They all wanted the same reading from me this week, will I marry the crown prince? No one was so bold as to outright say it, but it was written in the singe of heat on their cheeks, in the coil of hair they twined nervously around a finger. But not this one. She needed something else.
The man tutted and fumbled in his waistcoat for coins. He withdrew two coppers and dropped them into my open palm, returning the pounds and gideons that were ostentatiously brandished amongst them back to the pocket.
I nodded, tipping the coins into my cloak and returned my hand to the tarot. I tapped the skull on the uppermost card as my thigh knocked against the table leg, silently cracking a vial of incense. The perfume seeped out, infusing the air with a faint shimmer. The young woman’s eyes widened, her chin lifting as she inhaled deeply.
“That’s my nana’s smell,” she whispered. “Roses.”
The man above her said nothing, everything he wanted to utter explained in the twitch of his mouth and the tightening of his hand upon her shoulder. If she wasn’t so enraptured by the aura, she would be able to feel the bruises pooling beneath his fingertips, blemishing the smooth skin beneath.
I turned the first card over. The Grim Reaper. It was my favorite to start with. Everyone knew someone who had died or was dying. That was life.
“You have lost someone whose wisdom meant a lot to you.” The crack in my voice was not intentional. I needed to get a grip on my emotions.
Another pulse ricocheted through my veins as the magic struggled to escape.
She inhaled sharply. Her hand pressed to her breast, but not over her heart. Her fingers rested on a gold brooch shaped like a butterfly pinned to her green dress.
I turned the next card face up revealing two entwined skeletons with empty sockets gazing at one another, bony arms encircling barren ribcages. The Lovers.
Her face faltered. She stared at the card, her knuckles blanching as she gripped the brooch.
“You see,” the man interrupted, pulling her back from the table, “it’s us. Now, let’s go.”
I turned over the next card, pushing it in front of the others and toward her. A man dangled upside down from a spiral pillar, his legs entangled with a serpent, a crown of thorns encircling his head.
“What’s that one?” He lowered his head, squinting at the table.
“The Hanged Man.”
He choked, jerking backward. He grabbed the woman’s shoulder again to half-drag her from her seat. “Come on, we’re leaving.”
When he released her and turned to straighten his waistcoat, I slipped the final card across the table. The woman took it, glancing quickly at the picture and the inscription before slipping it back face down.
“You know what she would have said,” I whispered. “Because that’s what you believe as well. Trust your instincts.”
She swallowed, her eyes wide, cheeks drained of color. She bestowed a small smile upon the man as she delicately took his arm, as if suddenly repulsed by the thought of touching even his clothing. As they walked away, she turned back to me and nodded. My chest tightened as my breath paused on the inhale. Good. No one should be trapped by another.
I reined in my emotions, crushing them beneath years of well-trained lies. The air thinned again as the cool breeze drained the incense.
Perhaps there would be time to linger when the fayre closed, and the patrons had departed. We could all finally be ourselves. I did love toffee, probably more than the small caramel droplets Candyman kept in a bowl for melting. Maybe tonight I would line the small candies down his chest, arranging them like stars, before using my tongue to trace swirls and patterns and galaxies as they melted from his body heat...
There she was.
Everything stopped. The dragon of fire Marianne shot into the air paused, a great tongue of jade flame cauterized from its mouth. The jaunty spring from the bow of the violin froze on the strings. The clouds of pink candy floss strangled the white stick.
Then the breath whooshed from my lungs, adrenaline igniting my body as the world revolved once again.
She was here.
I’d studied every inch of the small portrait I had been given when assigned this task. Ingrained the details onto the corrugations of my mind while traveling through wood and dale, skirting cities and plowing through barren countryside.
As I closed in and navigated the labyrinthine streets of this town, I imagined every conceivable change of hair color, added wrinkles or frown lines, each blend of fabric she could opt to wear. I had questioned the baker, the tailor, the midwife, all in a roundabout, casual tone, painting an amicable smile on my face while secretly probing their answers for the minutiae.
Dully, she was as expected. Mid-forties, brown hair streaked with gray, thick glasses perched upon a straight nose. Her clothes were average—well-pressed, but clean. She hid her wealth in the diamond necklace that peeked out of her frilled collar and the pointed shoes inlaid with golden thread and satin bindings which serpentined up her ankles.
What had she done? And, more importantly to whom? Maybe it was better not knowing. Then I was just doing a social service—for a hefty fee. The chase had been fun, the funneling of the hunt heart-pounding. But the kill? I may not be directly slitting her throat, but I was handing over the knife. My stomach flipped, the sweat beading upon my palms.
I flicked the top card at her. It fluttered on the breeze, dying at her feet.
