Disclaimer: The characters from the Queen of Swords are copyright to Fireworks Productions and Paramount. No infringement of copyright is intended nor revenue expected from their use. The story plot and other characters are copyright to the author, Maril Swan.

Acknowledgements: To Elizabeth Milligan, a fine writer, who edited this story and spent a great deal of her own time to help craft it to its final form. To Margie Milan whose ideas and suggestions inspired several details, and for her help with the Spanish terms. And to Carmen Carter, because she is a great fan of Marta (Paulina Gálvez) and I thought she would enjoy this story.

Author's Note: References in this story to: Queen of Cups - Gitano - King of Swords

Spanish & Gitano glossary:
huarachas - sandals made of thin strips of leather, worn mostly by peasants
gitano - Gypsies; gitana - female Gypsy
payos - non-Gypsies
múlo - an evil spirit released from a dead body which is angry because it's dead or has been wronged
marimé - contamination - either by a múlo or other source
remuda - a herd of horses
abuela - grandmother
barrio - district

Un día nuevo
by Maril Swan

Part One of Eight

"Madre de dios!" Tessa sat up suddenly with a sharp cry, her heart racing. Her body was sheened with sweat, and her shift was dampened its moisture. Panting with terror, she heaved a sigh of relief, and glanced around her dark bedroom. The brightness of the moon cast everything into a high relief of black and white. What time is it, she wondered, still trembling. The thought of lying back down and being drawn again into that nightmare drove her from her bed. She arose, and slipping on her huerachas, went out into the main room of the villa. It was almost as bright as day in the room. The moonlight shafting through the tall windows easily lighted her way through toward the kitchen. Perhaps a glass of water, or maybe some wine.

The sweet soft strains of a violin floated in from the verandah, causing Tessa to pause then smile. She can't sleep either, the young woman thought with a pleased grin. At least I shall have some company. Tessa turned her footsteps toward the sound. On opening the door onto the verandah, she saw Marta, her fine features sharply outlined in the cool white of the moonlight. The Gypsy woman sat comfortably in a wicker chair, the violin tucked under her chin, with her eyes closed as she softly ran the bow over the strings, evoking a poignant melody that echoed in Tessa's heart. She plays so beautifully, Tessa thought, drawing in a long calming breath. The terror of her nightmare receded as she gazed on the serene countenance of Marta, her strong presence a bulwark against Tessa's fears. As she moved onto the verandah, the sound of her footsteps startled the other woman. Marta's eyes flew open, then softened. She set aside the violin and raised her eyebrows questioningly.

Tessa crossed the verandah to stand next to Marta's chair, touching the violin reverently. "Why did you stop playing?"

"I thought you wanted something." Marta stirred, somewhat cramped from sitting so long, and began to get up, only to meet Tessa's restraining hand.

"Am I so demanding you must stop what you are doing to see what I want?" Tessa asked, slightly vexed and hurt. "Maybe all I wanted was to hear you play." On a sudden impulse, Tessa sat on the floor next to Marta, leaning against her and laying her head upon Marta's lap. The flagstones beneath her were still warm from the day, and she sighed contentedly. "Remember how we used to sit like this when I was a child, Marta? When I had a nightmare, you would keep me close, and play for me."

"And you would fall asleep. So much for my playing," Marta said, her throaty chuckle gently jibed as she lay her hand fondly on Tessa's hair, smoothing it away from her brow. "Did you have another nightmare like the other night?"

The young woman nodded. "Only much worse this time. They seem to get more terrifying each time I have one." Tessa's voice trembled. "I'm almost afraid to fall asleep any more."

"Perhaps if you tell me the nightmare, it will not return."

Tessa shook her head. "No. I want to forget it. Just play something for me. You know so many tunes. I don't remember ever hearing the same one twice." She laughed softly. "When I was younger, I wondered how you could know so much music. I still do."

"I'll tell you a secret," Marta said, leaning forward to whisper in Tessa's ear. "I make them up." The Gypsy woman sat back, chuckling as Tessa shook her head disbelievingly.

Picking up the violin, she began a soothing melody. She could feel the younger woman relax against her, the dark head grow heavier on her lap. She still needs me, Marta thought with a soft smile. Perhaps as an oasis of peace in the chaos her life has become. Perhaps just to let her return to her childhood now and then, when her adult life overwhelms her. It is enough for me. Marta sighed with contentment while plying the bow gently across the strings. Around them the night sounds continued like a symphony accompanying her violin - the sudden shrill call of a bird, the low hooting of an owl and the gentle stamping of the horses in the stable.

Marta let her mind roam back over the years to when her Tessa was very young, and her sleep was disturbed by terrifying nightmares. They had begun just after Don Alvarado had left Spain to return to California. The child would awake and seek her out, appearing suddenly in Marta's room, her wan, frightened face close and peering down to see that Marta was still there. Tessa's greatest fear was that she would be left completely alone—that Marta would also leave her as her father had, or die as her mother had. It had taken months for these nightmares to subside as the young girl learned to trust that Marta would stay with her always.

Now they are back, Marta thought with dismay. What terrors does she face in her dreams now? She never tells me but I know they are dreams of death-hers or mine? Marta moved carefully from her cramped position, trying not to disturb the sleeping girl whose warm weight lay heavily against her leg. She placed the violin on a side table, and settled back onto the wicker chair, preparing to spend the rest of the night on the moonlit verandah.

She started as Tessa mumbled something. "I thought you were asleep, querida. What did you say?"

"I asked why couldn't you sleep, Marta?" Tessa turned her face to meet the other woman's dark eyes. "Did it have something to do with the letter you received from Spain today?" Marta's sharp intake of breath and sudden paroxysm told Tessa her friend was deeply disturbed by that letter. "Of course, it's none of my business. But if you want to talk about it, this seems to be a good time, when neither of us can sleep." Tessa laid her head back on Marta's lap, not expecting an answer. She has her secrets too, Tessa thought, and she knows how to keep secrets, that's for sure. She smiled to herself, remembering the fencing lessons and their time with the gitano. Marta had never told anyone, especially Don Alvarado.

The silence lengthened. Marta gazed down at the dark head on her lap, stroking the silken hair, and considered whether to answer Tessa's question. Her brow furrowed as she tried to control the sudden turmoil this innocuous-seeming question had evoked. She tensed, dreading the decision she had to make. How to answer such a question? With a convenient lie? I cannot lie to my baby, she thought. How would I feel if she lied to me? She wants the truth, and she will have it. Marta took in a long, steadying breath. "It is a long story, going back to before we met, Tessita. Get us a glass of wine, and I will tell you."

Marta's tone intimated her story might change things between them. Tessa was uncertain suddenly if she really wanted to hear this truth; she half-wished she had not asked for it. Rising from the flagstone floor, Tessa went into the villa. She returned a few minutes later, bearing a tray with two glasses and a wine bottle and set the tray on the side table. Tessa seated herself as before, waiting expectantly for Marta to begin her tale. Marta poured some wine for each of them and saluted her companion silently, taking a long sip from her glass. In vino veritas, she thought solemnly. I think I will need a lot of this to get through this story. She gazed pensively into the ruby liquid, watching the dancing moonlight fracture and fragment on its surface, and realized her hands were trembling.

Taking a deep breath, Marta spoke. "The letter was from an old friend in Barcelona. She told me someone I had known a long time ago had died." Marta paused, and Tessa could feel her agitation, her tension.

"I'm sorry to hear that, Marta. Who was it, a friend, a relative?"

"My husband." Marta heard Tessa gasp and felt her sudden, sharp movement against her leg. She smiled wryly, waiting for the flood of questions that must follow. Instead, there was a prolonged, strained silence.

Finally, Tessa said tentatively, "Why didn't you ever tell me this before?"

"I was afraid. Afraid it might make you feel differently about me. You are very young, Tessita, and you still think in terms of good and bad, black and white. And you are part of a different race, a different culture. I was afraid you wouldn't understand." Marta lapsed into an introspective silence, letting the soothing night sounds seep into her while she gathered the courage to tell her story.

Continued in Part Two of Eight