Carry On Wayward Son
ONE
“Focus, now, Mildred.” Laying out a quick three card spread, Claire Wiche set down her tarot deck and gently pushed away the old woman’s grasping fingers. “You know how this works.”
“I just want the answer, girl, not a lecture on tarot.”
Claire smiled, swallowing the numerous remarks she wished she could say. “All in good time. You want the answer, you need to follow the steps. The ritual.”
“Fine.” Mildred mumbled something under her breath, but she kept her hands to herself.
Nodding, Claire continued, wanting to be done with the reading. She had a headache building behind her eyes—and she could tell already it was going to be a monster. “Now, ask your question, out loud—and without a complaint attached. It could skew the reading.”
Mildred clasped her hands together, let out her breath. “Does Jeremy love me?”
Her faded eyes shone with hope, and that kept Claire from rushing the reading, or directing her to ask a different question. She adjusted the soft leather band on her left wrist, covering her scarred triquetra, and turned over the first card. Mildred let out her breath.
“This is the other person.” Claire managed not to flinch; the card was the Knight of Cups—reversed. Which marked her intended beloved as unreliable and reckless, as well as a liar. “And this is you, Mildred.” She said a silent prayer and turned over the second card. The Queen of Swords. Reversed.
Mildred hissed—and Claire had to grab her wrist to keep her from slapping the card off the table.
“I am not intolerant and narrow minded!”
“Mildred.” Claire kept her voice quiet, soothing. “You know the cards can be fickle. Perhaps we should wait for another time—”
“I want to see the last card.”
She tried not to cringe at Mildred’s high-pitched whine. “All right. This is your relationship.”
Closing her eyes briefly, she turned over the third card. And waited for the temper explosion.
“The Three of Pentacles reversed? You pulled three reversed cards—”
“I had you pull them, Mildred—”
The old woman kept going, talking over Claire. “Three cards meant to doom my relationship! Cards that lie about both of us! Jeremy is a wonderful man—he would never lie to me, never use me—”
“Mildred.” Claire gripped both of her hands. “I need you to calm down. There is nothing to this—they are simple cards, chosen at random.” And told the truth, this time, in colorful detail. Claire knew this Jeremy, and dreaded the day he tried to work his snake oil charm on her. Or, heaven help him, Annie. “If it is meant to be, it will happen—no matter what the cards say.” Claire stood; rubbing at her now throbbing temple she moved behind Mildred’s chair and helped the still angry old woman to her feet. “I will send you home with a pink candle and some rose quartz. No charge,” she added, before Mildred could protest. “Consider it part of the reading. I’ll put them in a bag for you.”
Grabbing what she needed on her way to the front counter, she nestled the quartz in a small silver box, wrapped the candle in tissue and slipped them both in one of her nicer handle bags, adding more tissue.
She knew Mildred had been bitterly disappointed by the reading, but the old woman forced down the rest of her complaints, which made Claire feel even more generous. Handing over the bag, she gripped the counter when pain stabbed through her head.
“Are you all right, dear? You look even more pale than usual.”
“Just a headache. I’ll be fine. Thank you for your concern, Mildred. I am sorry the reading didn’t go well for you—”
“There’s always tomorrow. And I’ll bring my own deck next time. You rest up,” she patted Claire’s hand. “I want you at your best. A Celtic Cross will take all your talent.”
Proud she didn’t cringe, Claire managed a smile. “I look forward to the challenge.”
She waited until Mildred toddled out of sight, then locked the door, pushing the sign to Closed before she switched off the lights. The headache had a nasty grip on her now; she would be lucky to make it to the back room, never mind going home.
She rubbed the vise-like pain at the back of her neck, still startled when her fingers met the shoulder length ends of her hair. Less than a month was not enough time to adjust to her shorn hair, when she had worn it long for decades.
She got as far as the reading table. Clutching the back of the chair, she used it to sink to the floor, every move making her nauseous. Cradling her head, she moaned as another jolt of pain tore through her head.
The vision slammed into her, as fast and vivid as the first one she had been subjected to. The day she met Marcus. The Jinn’s power yanked her out of the quiet shop and into a sand-whipped landscape.