Simply a complicated one.
I can appreciate complicated.
I’m rather complicated myself.
“Marvelous.” I glance back at Pinky. “Do you need to check this out, or are we free to enter?”
“You’re free to come in,” a wispy voice says from inside. “I’ve been waiting for you, Mr. Luckwood.”
“That’s not creepy at all,” Bea murmurs.
Pinky steps around us and lifts one of the tent flats to peek inside, then gestures that it’s safe for us to enter.
“Come in, Mr. Luckwood. Ms. Best. It is good that you came to me today.”
I glance at Bea.
She’s cringing, but she slips inside the tent as Pinky holds the flap up.
I follow.
And then I’m smiling again.
This is both exactly what one would expect and also completely at odds with what one would expect.
More tiny white lights twinkle on the inside of the tent, and a mixture of scents fills my nose. Sandalwood, sage, rosemary—it’s a fascinating combination.
Madame Petty herself sits on the opposite side of a low, round table topped with a black cloth. There is no crystal ball, but I do spot several decks of tarot cards among the lit candles and other talismans on a small shelf beside her.
Her blond hair is tied up in a messy bun, and she’s wearing a Grateful Dead T-shirt. Her cheeks are smooth. Her forehead too.
Bea was serious. This woman cannot be more than thirty years old. Likely younger.
Unless she’s engaged in witchcraft to disguise her age.
Which I don’t believe in, though I do admire people who do.
It would be lovely to believe in magic.
“Please sit,” Madame Petty says, gesturing to two large deep-purple cushions on this side of the table.
Bea glances at the candles.
Candles.
Yes.
She dislikes fire. I remember that much from last night.
“Could you—” I start, but Bea puts a hand to my arm.
“It’s okay,” she says.
“You don’t like fire,” Madame Petty says to her.
“Not exactly a secret,” Bea replies.
“And how is Ryker?”
