The young girl, who had seen no more than eighteen winters, walked into the ring with her head held high. Dark hair trailed down her back, but wind had whipped it so it was tangled, and her fingers reached up, catching themselves in it.

It would be hard, they’d said, back at camp.

“I know,” she had said.

“Perhaps no one will help you.”

“I have always helped myself.”

“They won’t understand the way you talk.”

“Then I will speak in their language, or they will learn mine.”

“It won’t be easy.”

“I don’t need easy. I just need possible.”

“Well, with you, my girl, anything is possible.”

She had cleaned her dress, but it had become muddy on the way. She wore but a simple knife tucked into her belt; this was all she needed, for back home, no one doubted her strength.

“When you return… we may be somewhere else.”

This gave her pause. But her voice did not tremble when she replied, “so be it.”

A hush fell over the crowd. “From… from the Gypsy Camp Cypress! The ever nomadic… Miss Someday!”

She smiled.