Kiran flinched at Jericho’s name and I instantly regretted sharing the memory until I realized that it shouldn’t matter to Kiran if I talk about Jericho. I should be able to talk about him whenever I wanted. And I planned on talking about him all the time.
“You can ride with Talbott,” Kiran instructed, his voice taking on a harsh tone.
Sebastian passed out sleek, black helmets and I was thankful I had worn my hair down and to the side; helmet hair would be much more manageable this way. I climbed onto the slender motorcycle behind Talbott by pulling my maxi-dress up to my knees, a little unladylike, and secured my arms around his waist. The boys started their engines simultaneously and took off abruptly through the narrow, cobblestone streets of the Citadel.
The gates to the city were open and we flew threw them, driving fast on the paved road that led away from the castle and through the mountains. Talbott drove expertly over the winding mountain roads and I was able to relax and sit back a little, keeping a loose grasp on his sides.
The drive through the mountains stilled my anxiety for whatever lay ahead tonight. The thick canopy of trees darkened the already twilighted sky and bursts of gleaming pink and purple flashed through holes in the trees up above. The wind whipped against my arms as Kiran sped behind Talbott over the smooth pavement.
We rode for an hour, through well-aged villages and picture-perfect antique towns, before coming to a dirt road leading away from the main highway. I bunched my dress further up my legs, away from the splattering mud the motorcycle flung against my shins as we kept pace with Kiran and Sebastian.
The moon shined above by now, a full orb of luminous light, and we rode through the night with only the lone headlight of each of the bikes leading the way. The boys seemed to know where they were headed though, so I tried not to conjure up images of what could be waiting for us at the end of this getaway.
Eventually lights came into view in the distance, not electric house lights, or even lamps, but the strong flames of a large campfire and torches. The motorcycles slowed down and we entered a primitive village. Tiny huts made of anything from scrap metal to broken pieces of wood outlined a village with naked, dark-haired gypsy children running around rowdily. Adults dressed in layers of ragged clothes milled about the campfire, eating a stew of sorts on tin plates or talking expressively with each other. From the other side of the campfire, deep, somber melodies played, keeping a fast tempo, and in a minor key that made my heart beat with it and the electricity in my blood soar.
I stepped off the motorcycle grabbing Kiran’s outstretched hand for support, barely acknowledging his gesture. I was mesmerized by the gypsy camp, wholly consumed with curiosity and a quiet awe. There was a growing feeling building inside of me that tonight could be life-changing if I let it, if I let the music take me away and let down my guard. I turned to Kiran with bright, ready eyes and he smiled back at me in a way that made my heart jump. His expression confirmed my eager suspicions and I let him lead him further into the camp.
Several of the gypsies gathered to greet Kiran, shaking his hand and speaking in the flowing Romanian dialect I began to recognize. Kiran relaxed here too; he spoke with each person familiarly, as if he knew everyone by name and I stood at his side in awe of his ability to transform from spoiled prince to the charismatic conversationalist standing next to me now.
“How do you do it?” I asked, unable to hold back my curiosity. We were alone for the moment. Sebastian and Talbott wondered off in search of food and Kiran seemed to be looking for someone while he led me around the camp. The sky brightened above our heads, millions of sparkling stars came to life the later the hour. The moon was bright and full, shining down on us with warm welcome, inviting us to dance.
“Do what?” he laughed, turning to me. His eyes were deep pools of the ocean tonight, brilliant aqua that twinkled in the darkness.
“How can you be so stiff at the castle, so.... royal? And then here, it’s like, I don’t know, it’s like you’re a completely different person....” I trailed off, not able to verbalize the difference between his two personalities.
“I’m not two people, Eden. When we're not at the castle.... I mean, here.... I don’t have to pretend to be perfect here.” He smiled at me, too embarrassed to admit that there were two sides to him.
“It’s more than that though,” I tried to explain; “It was the same way in India.”
“How was I in India?” he pressed. He stopped walking to listen to me, his back was to the fire and his soft tussled hair glowed against the firelight.
“I don’t know.... you were different.... you were.... charming. There’s something about you when you’re away from.... I don’t know, maybe your title or something. You change,” I admitted, waiting for him to scoff at me.
“I’ll have to remember that,” he whispered conspiratorially and then we were interrupted.
A little boy, maybe six years old, wearing only shorts made from old brown pants that were much too big for him, started tugging on Kiran’s shirt. The little boy had thick waves of unruly dark hair that fell into his chocolate, oversized eyes. He brushed it away, irritated with the nuisance and tugged on Kiran’s shirt again.
Kiran bent over to give the little boy his full attention, speaking to him in fast Romanian, while the little boy lit up with all of Kiran’s attention on him. Kiran laughed when the little boy talked back and I admired the difference in him for the second time tonight.
Kiran’s hair was loose tonight, pushed back out of his eyes, but nothing like the untamed dark hair of the gypsies that emanated an earthly attachment to their lifestyle. He wore a white-collared button-up shirt, rolled at the sleeves, and gray knee-length shorts, with designer sandals. He was casual but still managed to look polished and well-bred. Still, he looked at home near the campfire, in the middle of a gypsy village.
The little boy asked him more questions, with which he answered in fast Romanian and an amused smile. When Kiran stood up and the little boy ran away, Kiran was still laughing.
“That was Emilian,” Kiran offered, watching the little boy run to his friends retelling them everything Kiran said.