The Geomancer will make an interpretation of the shield chart with deference to the Judge figure.[*4]
If the Applicant is offered and accepts the employment position, the shield shall be filed in the Book of Outsiders.
Skip Notes
*1In modern times, the wooden box may be substituted with a hospital-grade disposable adhesive mat.
*2The use of opium is highly encouraged to produce a meditative state.
*3In the event of limited time, the Geomancer may rely on the generation of a single figure as opposed to casting an entire shield, but this is not advisable.
*4Where it is warranted, and under the discretion of the Geomancer, the Witness Figures, the Reconciler, and/or other Figures may also be considered
Vivian
February
Vivian spills out from the Jewelers Exchange Building into the street, where life pulses around her.
She pulls out her phone to send a text to Rachel that she composes and erases several times, unsure of the tone to use. Alarmist? Factual? Gently concerned? She settles on:Just went by Xavier’s store but it’s no longer there! And his window was broken?! So weird…Don’t you think?
She waits for a moment, but there’s no response. So she shoves her phone back into her pocket and continues walking. She’s aimless for a block or two, trying to clear her thoughts. Maybe the other shop owners just didn’t know what had happened with Xavier. Maybe she’s overreacting.
She passes an Irish bar with a sidewalk sign advertising the Celtics mascot, Lucky the Leprechaun, drinking a Bloody Mary. It’s not such a bad idea. If she stopped in for one, then she’d be sideways for an actual reason.
She is seriously considering it, because when was the last time she did something like that? Perhapsnever, even? But Vivian can’tafford to lose any business; she needs to go open the store. She wishes she’d known to savor the days when she had an assistant.
Vivian strides up Beacon Street, which will deliver her back to the heart of Beacon Hill, then stops so suddenly that the person behind her nearly collides into her.
Across the street, and up a ways, isPeter.Standing in front of the boutique hotel XV Beacon. His back is to her; he’s wearing the same dark navy coat she’d spotted strewn across the trunk in the Knox guest bedroom. Brown loafers. Dark hair with gray tints. He’s as familiar to her as her own reflection, somehow. Even the way he stands strikes a chord: broad shoulders, feet pressed firmly into the ground.
She rubs her eyes, wondering if she’s hallucinating. It has to be him, unless he has an identical twin. But howcouldit be him? Was the Milan trip canceled? What is he doing, just standing there all alone?
Vivian almost calls out, to say hello, but then she notices her: the girl striding toward him.
Vivian instinctively moves to hide within a small alcove next to a building, pressing against the bricks. Poking her head out from behind, she takes the girl in. She’s small-boned—and unique. Turquoise-blue shoulder-length hair with light brown roots. Normally there aren’t many alternative-looking blue-haired girls walking around Beacon Hill. What’s her age? Twenty? Thirty? It’s hard to tell from here. Vivian begrudgingly concedes that she’s a woman, not a girl, but she may as well be. She’s wearing a black puffer coat over a pair of ripped jeans and clutching a pink roller suitcase decorated with stickers.
The girl stops a few feet from Peter. She seems upset, dropping the suitcase handle to start gesturing wildly at him. The suitcase tumbles over, but she doesn’t bother to pick it up. Instead, she covers her face with her hands as if she’s crying.
Peter hastens to her, stooping down to right the suitcase. Now that he’s standing directly in front of the girl, Vivian can only see his silhouette. He’s blocking her—and their full exchange—from Vivian’s vision.
Vivian feels panicked. She wants—no, needs—to see more. She emerges from behind the building, pulled in their direction. The girl’s fingertips now appear, clutching Peter’s shoulders. Like she’s reached up to embrace him. And then he seems to be leaning toward her and—
A car turns onto the street, obstructing Vivian’s view.Shit. No, no, no! Not now!
Are they hugging? Are they kissing? Her heart is in her throat, her stomach turning like it’s in a washing machine. She’s desperate to see more. To know more.
As she steps blindly into the street like a sailor lured by a siren, a biker skids to an abrupt stop.
