Page 17 of Roses & Ruin

There’s not really a line up here, more of a vague blob.

“She chooses the order of who gets to go,” a girl whispers. “I’ve been here for an hour already, but I’ve heard she’s good.”

“That’s okay,” I say. “I’m just looking for a friend.” I have no intention of getting a reading. I hover a few feet from the small gathering, watching the flap of the tent, my boot tapping.

The tent opens with a rustle of thick fabric. A pleasantly wrinkled woman about my grandmother’s age steps out, her white curls tucked into a purple scarf. Behind her, a tiny boy with thick glasses walks quickly out, his face very red.

Disappointment carves through me. He’s not here. Why do I keep getting my hopes up? I turn toward the stairs.

“You there, girl. You’re next,” I hear the palm reader call. Someone stops me with a hand on my arm. The girl who had been waiting an hour.

“She’s talking to you,” she says, eyes wide. I look back, and the old woman’s sharp eyes flash.

“That’s right, come. I’m sensing quite the aura from you.” She crooks a long fingernail at me and reenters her tent. Everyone’s looking at me. Wringing my hands, I follow the palm reader, my stomach in knots.

The space inside the tent is small and perfumed with incense. It’s not unpleasant. The old woman sits on a golden pouf on the other side of a tiny table.

“Go on, go on, sit, sit, I haven’t got all day.” She groans as she settles and puts on large, cat-eyed glasses. With a shrewd look, she sizes me up.

“I don’t really have—”

“Time. I know. So busy, such a hurry, people to find, yes?” She arches a brow. “You have time for this, girl. He can wait.” I frown, taken aback. She can’t possibly know…right? “Now, I believe you need to show me your Payen student ID to make sure you qualify for a free reading.”

I bite back a smile as I dig it out of my wallet. I’m so distracted, I accidentally hand her my driver’s license first.

“I know, I know. Flashing a card to get a palm reading,” she says dryly. “Like swiping your Visa at a ren fest. Think it ruins the mysticism?”

“Maybe a little,” I admit, sheepish.

“Hmph. Well, it doesn’t work that way, Rose.” I startle, but then she hands me back my driver’s license. Right. I just gave her my full name. I flash her my student ID before tucking both cards back into my wallet. With a sniff, she takes my hand and starts inspecting my fingers.

“I know you’re a skeptic,” she begins, “but joke’s on you: Skeptics are my favorite. Because unlike those turkey-leg-loving clowns who joust and swallow swords and charge fifteen dollars for deep-fried Oreos, I’m the real deal.” She wheezes a laugh, and I shift in my seat, unsettled but curious.

“You’ve been awfully lonely, haven’t you?” she says quietly. My eyes snap up. She’s already surveying me with watery, red-rimmed eyes.

“That…” I swallow against the thick rise in my throat. “You could probably say that to anyone and it’d be true.”

“Yes,” says the palm reader. “But I’m saying it to you.” She grins, a sudden gap-toothed smile. “Oh! Now look here. You won’t be lonely forever, girl. You have a girdle of Venus. It’s rare, that. Earned it with some trauma, didn’t you? But a small price to pay for passion, don’t you think?”

Trauma? Passion? Is she talking about my near miss last year?

“Now, let’s take a look at this love line of yours.” She giddily walks two fingers from the edge of my hand toward the center until, abruptly, she stops. Her hand falls to her lap. Unmoving, unblinking, she stares and stares into my palm in silence. My pulse picks up a tick, an uneasy rhythm. I clear my throat.

“So, what about my love line?” At the sound of my voice, the old woman’s head jerks up. Her face is pale, and she won’t meet my eyes.

“You need to go home.” She shoves my hand back at me. “Now. Tomorrow, if possible.”

“What do you mean, home?” I ask when she doesn’t elaborate. “You mean the dorm?”

“Of course not,” she spits. “I mean you get on a plane tomorrow and put three thousand miles between you and Payen.” It’s such an outrageous thing for her to say, I burst into laughter. The old woman looks stricken by my insolence.

“I’m sorry. I’m not making fun.” I wave an apologetic hand. “It’s just unusual. I’ve never heard a reading like this.”

Oddly, all anger falls from her expression. Her face sags, and she suddenly looks about a hundred years old. It stops my laughter cold. “Go back to California, Rose,” she says, voice grave. “Or you will die.”

A shock of fear shoots through my stomach.

She saw my driver’s license. It’s called a cold reading. Don’t buy it, Rose. And still, I lean forward, desperate for more information.