The salt starts skittering across the room, falling from his hair and mine, slinking out of every crevice and slithering to a pile near the door. Arion’s attention turns to it as a crease lines his forehead. “Curious, Violet, is that you?” he asks, lazily twirling a finger in the air to gesture to the flying salt, just as the final grain lands on the pile. “Gypsies and salt, you know,” I state tightly. “Gypsies and salt don’t do that,” he says, confused. “They do, actually. I’ve always been able to do that. We have a connection to salt, just like Portocale gypsies have a connection to
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