The fortune-teller seized them by the wrists. Her touch was soft and dry, and she smelled of exotic spices Sophronia could not place. I must train my nose, she thought. Such information could be important, particularly if a given smell is associated with an enemy or an informant.
“Even now, you think only in terms of the game. You are well chosen, little bird. Or are you a stoat?” Madame Spetuna bent forward, looking even harder at Sophronia’s palms. She was close enough for Sophronia to feel the woman’s breath on her skin. “Give your heart wisely.” She paused a long time over one particular wrinkle. “Oh, child, you will end the world as we know it.” Madame Spetuna swallowed and then turned Sophronia’s hands over and placed them, palm down, on the table. She leaned forward, pressing them into the tablecloth as though she might rub out what she had seen.
It was an admirable performance. Sophronia thought she ought to applaud. Everyone was silent in awe. Sophronia looked over at Felix. He was making a face.
Then Monique giggled. “Stoat, of course Sophronia’s a stoat.”
Mademoiselle Geraldine recovered her composure. “What a very odd fortune, Miss Temminnick. What game could she possibly be referring to?”
“Oh, Headmistress, we have been playing loo these last few nights. Perhaps it is that?” Sophronia lied easily.
Mademoiselle Geraldine looked relieved. “Oh, yes, indeed. Now, which of the gentlemen would like to go next?”
Sophronia stood, reached into her reticule, and passed the fortune-teller a shilling and the note. Since handling and exchanging money was always an embarrassment, everyone made a point of not really watching the gratuity.
Sophronia pretended to get her skirt caught in the chair as she rose. In a flurry of long sleeves she bent and almost tipped Madame Spetuna’s teacup over. Under cover of this, the fortune-teller opened and read the note.
By the time Sophronia had sorted herself, and the chair, out—Mademoiselle Geraldine reprimanding her for such unladylike clumsiness—the note had vanished, and Madame Spetuna was giving Sophronia a funny look.
Sophronia arched one eyebrow. She’d been practicing that expression for days; it was a very intelligencer sort of skill, and she felt she ought to know how to do it. Her eyebrow twitched slightly and didn’t arch gracefully, but it got her point across.
The fortune-teller nodded, almost imperceptibly.
Pillover assumed the seat. “It’s all nonsense, of course.”
Madame Spetuna used the cards on him. “You are greater than the sum of your parts,” she said.
Pillover looked doubtfully down at his tubby form. Sophronia wondered at a woman dressed in scarves quoting Aristotle.
Madame Spetuna continued. “And you will never make your father happy. Stop trying.”
Pillover drooped.
Lord Dingleproops was next. “What a lark!”
“Wager to win, my lord, not to lose.”
“That’s all you have to say to me?”
“Wager any more and you could learn nothing at all.”
“You speak in riddles. Come on, Felix, saddle up.”
Felix assumed the seat, lounging back as was his insolent manner. His posture always gave the impression of not caring. About anything.
“You will not repeat your father’s mistakes. You will make new ones, all your own.”
“Very meaningful, Madame Spetuna. Of course, you might suspect any young man of being somewhat at odds with his father.” Felix’s eyes were narrowed.
Madame Spetuna only looked at him and adjusted the red-and-gold shawl around her shoulders.
The young viscount slouched over to take a seat opposite Sophronia and next to Monique. He ought have talked to Monique, but instead he said to Sophronia, “Occult nonsense.”
Sophronia blinked at him, her green eyes very direct. “Well, are you, my lord?”
“Am I what?”
“At odds with your father?”
“Is that interest I see at last, Ria, my dove?” Felix smiled and turned to talk with Monique.