“Well, I want to know mine.” She walks confidently to the fortune teller and sits down in front of her, handing her a coin. “One reading, please.”
The fortune teller smiles, but her eyes remain wide and round. She stares for a little too long with a fixed, menacing expression that freezes Marigold in place.
“Of course, miss. Pick a deck.” The fortune teller places two decks of cards in front of her; one is light blue and decorated with some sort of ancient runes, while the other is black with bright oil paintings of enchanting flowers. Marigold hesitates to reach for a deck but eventually finds the courage to tap on the card with a painting of an orange lily on top. “This one.”
“Wise choice,” the fortune teller says as her sharp teeth catch the end of the word and drag it out into a long hiss. Marigold shifts in her seat as she feels something threatening radiating off the sinister woman before her.
“I bet you say that to everyone,” Lottie mumbles under herbreath. It seems that the fortune teller does not hear her, or perhaps does not care what she has to say. Her eyes are pinned on Marigold like tiny needles. She shuffles her cards and then turns over one, revealing the three of swords.
“I see a struggling heart. Perhaps you are waiting on a proposal, or a confession of love that you fear will never come.”
Marigold wraps her arms tightly around her body. “Oh.”
Lottie’s silk-gloved hand slides onto her shoulder, occasionally stroking the side of her throat. “It’s not real, Mari.”
The fortune teller proceeds to turn over another card—the nine of wands. “But you refuse to give up. You do not fear your broken heart. You defy it.” She turns over a new card and gasps at the picture: the tower. “There is a danger growing. A burgeoning darkness. A great battle will come, and it will require dire sacrifices.” The final card is revealed, and even Lottie gasps with recognition of this one. It is Death. The fortune teller smiles and runs her tongue over her teeth, as if she is savoring the taste of this moment.
“What does this mean? Am I to die?”
She shrugs. “Maybe. Maybe not. This card merely symbolizes the death of an era that does not serve you anymore. There will be change. There will be reformation. Then, if you play your hand correctly, there will be resurrection.”
“I see,” she says, though the words do nothing to calm her beating heart. Lottie pulls her out of the chair and holds her chin with one hand.
“Calm down, Mari. It’s a circus act, not a curse.”
“I thought you believed in magic now.”
“I believe in yours. Not this.”
For the first time, Marigold is glad for Lottie’s skepticism. She does not want to believe the reading. Not tonight.
“You’re right. Let’s dance.”
Lottie stiffens slightly, but she pushes past her discomfort. “You must teach me.”
“Do not fret; I am a terrible dancer. There will be no judgment from me.”
She can feel the eyes of the fortune teller upon them as they walk away, but she does not look back. Something in her core tells her to keep walking away without so much as a glance over her shoulder. She keeps her gaze on the impossible girl at her side.
There is a striped tent in the center of the gardens with light streaming out from the point at the top. As they enter, it’s as if the entire world stops to look at them. She pulls Lottie to her side possessively, and they are almost immediately swept away in a mass of moving people. The enticing sound of a string quartet carries their feet through a sensual waltz.
Marigold holds Lottie’s hand and puts the other on the bend of her waist. “Follow my feet, Miss Burke. I’ll lead.”
Their bodies are pressed together, every movement in perfect time with each other. Lottie has a few stumbles, but Marigold holds her tightly and continues leading her across the floor. Together, they are fire and wind, desire and grace, seduction and fear. Marigold spins Lottie outward but keeps a strong hold on her hand, prompting her to twirl back into her arms. As Lottie moves, the skirt of her dress flares around them like a cloud of smoke. When she is pressed back against Marigold’s chest, Lottie brings her hand upward and strokes Marigold’s cheek. Her fingers trail farther down, all along the outline of her jaw, down her exposed throat, and off her collarbone. Their masks scrape as they keep their faces close and sway into each other’s bodies. Other masked dancers circle around them, unable to pull their gaze away. When Lottie notices all the eyes on them, she smirks.
“We’ve gathered some attention, Mari.”
This is usually the point where she loses control of her feet and makes a mess of the rest of the dance. She has a moment of fear and panic when she sees the still onlookers around them, but she pushes it away.
“I don’t care. I only see you.”
“Just you and me,” Lottie says as she surprises Marigold by seamlessly taking the lead in their dance and waltzing them botharound the open circle in the middle of the floor. Lottie places her hands against the small of Marigold’s back and dips her low, her blond hair almost touching the floor. Lottie presses a featherlight kiss to the bending point of her neck. She then brings Marigold upright and spins her to the center of the floor, chasing behind. When they reconnect, Marigold braces her hands on Lottie’s waist and picks her up. They spin gracefully to the sound of roaring applause from their audience. The sounds of the violin begin to shrink, and they part at the end of the song with a curtsy to each other. Their chests heave against their tight gowns as their eyes remain locked.
Marigold’s deep breathing scratches her dry throat. “May I grab you a glass of champagne?” she asks.
Lottie nods. “Hurry back to me.”
With a squeeze of her hand, Marigold steps away to find a server carrying a tray of champagne flutes. As she turns, the swaying crowd disorients her. She searches the crowd frantically until she spots Lottie again and can breathe a sigh of relief.
