She stooped to pick it up, turning toward me with a cock of her head as she considered what I could deign to offer her. I raised my face, allowing the color from the fairy lights to fall upon me as the hood lifted, unmasking the shadows. I gestured toward the empty bench.
Don’t run. Don’t flee. I don’t want to have to chase you.
She moved closer, a smirk stretching her lips. “That was a silly little trick.” Her voice stretched, the sarcasm snagging the attention of passersby. “Is this my likeness?” She twirled the Death card in her fingers.
“A warning,” I said.
She didn’t believe in the power of the deck, for her fortunes were not told in fables and fairytales. She would sit just to prove a point. To prove how ridiculous this was.
The crowd grew steadily around her, magnetized by her scorn.
My heart hammered and my mouth dried. The hood flapped back over my face as she settled herself, elbows planted upon the velvet cloth, the bells cackling wildly with the movement.
Don’t leave.
Don’t hate me.
“I don’t need a fortune read,” she said. “What else do you have?”
I pulled the tarot toward me and positioned them perfectly square at the edge of the table. I held out my palm hoping she wouldn’t notice the sheen of congealing sweat.
She extracted a dainty coin purse from the depths of her outfit and handed over one copper. “You can have more if these fine folk are impressed.” She waved her hand, inviting the hovering people closer.
A small throng had gathered. It wasn’t surprising. She was well known, respected, and feared. It had been difficult getting anyone to talk about her, to reveal even the smallest morsel of information. Once they sniffed where the conversation was going, they rapidly scurried away. Being tantalizingly close for such a long time had been half the fun. They were as curious as I was about the woman underneath.
I reached under the table and pulled up a velvet-draped divider. It was a foot high and the same width with an ebony cloth attached. She watched me intently as I reached across and gently lowered her left arm. I moved it to the side, palm down, fingers splayed. I slid the board along the table and into the crook of her arm, arranging the cloth over her left shoulder so she seemed to melt seamlessly into the fabric.
Next, I flopped out a doll’s arm. Stuffed, pink and plump, perfectly proportioned to her own body size. I slid the severed end under the cloth, positioning the hand and unpainted nails exactly like her real one.
Candyman’s eyes lingered on mine through the packed bodies as they jostled for a better vantage point, but the flirtation had gone. His brow furrowed, a fleeting look of worry marring his features until my view of him was engulfed by the crowd again.
If this went wrong, I would need access to all his hidden rum. Gorging on sugar and drinking myself into a stupor would be a good swan song for my life thus far.
I tugged the two strands of silver ribbon out from under the tarot. I ran each length along the fake arm and her real one simultaneously. Her brow furrowed, a small crinkle of disgust burrowing into the skin above her nose.
“Do you feel this?” I asked.
She huffed, her eyes darting to those closest before answering, “Of course I do.”
I stopped stroking her real arm but continued to slide the ribbon up the doll’s arm. “And now?”
She scoffed again. “Yes.”
A small murmur arose from those watching. The woman stilled, her blue eyes narrowing on me.
I nodded. “Very well.”
Returning the ribbons to the corner of the table, I scooped up a handful of fire jacks from an alcove underneath. Marianne had kindly lent me a few dozen at the beginning of the fayre, in return for a doctored reading of ill omens when her ex-wife visited.
I cracked one of the jacks between my fingers, tossing it quickly into the air as a small ball of white-hot fire cracked into life. It hovered for a split second before sizzling into ash and drifting toward the table. I shifted in my seat, pressing my thigh into the table leg where another aroma waited. This would release the charred scent of burning flesh, raising the air temperature by a few degrees with it.
I took another jack between my fingers and squeezed, dropping it quickly onto the doll’s arm. As it landed, I cracked the vial with my leg, the noise lost amongst the woman’s shriek.
She gaped at the fake arm and the charred circle marring its pink wrist. The crowd tittered. Whispers of, “Did you really feel that?” and “She’s part of the act.” I waited until they quieted and took another jack to her real arm. She couldn’t see over the screen, hadn’t even noticed my arm move to the side as she stared transfixed at the black stain on the doll’s arm.
I cracked another and rested it on her real hand. It ignited, a brief ripple of heat firing into the crowd. They drew back, some gasping, a few honks of nervous laughter, but the woman did not move.
She frowned at me, then swiveled to assess the crowd. I reached out to tug on the fake arm. “Sit still please.” As if I’d pulled her physically, she turned back and settled. The crowd gasped again.
