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Have you got sn… I mean, snakes?”
    Sergio laughed – a pleasant, throaty laugh.
    “My mother has a boa. Why do you ask? Afraid?”
    He looked at me, amused, and I blushed.
    “Do you have oth… other wild animals?” I asked uneasily.
    Sergio shook his head, laughing.
    “No, just my mother with her damned snake. She used to dance.”
    I looked at his mother furtively. She seemed to be a brave woman; a woman who defied the brawny leader and dangerous monsters.
    “So, does she no longer dance?” I was curious to know.
    “No. Not for several years now.”
    I looked across at the man with the shoulder-length hair who was still determined to ignore me and I wondered who he was. He was attractive – in a wild and dangerous way. His dark locks hung over his face, dishevelled. His facial features were angular and chiselled, and his nose was a little too big and had been broken at least once. Above his right eyebrow he had a small scar. All in all he looked like the typical rogue. At the same time his mouth was almost unashamedly sensual. He had no moustache, whereas most of the other men in the camp did. It looked as if he had not shaved for days which gave him an even wilder appearance.
    He suddenly looked in my direction, and his gaze, from dark, almost black eyes, moved slowly over my body, remaining for longer that decency permitted upon my bosom, and he then looked boldly straight into my face, with a suggestive grin on his full, sensual lips. I was outraged and simultaneously, in a peculiar way, aroused. I felt faint. My heart began to race and I felt the heat rush into my cheeks. Uncertain and  irritated by my own reaction, I turned my eyes away from him and devoted my attention to Sergio again, trying to ignore that dangerous man. For a while I spoke with Sergio and avoided looking at the irritating stranger again until I was aware of movement from his direction, which caused me to steal a glance across at him. I saw that he had stood up and he was disappearing into one of the waggons.
    “Who’s that?” I asked Sergio. I could not stop my voice trembling and I hoped that Sergio would not notice this.
    “My brother, Ivo. – He has the same temperament as our mother, and the pride and moodiness of our father. – A bad combination,“ answered Sergio, laughing.
    *
    When the camp was packed up I was guided to a space on Grandmother Aneta’s waggon. The journey was comfortable and unhurried. Barking excitedly, the dogs ran back and forth between the waggons and now and then a child cried somewhere or a horse snorted. I was aware that my unease gradually transformed into a pleasant peace that enveloped me warmly. Having grown up as an only child I was used to being alone. I was fascinated by the colourful hustle and bustle and the informal charm that lay in the air. No one called the noisy children to order, urging them to be silent, as my wet-nurse had constantly urged me. Wistfully I thought about how little freedom I had had in my childhood, and yet I was less strictly raised than my friends. I had been fully aware of how good my life was in comparison to that of children from poor families. In London I had seen children working in factories, often till late into the night, or trying to sell goods on the street all day. Yes, these travelling people were the only people who appeared to be genuinely free. I was a slave to the social demands of a decadent society, and the poor people were slaves to the fight for their daily bread.
    My eyes wandered to Ivo who was riding ahead on a black stallion. Although I fought against it I felt magically attracted to him. I really liked Sergio but his surly brother attracted me in a way that I could not even explain myself. Perhaps it was purely his distant manner, that gave him an air of mystery, that made me curious. I had always liked investigating mysteries. But I also felt that this mystery was best left uninvestigated. This man was no gentleman and was clearly