The Gypsy King Read Online Free

was neither here nor there to her, Persephone reached out one finger and touched the soft, spotted fur between the dead creature’s ears. Then she cocked her head to one side and said, “I believe I shall call him Lord Pirate.”
    The owner’s mouth dropped open at this startling statement. “Why would you call the hare Lord Pirate?” he asked. “Why would you call the hare anything ?”
    â€œDon’t you know?” she said, pushing past him with a faint smile. “I name all creatures—most especially those that taste good with gravy and potatoes.”

    Several moments later, Persephone stood in the yard with her shift pulled down to her waist, gripping the whippingpost as hard as she could and gritting her teeth so that the owner wouldn’t have the satisfaction of hearing her cry out. He never hit hard enough to peel the flesh from her back— he was too lazy to risk crippling her and thus bringing her work upon himself—but he did apply the whip with a will, hitting hard enough to raise welts that would weep and sting for days. Still, Persephone moved not a muscle. When she’d first come to the owner, small and undernourished though she’d been, she’d openly scorned his attempts to punish her. Her defiance had been so absolute that in order to get her to turn around and stop laughing at him, he’d had to resort to binding her wrists to the post—something he’d never managed to do without earning himself at least a few well-deserved kicks, bites and scratches.
    Then one day, after happening upon Persephone companionably chatting with several sheep, the owner had come up with a far cleverer idea: for every kick and scratch that Persephone directed at him, for every drop of her spittle that flew in his direction, for every lash that she refused to take on bended back, one of the barnyard animals would get two lashes—even if it meant flogging the unfortunate creature to death.
    Persephone had not believed for a moment that the owner would purposely flog one of his own animals to death, since he, himself, would be the poorer for it. Even so, as she was unwilling to see any creature suffer any harm on her account, she’d thereafter always submitted to her beatings without protest, regardless of how unfair she felt they were.
    Of course , she thought now, grunting quietly as the whip whistled through the air and landed yet again across herbare back, some beatings are fairer than others . In spite of the pain, she smiled at the thought that she’d purposely given away one of the owner’s chickens. Then she gave herself over to imagining the hungry thief squatting before an open fire, his silk shirt stretched taut across his broad shoulders, his mouth watering at the sight of a plucked and spitted Mrs. Busby browning nicely over the leaping flames.
    Something about the image sustained Persephone through all ten lashes. When it was over, she was breathing hard and relieved to have it done with and still be in complete control of herself. Leaning her forehead against the post, she was about to ease her shift up over her injured back when:
    CRACK!
    â€œOne for luck!” sang the owner, staggering as he delivered this final blow.
    Unprepared to receive it, Persephone gave a loud cry. The owner laughed aloud when he heard it. Furious, Persephone yanked up her shift to cover her nakedness— wincing as the rough material scraped across her fresh welts—and whirled to face him.
    â€œYou said ten!” she shouted.
    With some difficulty, the owner tore his gaze away from the front of her shift, which was as yet unlaced. “I said ten for losing me a chicken,” he corrected thickly as his eyes drifted back to the front of her shift. Swallowing hard, he dragged the back of his filthy hand across his mouth. “That last one was for luck, like I said.”
    Noting the wanton look in his eyes, Persephone turned away in