The Sinner of Mute

She dropped to her knees, arms coiled above her head, the drums climbing to a fever pitch.

Sweat glistened on her collarbone, her breath ragged, yet her face remained ethereal delicate as porcelain, eyes wide and unseeing.

Lucien’s jaw tightened, a flicker of tension in the muscle. His guards edged closer, but he raised a hand, halting them.

The crowd was torn half-watching Sorina’s hypnotic dance, half-tracked Lucien’s predator stillness.

A woman whispered, “Es el diablo” as he stepped forward, close enough that Sorina’s swirling skirt brushed his polished Oxfords.

She didn’t falter. Her hips swayed, coins singing, as she pivoted away, her hair a veil between them. 

Tavi’s drumming stuttered. Marek’s rhythm deepened. 

Lucien’s lips twitched. Not a smile. 

One guard tossed a thick stack of bills into her wooden box, the money landing with a slap.

Sorina’s steps faltered for a heartbeat, her whiskey-bright eyes darting to the offering.

Tavy hissed something in Romani, the drums surging louder, as if to drown the intrusion.

Sorina’s cheeks flushed, but she danced harder.

Lucien watched, unblinking.

His guards hovered, ready to pounce, but he seemed content to stand there, a king observing a captured bird.

The crowd held its breath. Even the stray dogs stopped scavenging. 

When the drums finally cracked their last note, Sorina collapsed to her knees, chest heaving.

Silence swallowed the plaza. 

Lucien turned, his guards parting the crowd like a blade through silk.

The freckled boy sniffled over his shattered phone, but no one dared protest.

As the Rolls-Royce pulled away, Sorina lifted her head, her gaze catching Lucien’s through the tinted window.

His glasses glinted, obscuring his eyes, but his head tilted faintly—a nod, or a promise. 

The plaza exhaled. 

Tavi helped Sorina to her feet, his grip tight. “North,” he muttered. “Tomorrow.” 

She nodded, her fingers trembling as she signed, Yes. 

But as the crowd dispersed, she stared at the serpent carved into the money box, its fangs bared.

The road to Sorina’s home was a ribbon of dust unfurling into the desert, flanked by skeletal ocotillo and mesquite trees clawing at the twilight.

Her people’s caravans crouched in a loose semicircle at the edge of a dry arroyo, their wooden wagons painted in faded hues of turquoise, sunflower yellow, and deep violet—colors stolen from the horizon.

Canvas awnings sagged between them, strung with lanterns that cast trembling pools of amber light.

Smoke curled from communal fire pits, carrying the scent of sage and roasting corn. 

Sorina’s wagon stood apart, smaller and older than the others, its panels etched with sun-bleached carvings of birds in flight.

A curtain of blue glass beads hung in the doorway, chiming softly as she pushed through. Inside, the air smelled of dried lavender and beeswax.

Handwoven rugs layered the floor, their patterns a labyrinth of stars and vines.

A narrow bed hugged one wall, piled with quilts stitched by her mother’s hands. Above it hung a shrine: a cracked icon of Saint Sarah-la-Kali, a sprig of rosemary, and a single black feather. 

But Sorina didn’t linger. She set the money box beside a clay bowl of pistachios and slipped back outside, her skirt whispering against the wagon’s wooden steps. 

The heart of the caravan thrived near the central fire, where children’s laughter rang like wind chimes.

A dozen of them darted between wagons, playing  ashma—a game of chasing shadows.

Among them was Liora, Sorina’s sister, a wildflower in a storm of motion.

At thirteen, she was all limbs and mischief, her long chestnut braids streaked with dusty gold.

She wore a patchwork dress, its hem frayed and streaked with desert clay, and a necklace of red beads that clacked as she ran.

Her feet were bare, toes painted with henna swirls. 

“Catch me, Malen!” Liora taunted, darting past a boy clutching a stick sword. Her laughter faded as she spotted Sorina. 

The children stilled, their games forgotten. Liora skidded to a halt, her grin softening into something tender.

She pressed a hand to her heart, then swept it outward—their people’s gesture of greeting. Sorina mirrored it, her own smile tentative. 

But Liora wasn’t done. She bounded forward, her hands dancing in the air, shaping the rapid, playful signs only sisters understood. “You’re late. Did you bring sweets?”

Sorina shook her head, her fingers fluttering. “No sweets. Only coins.”

Liora pouted, exaggerated, then pointed to Sorina’s skirt. “You’re glittering. Like a scorpion under moonlight.” She playfully said.

The children giggled, crowding closer.

A girl with cheeks like apricots reached out to touch Sorina’s coins, but Liora swatted her hand away. “Respect!” she mock-scolded, though her eyes sparkled. 

Sorina knelt, her movements slow so as not to startle them.

She plucked a silver coin from her skirt and pressed it into the smallest child’s palm—a toddler with eyes like onyx.

The girl stared at it, then popped it into her mouth. Liora snorted, fishing it out with a sigh. 

“Ai, Sorina,” she dramatically rolled her eyes and said, rolling her eyes. “You’ll bankrupt us.”

But Sorina’s attention drifted to the edge of the camp.

Two elders sat on overturned crates, their voices low. Tavi and Marek stood with them, their drums slung over their shoulders.

Marek’s gaze met hers, he smiled softly at her which she returned.