Prologue
The boy knelt at the edge of the river and scooped a handful of water to rinse the dirt off of his knees. His dark hair stood on end, and his clothes were disheveled from play. But the light in his blue eyes matched the smile on his face. Today was his seventh birthday, and birthdays were always good days.
A sound caught his attention and he started in surprise. He noticed a small figure on the other side of the river, a young girl. He'd never seen her before. She looked younger than he was by a couple of years. She brushed her blonde hair out of her eyes impatiently as she concentrated on digging a rock from the shore.
He sat back and watched her eyebrows furrow in frustration. The rock wasn't coming free, and it wasn't making her happy.
He had a sister of his own at home and knew how demanding and unreasonable girls could be. He scampered across the bridge, kneeled at her side to dislodge the rock, and placed it into her palm. He was pleased at the smile that replaced her frustration. The girl smiled shyly up at him, and said quietly, "Thank you… I'm Briana."
"You're welcome, Briana. I'm—" His words were cut short as a flash of pain went through his head. Dazed, he found himself sprawled out on the ground. He looked up to see a boy of his own age standing over him with hands on his hips and eyes full of venom.
"That's MY sister, Gypsy," he sneered. "Don't ever touch her again. We're going home. Come on, Bri," he ordered, and the girl followed him obediently away from the river, looking over her shoulder as she went.
The gypsy boy held his head and tried not to cry. Today was his birthday. Bad things aren't supposed to happen on your birthday. He slowly walked back across the bridge and into the camp that was his home. An older woman looked up from the step of a wagon. "Colin!" she called in alarm. There was a trickle of blood coursing down his cheek. The boy was caught up in his mother's arms, the washing forgotten. His father looked up and raised an eyebrow.
"A boy hit me, Papa. I think he was from the village."
"And what were you doing?" his father asked, mildly. "They don't come to our side of the river."
"I—" The boy knew he'd broken the rules. He lowered his eyes but his expression remained stubborn, "He called me 'Gypsy.' I don't think he meant it nice."
The man laid a hand on his son's dark head. "Let it go, Son. Sometimes we just have to let it go."
Colin felt torn between the words of the man he admired and the feelings in his own heart. To himself, he whispered "I hate him."