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scooped up another mouthful of egg and swallowed. “Too old.”
    “At what age do you marry?”
    “Fourteen.”
    “That’s quite young.” And then his brows lifted at the prospect. “You must be near Cecelia’s age. Are you married?”
    She shook her head in response. “I’m one year older than your sister, but I’m not wed. The council of elders decided nothing should interfere with my training as a healer, even a husband.”
    “And when does your training come to an end?”
    “It already has.”
    “So you’ll be married soon?”
    “In about a fortnight.”
    The teacup hovering near his lips struck the saucer with a faint clink. For some daft reason, he was annoyed to hear of her upcoming nuptials, and to dislodge the aberrant thought from his mind, he gave his head a rapid shake. Didn’t do much good, though, the inexplicable irritation still lingered.
    He set the china on the nightstand. “Who are you marrying?”
    “My cousin, Istvan.”
    She said it so calmly, so indifferently, and certainly with none of the enthusiasm he’d expect from a prospective bride, that he had to wonder, “Do you love him?”
    She shrugged.
    “Then why marry the man?”
    “Because the council has arranged our union.”
    A betrothal! So that was the culprit of her apathetic disposition. He could certainly sympathize. What a ghastly fate to be reduced to.
    “Does your council of elders decide your future entirely?”
    She nodded. “The elders must keep tradition. Because my father is the tribal leader, and I his only child, it’s fitting that I marry my eldest cousin, who is destined to be the next tribal guardian.”
    “I see.” Though a betrothal was not unheard of by any means, it was increasingly scarce in his sphere of company. Granted, a lady may not have complete autonomy in the choice of her husband, but she certainly had a say and could reject a suitor. Anthony knew as a certainty his father would never force Cecelia to marry a man for whom she had no regard, even if social rank and income were highly desirable. Then again Cecelia would never rebuff a gentleman of impeccable breeding, but that was a moot point. That his sister had the option to first set her cap on a potential beau was the issue. That Sabrina had not the same option was a little unsettling. But then, she was not a noble lady and thus afforded any of the privileges that accompany the title. Still, being a gypsy, wandering the countryside as a way of life, he’d expected her to have greater freedom when it came to formalizing a lifelong union.
    “And you have no voice in such matters?” he wondered.
    “I must honor the will of my people, as you must honor yours one day.”
    “Yes, but unlike you, I will have the freedom to choose my partner in life.”
    She set her empty plate aside and retrieved her tea, her voice surprisingly flat considering the prediction she was about to impart. “I have already foreseen your future wife.”
    He crooked an intrigued brow. “Prophetic and a healer? Very well, Sabrina, who will be my prospective bride?”
    “A rich, titled gaji , respected by your people.”
    He felt that prophecy to be rather obvious. “Is there any other option?”
    “You could marry a peasant.”
    Anthony looked at her, aghast, searching her features for signs of humor. But he found none. “That’s preposterous!”
    “So your wife must bring honor to your family?”
    “Certainly.”
    “Then you are not truly free to choose anyone for your bride.”
    His expression grew thoughtful. “A man unwittingly in chains?”
    “Those chains bind us all. I could never marry a man not of gypsy blood or I would be cast away forever.”
    “Complete expulsion? Rather harsh, is it not?”
    “To bring a gajo into the tribe would taint the purity of gypsy blood. It is forbidden.”
    He offered a sympathetic nod. “That code of conduct certainly sounds familiar. It looks as though our worlds are not so very different after all.” A short