And my part of those earnings, Dear Friend, was reading tarot. The cards weave together a story, amoral and poetic. Tarot cards don’tpredict, theyinterpret. Tarot cards bloom into whatever garden the listener needs.
Except the Tower.
Whenever I flipped the Tower, for anyone, I knew it wasmydestiny. Chaos. Disaster. Transformation. Tower aflame, people plummeting toward death, escaping fire. This card pulled at my eyesight like none other. It thundered my human heart, pulsed blood into ringing ears, narrowed my eyesight to a pinprick. It was the only thing I knew to be true. My fate, the Tower, smothering my lungs with smoke, eating my flesh with fire. The Tower had changed my life once, and it would happen again.
My life was ephemeral. Short-lived.
And I admit: I want to exact revenge on the persons who snuffed out my life.
So, the man in the wide-brimmed hat. Asomoday, the evil soul that has tethered himself to Stella since her youth. One of the Trio, part of the Dark Legion. I’ve now seen the power he can give my Stella.
I did not intervene as he whispered, dark and deep into the recesses of my sister’s mind at Pax’s invitation:
Go.
CHAPTER THREE
I am not vain.
But this Pax fellow leads me to a carriage—a carriage! An extravagance even for the wealthy in a city like New York. My shoes being resoled is often the extent of my transportation costs.
He offers his hand to assist me inside, and his grip is strong yet soft, his nails perfectly manicured. I turn my pink cheeks to the window. I don’t know why I find his touch embarrassing. Not only is he off-limits, but he overflows with an exuberance that I find highly untrustworthy. I’ve never met someone so shrouded in shadow but so smiley and slick.
The carriage is pulled by a shaggy gray horse, and the cobblestone streets jar us, causing us to occasionally bump shoulders. “Pardon me,” I say when thrown against him.
“My pleasure,” he says like a scamp, and he winks.
“I imagine you win over plenty of weak-hearted ladies with lines like that.”
“Lines? Do you mean… conversation?”
I purse my lips. His demeanor is infuriating.
When we arrive at the restaurant, Pax offers his arm. “Allow me to relieve you of your dire circumstances.”
I sense he means more than this bumpy carriage ride, and I dislike that he’s assessed me so thoroughly, so quickly. Whatdoes he know of my dire circumstances? His sparkling green eyes crinkle in a way that raises all my suspicions.
He has a business proposition, I remind myself.You can tolerate him if there’s enough money involved.
Indeed. You should definitely get down to business, Stella.
Spirit howls with laughter at this. I inhale deeply.I am simply getting the nickel I am due. Perhaps more.
The restaurant—Zangheri’s on East Twenty-Second—makes me acutely aware of my less-than-spotless self, my less-than-stylish clothes. I wish I were still wearing my corset beneath these rags. I could use the armor in this place.
A string quartet floats music across the sunlit room. Spirit sends me the literal scent of money, dusty and inky. Diners titter and pat pearls and clink delicate teacups. The men’s chests are covered from belt buckle to Adam’s apple in gleaming buttons, every whisker and hair slicked into place. The women glide and swoon. Their clothes are crisp, clean. Mine are slack, gray. I am a bison here, in my thick, stompy boots and shaggy, loosed hair. I am whispered about.
Why did he bring me to this place? It feels deliberate, like he’s showing me exactly where he falls in New York City’s social strata. Or is it the opposite? Is he reminding me of my complete and totallackof status?
Likely both.
But I am hungry. My belly roars at the smells in the air: beef and potatoes and gravy. The emptiness that accompanies hunger feels like a personal insult, far more powerful and hurtful than mere gossip. So I follow Pax inside.
The maître d’ shows us to our table, a private affair in acozy corner. “Enjoy, Monsieur Princip.” Princip? My prince? It’s practically unbearable, the fairy-tale likeness: a prince in a carriage, a girl in rags. I instinctively search for the nearest exit. I’m not ready to sprint just yet, but soon, I feel. Soon.
Pax Princip holds my chair for me, scoots it in. He doesn’t seem the least bit fazed by how hulking I appear in comparison to these delicate feathers around us. Nor does he seem bothered by the dozens of women who slide their eyes at him, who inhale sharply at the sight of him, who shift in their seats so they can get a better glimpse of him. He is enticing. Noted.
Pax sits and tosses his expensive hat in an empty chair; he runs his fingers through his thick, dark hair.
