An Irish Country Girl by An Irish Country Girl

Author:An Irish Country Girl
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780765320711
Publisher: Tom Doherty Associates

21

Maureen waited for her eyes to become accustomed to the dim light. Madame Rosita was seated behind a baize-topped card table where a glass sphere and a pack of well-thumbed cards lay. Her features were hard to make out, but Maureen thought the woman seemed to be dark-complexioned and probably middle-aged. Her hair was hidden under a head scarf. She smiled. One of her upper front teeth was missing.

Heavy rings hung from her earlobes, and bracelets encircling both wrists jangled as she moved one hand to indicate that Maureen should take the folding chair opposite. It was easier to see now. The woman wore a scarlet shawl and rings on every finger.

“You want your future told, pretty one?” The voice was soft, melodious.

“Yes, please.”

“Hold out your hand.”

Maureen extended her hand, palm up. She still clutched the silver thruppence in the other. So, she thought, the crystal ball and cards were simply props. She was going to have her palms read. The Pavee took Maureen’s hand in her own. They were warm, dry, and rough. She leant forward and narrowed her hazel eyes. Wrinkles on her forehead deepened. When the woman moved closer, Maureen could smell foetid breath.

Maureen moved back, but the Pavee held tight, her gaze leaving Maureen’s hands and moving to her eyes. It was as deeply penetrating as the fox-woman’s had been.

The Pavee had a cast in her right eye. “So,” she said, “it’s your future you want?”

“I . . . I’m not sure.” Maureen half rose but found she was held fast. “I think I’ll . . .”

“Don’t go, child. I have seen things I do not understand in your fate line, your heart line, but I see a cross on your Mount of Venus that says you will find true love.”

“Love?” Maureen stopped trying to pull away. “Love?” Hadn’t that been what she’d been wondering about at the oddest times for the last year or so, like after she’d seen the caterpillar earlier today, and moments ago as she lifted the flap of this tent? She lowered herself into the chair. In for a penny, or more likely sixpence, in for a pound, she thought. “Anybody can predict love.” She half turned her head and looked sideways at the woman. “What don’t you understand?” Maureen asked.

“I cannot tell without the tarot.” She nodded at the cards.

Maureen allowed herself a small smile. This woman was as much a chancer as the man with the walnut shells, and yet—and yet why not? “How much?”

“I will set out ten cards in a Celtic cross. Card one will tell your present, card two your immediate challenge, card three your distant past. Each card has its own story to weave, right up to nine, which reveals your hopes and fears, and ten, which will speak of the final outcome. You must tell me whether you want a life reading, which is the telling of your whole span, or your future for a shorter time.”

I’m the fly and she’s the spider, Maureen thought.

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