“I’ve tried that, and it didn’t work. I only see things at random.”
She rolls her eyes. “That’s because it’s too new. You haven’t conquered it yet. That will require months of meditation and practice.”
Bee stares at Nina intently, as though she’s working something out, likely trying to read Nina’s mind. “No wonder you’re flustered by this power. It appears as though your mind fixates on the obscene.”
Nina’s face flushes bright red, and she stammers, “That’s not— I see into the minds of the people I touch! I’ve seen all kinds of thoughts—it’s not always—”
Bee bursts into laughter, clearly amused by Nina’s discomfort. I can’t help but smirk at the scene. This is the first time I’m meeting Bee, but there’s something oddly familiar about her demeanor—something reminiscent of Corinne.
Bee’s expression softens slightly, but she remains with a teasing edge. “Relax, Nina. It’s all part of the process. Everyone’s mind has its quirks. If you’re seeing things that make you blush, it’s probably because people’s thoughts are just as chaotic as you’re finding them.”
Nina takes a deep breath, still visibly embarrassed. “Fine, but I’m going to need a lot of practice if I’m going to handle what I see without feeling like I need to take a bath in holy water.”
I snort, barely able to contain my laughter. Nina’s frustration is clear, and her look practically screams,I’m serious. This stuff is filthy.
Bee meets her glare with a perfectly straight face. “Well, I suppose a cleansing ritual might be more effective than trying to scrub it all away with the church’s less-than-blessed holy tap water.Though, at this point, you might need a full exorcism to clear out the mental clutter. Or, you know, maybe just keep your hands to yourself and refrain from peopling until you’ve got this under control.”
“Oh, great. Maybe I should just wrap myself in aluminum foil and make a grand entrance as the world’s most neurotic human,” Nina snaps.
I sense the brewing storm and realize it’s time to step in before this turns into a full-blown catfight. “Okay…Time to go.”
Bee stands from the desk, walking to a bookshelf against the wall. She scans the shelves until she finds what she’s looking for. She pulls not one but three books from the shelf and places them on the desk in front of us.
“Here. Take these and read up.” She slides the books across the desk. “When you’re done, please return them. My address is on the inside of each book, along with my phone number. Call if you have questions.”
“Thank you,” we say in unison, Nina sounding a bit more relaxed than moments ago.
From this meeting, I’ve learned how important intention and seeking guidance from the universe will be if I want to utilize my gifts in full. There’s so much potential, but it’s not going to come to me overnight. I’ll need to work to nurture my abilities.
As the sun sits low over Jackson Square, we leave Bee’s place feeling enlightened and empowered, armed with newfound knowledge to navigate the complexities of our abilities.
We meet Lanie and shove copious amounts of fried dough into our mouths, completely content to call that our dinner for the night. We’re tired and need to check into our rooms.
The sun is beginning to dip below the horizon as we arrive at the old, historic bed-and-breakfast nestled in the heart of New Orleans’s Garden District. The house looms before us, its ornatefaçade adorned with intricate carvings and latticework. Ivy creeps up the sides of the building, adding to its charm.
“This is…an interesting choice,” Nina says, sliding up next to me.
“I love it,” Lanie says, clapping her hands in excitement. “It’s got all the vibes.”
I chuckle, shoulders shaking at Lanie’s enthusiasm.
The wrought-iron gate creaks open as we step onto the cobblestone pathway, leading us to the grand Victorian mansion that will be our home for the duration of our stay.
Entering the foyer, we are greeted by the smell of aged wood and potpourri. The interior is a testament to the house’s storied past, with antique furniture and vintage decor in every corner. It feels as though we have stepped back in time.
“May I help you?” A stout woman wearing an apron and hairnet looks up at us from behind a desk.
“We’re checking in,” I say. “Two rooms under the name Mann.”
“Do you happen to have a third room? Even for one night?” Lanie asks.
“You can stay with me,” Nina says, but Lanie shakes her head.
The woman flips through a bulky book, indicating that the Ramada House hasn’t modernized its check-in procedure, opting to maintain a traditional approach.
“They’re on the third floor,” announces a woman emerging from the back, clad in a black jumpsuit with bleached hair neatly pulled back. She doesn’t appear to be too much older than we are. “Thank you, Rosie. I’ll take it from here.”
The older woman bows slightly, rushing off, mumbling something under her breath.
