
And I’m beginning to regret ever leaving our cabin in the woods.
18
Elizabeth
We spend the rest of the afternoon at a shady table in the outdoor courtyard of a coffee shop near the town square, scouring the web for information on both Kaula Young and the author of the Royals and Romani book, plus more about my family’s secret history, all with minimal success.
There’s nothing on Kaula, not even a birth certificate. The book’s author passed away fifteen years ago, and gossip about Rochat royalty remains far easier to come by than fact.
I do finally manage to find a parish register from the seventeenth century buried deep in the national archives. It lists all births for the years 1614 through 1656, when the parish church burned down. It includes a record that seems to support the second version of the story in the folktale book, the version that features Queen Gertrude’s sister, Greta.
“Here,” I say, nerves buzzing as I lean in to show Jeffrey my screen. “Just a few months before Gertrude made the decree about the Romani babies, there’s an entry from a midwife who says she delivered a baby at Rochat castle. A bastard.”
“At Rochat castle, but not necessarily to a member of the Rochat family,” Jeffrey says. I’m beginning to think that playing devil’s advocate is his favorite pastime. He’s been a wet blanket since we sat down with our coffees two hours ago. “Back then, there would have been dozens of servants living and working at the castle full time, if not more, as well as visiting family members and friends.”
“Yes, but at least this proves that there was a baby born in the castle. And it very well could have been Greta’s.” I scribble the date and the name of the midwife on the napkin I’m using for notes. “It’s a start. Have you found anything more about what happened to Greta after Gertrude sent her to Rome?”
Jeffrey shakes his head. “No, nothing. There are records of her joining a convent there, but nothing after that. And then the convent burned down a few years later, killing most of the nuns inside, so…”
I sit back in my chair, clutching my now cold cafe au lait. “So, she might not have lived to see if her curse worked. Gertrude’s oldest child would have still been a teenager then.”
“And the daughter didn’t die at twenty-six.”
“She might have,” I counter. “Some sources say twenty-three, some twenty-five. Maybe both are wrong. As we’ve established, birth and death records weren’t always meticulously recorded around that time.”