The Right to Sit

A murmur rippled through the crowd. Jastin’s eyes flickered with surprise. “Are you suggesting we should… continue our rivalry?” His voice was cautious, like he was afraid of daring to hope.

Khan smirked, running a hand over his jaw. “Without any lights or cameras?” He let out a low whistle. “That almost sounds… real.”

Madam of Maybes chuckled, the sound rich and full of secrets. “I’ll snatch my own camera,” she said with a grin. “Since I’m apparently the official videographer now. You boys and girls figure it out yourselves.” She glanced over her shoulder, her shawl sweeping behind her like the curtain at the end of an act.

The Shopornya’s House of Culture fell silent.

Gypsy Khan rolled his shoulders, cracked his neck, and raised his voice. “Well, what’s up, romale?” His grin spread wide, teeth flashing under the lights. “Should we continue with the bashavel?!”

There was a split second of silence, like the air itself was drawing breath. Then the room exploded with noise—laughter, shouts, the stamping of feet as people rushed to clear tables and make space.

The electricity buzzed back to life, the chandeliers flickering before blazing at full strength. Khan’s band, still scattered around the edge of the hall, exchanged glances, then picked up their instruments.

The waiters hurried to fill the chafing dishes with steaming food, fresh and fragrant, like the first dinner had only been a warm-up.

Fifty stood at the edge of the dance floor, the music swirling around him like a living thing. His gaze locked onto Stella, who was leaning against a table, chatting with Billie. Her eyes flickered to his, catching him staring. She raised an eyebrow, daring him.

Fifty straightened his collar and crossed the room. “I, uh… just realized I never asked you for a dance,” he said, extending his hand. His voice was surprisingly steady, even if his palms were not, which Stella found out as soon as she took the hand.

He led her to the dance floor, weaving through couples that moved in slow circles, faces lit with happiness and just a touch of drunkenness. Fifty placed one hand at her waist, the other still clasping hers. He cleared his throat. “I’m not much of a dancer,” he admitted, “but I feel like… I don’t know… maybe our bodies and souls move in harmony or something?”

“I may not be a good dancer, but I feel like bodies, and souls, move in harmony.”

“That was cheesy as hell,” she giggled, squeezing his hand. “But… you didn’t say it back, back then.”

He swallowed, his fingers instinctively tightening around hers. “Technically,” he began, mirroring her tone, “I have been saying it. You just never heard it because it was deep in my heart.” He hesitated, voice growing softer. “But I do love you.”

Stella’s grin widened. “That’s epic—”

Before she could finish, he leaned in and kissed her. It was warm and certain, without hesitation. Stella responded instantly, her arms winding around his neck as the music continued to play.

At the far end of the hall, Victor was balancing a hefty chunk of roasted pig on his plate, slicing through the crackling skin with practiced efficiency. He was halfway through his first bite when Billie appeared beside him, her presence so sudden that he nearly choked.

“Billie!” he gasped, patting his chest as he struggled to swallow. He grabbed a glass of water and took a long sip. “You nearly killed me.”

Her cheeks flushed pink. “S-Sorry,” she stammered, bumping her index fingers together. “I just… I wanted to say… you were really b-badass back there.”

Victor blinked, then smirked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “If I wanted, I could’ve been even more badass,” he replied casually.

Billie giggled, the sound soft and sweet. “Would you… would you like to dance? And maybe…” Her voice dropped to almost a whisper. “Maybe meet me tomorrow? After you sleep off your hangover?”

“Really?” He straightened up so fast he nearly knocked the platter of food off the table.

Billie giggled again and pointed to the corner of the hall, where two small boys were curled up, fast asleep, their cheeks flushed from a long night. “Yeah… but it’s not going to be just the two of us.”

Victor looked at the boys, then back at her, and without missing a beat, he chuckled. “That’s fine by me.” He wiped his hands on his pants and extended his arm. “But I gotta warn you, I’m an even worse dancer than Fifty.”

Billie took his hand, smiling up at him with sparkling eyes. “I don’t mind.”

The two joined the dance floor, Billie laughing as Victor spun her in a clumsy but endearing circle. Across the room, Fifty was doing his best not to step on Stella’s feet.

As the music swelled, Fifty and Victor found themselves back-to-back, pausing mid-dance for a quick, over-the-shoulder chat.

“You’re not talking to me at all, despite us being childhood friends,” Victor complained, catching his breath.

Fifty snorted, glancing back with a grin. “What can I say? Maybe it’s time we stopped being childhood friends…” He paused for dramatic effect. “And started being adult friends instead.”

Victor laughed, shaking his head. “That sounds like a terrible sitcom.”

The celebration carried on late into the night, spilling over into the soft glow of early morning. Fifty stepped outside for a breath of fresh air, the cool breeze a sharp contrast to the heat and noise inside.

That’s when he saw her—Madam of Maybes, standing alone by the edge of the patio, her gaze fixed firmly on the glittering stars above. She looked almost statuesque, her shawl rippling in the wind.

“I see you went all out with those two warts on your nose,” he teased, folding his arms.

Madam of Maybes cackled, not even turning to face him. “What can I say? The producers over at our TV are far stricter than Marshall ever was about ‘authenticity’.”

“I hope you earn a lot of money because I’m still going to get that 5,000 crowns back.”

“Let it be, you greedy čhávo.” She giggled.

“Tell me… why did you make the prophecy about me?”

“It wasn’t just about you.”

“Okay, why did you lie with the prophecy about me?”

Her lips curved into a sad smile. “My mother’s dream was to meet the Gypsy King. But during her time alive, there was nobody who was revered by that title. She passed away before Fredi Jackson came to be.”

“I’m sorry to hear that…”

“Her dream never came true. So perhaps out of sentimental reasons, I took up fortune-telling and started prophesying about every customer that they were destined to become one.”

“So you did it to keep the legend alive?”

“I did it to ignite a flame,” she replied firmly, her hand squeezing the crystal ball at her side. “To make sure that in every generation, at least one Gypsy King would be born. And there’d never have to be another soul who wished to meet him and failed.”

Fifty exhaled, long and slow. “You know, I actually don’t think you’re a scammer anymore…”

Her eyes flicked to his, amused. “Oh?”

“You give people hope. And that’s priceless…”

“Hehe. I’m starting to think that my prophecy about you was real. You should hurry up and become one, so that your girl is proud of you.”

“I am already proud of him.” A soft voice echoed from behind them.

They both turned to see Stella standing under the doorway, her eyes soft but resolute. Her arms were crossed, her lips curved in a grin.

“So what do we do now?” Fifty pulled Stella closer, his arms winding around her waist as he continued the talk with Madam.

“Who knows?” Madam raised an eyebrow. “Is the fire still burning inside of you?”

“I mean, you ignited it. So of course it burns strongly.”

“Then you should already know.”

“Of course I know!” Fifty grinned, his eyes lighting up with that familiar spark. “I still have the right to sit! Can’t wait for my throne!”

“What are you blabbering about all the time?”

“Well, Fredi always had a throne with him, I want to be able to sit like a proper Gypsy King!”

Madam of Maybes sighed, shaking her head. “Fifty…” Her voice softened, the grin fading slightly. “Eh… this is hard… but… think about it. Why do people usually sit all the time?”

“Uhm… because they’re… tired?”

“Fredi Jackson… was disabled. He was sitting in his wheelchair because he had no other choice.”

The words hit like a punch to the chest. Fifty’s jaw went slack, eyes wide with shock. He looked like he’d just been told Santa Claus didn’t exist.

Stella looked at him, giggling. “I mean, we saw him performing at the fair, didn’t you notice it?”

“I… I didn’t! He was too far and when I met him before, he still walked normally!”

“Well… what can I say.” Madam of Maybes sighed. “I hope you have a better motivation for your dream than this…”

“Don’t make fun of me, I do have another dream!” Fifty flared up. “My dream is to unite gypsies and white people. And my marriage with Stella will be the first step toward that goal!”

“M-marriage?” Stella’s eyes went wide, blinking twice in rapid succession.

“Well, you’ll have to work hard since your rivals are pretty good in their own right. But if you ever feel lost…” Madam paused for dramatic effect, draping her shawl around her shoulders with a flourish. “…know that I will always be here for you.”

She turned on her heel, the fabric sweeping behind her like the closing of a stage curtain. As she disappeared back into the House of Culture, Fifty scratched his chin thoughtfully. “That Babble-Yaga is something else, isn’t she?”

“You are something else as well, Fifty. I feel like you bring out only the best in people around you.”

“But I failed with your father…”

“You never even met my father. I think he’ll lay low for a bit now. But who knows what the future holds for us… or for the others.”

“I’ve really decided to pursue the title of Gypsy King. For real this time.”

“And I’ll gladly be your Queen. So don’t you dare lose to your rivals!”

“I won’t. But I’m happy for them. And maybe it’s about the other people standing up… so I could finally sit.”

Gypsy King (Part 1): END