Page 1 of Scorpio Season

1

They’re at The Hare and Oak, an hour and a half into Florence’s shift, when the call comes.

At eight thirty in the evening, the pub is buzzing with a mix of the usual after-work crowd stopping in for a pint and the regulars who are here to catch whatever Premier League game is on. The sounds from the old TV in the corner are all but drowned out by the racket. Florence has to lean halfway across the bar to make out the orders that are being shouted at her, and even then, she’s practicing her lip-reading skills.

“Hey, Flo!”

The sound of her name has her looking up from the pint she’s pulling. Miray is beaming at her, waving her closer. Florence hands the drink over to Hugh, one of the regulars, before turning toward the end of the bar where Miray and Toni are nursing the bottle of cheap wine that Florence slid them when Earl wasn’t looking. The sight of them loitering around the pub after band practice is familiar; the deck of cards spread out in front of them is less so.

“What’s this?” Florence asks, propping her hip against the counter.

“I brought tarot cards,” Miray informs her. Between the wine and the heat inside the pub, her cheeks are glowing red. “Do you want to pick one?”

Florence has seen these flying around Miray’s room before. It’s the type of thing Miray loves—less, Florence suspects, because she truly believes in divination, and more for how romantic the idea of it is.

She asks, “Have you all picked one?”

“Miray and I have,” Toni reports, a hair tie held between her teeth as she pulls her dark-blond hair off her face. Her curtain bangs still look effortlessly perfect even after a day of working at the climbing gym and three hours of band practice. “Izzy went outside for a smoke. Something about not wanting to ‘fuck around with occult bullshit.’”

Considering Izzy’s mile-wide superstitious streak and penchant for weird indie horror films, this answer does not surprise Florence. “How does this work?” she asks. “Do I just pick one at random?”

“Basically! Just try to focus on your intuition,” Miray says, handing her the deck.

It’s hard to focus on much of anything amidst all the noise. Florence darts a look over her shoulder to make sure Earl is distracted before shuffling the cards. They feel well-used as they glide through her fingers, softened around the edges from passing through Miray’s hands so many times. She’s not sure if it’s her own body heat or the temperature inside the pub that makes them feel warm, but the effect is a disconcerting sense of handling something that’s alive.

“Florence.” She jumps at the gruff voice that sounds from behind her. “I don’t keep you around so you can use my pub to hang out.”

Florence hastily picks a card and sets it face down on the counter before turning to offer Earl her most angelic smile. “No,” she agrees. “You keep me around because you love me.”

The look that Earl sends her is entirely unimpressed. With his towering size and perpetual scowl, he cuts an intimidating figure. Florence would be warier of him if she hadn’t grown up calling him Uncle Earl and spending entire afternoons wreaking havoc behind this very bar. Whenever she and her mum would come to London, The Hare and Oak was where they had dinner—Florence distinctly remembers kicking her feet against the counter and sipping ginger ale while Earl and her mum talked adult things. Ever since she moved to London to study, the pub has been her second home. Florence gets mistaken by some of the patrons for Earl’s daughter sometimes. When Earl isn’t around to overhear, she doesn’t bother to correct them.

“You’re lucky I haven’t fired you,” Earl grouses half-heartedly, just as two middle-aged men come up to the bar. Jerking his chin in their direction, he tells her, “Hop to it.”

Florence sends Toni and Miray an apologetic glance before she drifts over to the two men. They’re followed by a group of American tourists and a gaggle of college-aged boys. At some point, Izzy comes back and slides onto the seat next to Miray, a blur of leather and raven hair in Florence’s peripheral vision. One of the football teams scores a goal, and the noise grows even louder, leading to a new wave of drink orders, some celebratory, some sorrowful. Florence smiles and jokes and flirts her way through them, comfortable in her role as the charming barkeep with a carefully curated air of unattainability. Every once in a while, she checks her reflection in the glass door of the fridge; her dark curls are trying to escape the containment of her claw clip, and her red lipstick needs a touch-up, but there’s little to be done about it in the midst of this onslaught.

It’s as she’s picking out the change for a German couple that Miray calls her name again. “Flo! Someone’s calling you.” In her hand she’s holding the phone that Florence left with them at the beginning of her shift.

“Pick up,” Florence shouts back. It’s probably her mum; Florence meant to call her earlier but didn’t get around to it. Turning back to the Germans, she swiftly counts out the change and wishes them a good rest of their evening. All the while, she has half an ear out for Miray, who is talking loudly into the phone with a hand pressed over one ear.

“Hello? I’m sorry, she can’t talk right now. Would you like me to . . . What?”

There’s something in her tone that makes Florence turn around. Miray’s warm-brown doe eyes have widened to the size of saucers. Her voice comes out in a high squeak as she says, “Are you serious? No, we—no, of course we’re free.” A short gasp, muffled behind the fingers she’s pressing to her lips. “Uh-huh. No. Really?”

Florence drifts closer, exchanging a bewildered glance with Toni while Izzy tries to see the number on the screen.

“Yes,” Miray says, a tremble in her voice. “Of course. I will let them know. Thank you so much.”

She hangs up.

“Who was that?” Florence asks.

Miray stares at her, dazed. “Juno Wilde’s assistant.”

Florence’s heart suddenly forgets how to beat. “Juno Wilde,” she repeats. “Juno Wilde as in—the singer? That Juno Wilde?”

“Uh-huh,” Miray manages.

“Hello?” Izzy asks Miray impatiently. “Tiny? Can you explain?”