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[gypsy_merrique]

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She stepped through the moongate and wound her way through the essentially southern route to the camp where she suspected her query to be. Merrique turned around the final bend leading to the wagons and stopped at the sight of the long-haired man sitting by the fire, an infant in his arms. The only sound to be heard was the popping and snapping as the wood in the campfire burned. A smile formed on the mouth of the young man holding the baby, and he bid her to come sit with him. Wordlessly, Merrique sat to his left and stared at the infant.

There was no mistaking that strong gypsy blood ran in the veins of this child, but also there was evidence of his mixed blood. His skin was a bit paler, and his deep green eyes lacked the vaguely almond-shaped tilt on the outer edges. It was with a start that Merri realized the boy-child seemed to regard her with an adult gaze; he lacked that unfocused infantile expression that such young babies should have. The gaze, the features of his face, were unnaturally mature. This child seemed almost preternatural.

That's silly, she thought. It has to be a trick of the firelight.

Smiling the way only a proud young father can, the son of her dead brother offered the child to her. With a soft sigh, Merrique took the babe in her arms and held him close. Memories of her own boys, whose natural growth she was robbed of for vastly different reasons, filled her thoughts and spirit. It seemed too long since she held such a fragile life, full of innocence and wonder. With relative surprise, Merrique realized that her eyes stung with the threat of tears, which she did her best to keep at bay. As she ran her thumb and forefinger up and down the baby's back, the silence was broken.

"Aunt Merri. I'm glad you came. This is Christopher."
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. . . But the dark is very trustworthy.
It's always as dark as you thought it was.
And you don't have to work at staying there.
All you have to do is survive it.
And I've been doing that forever.
from the novel "Dark Debts" by Karen Hall