As I’m walking toward the spot where Ben moved my booth, I see Duncan waving at me frantically. He sits in the middle of a tent made of brightly paneled canvas on the outside, plush drapes and colored-glass lanterns on the inside. Only a few patrons are here this early, so I head inside.
It’s everything that pop culture wants me to think a fortune-teller’s tent should be. A small table covered in layers of scarves sits in the middle, but instead of a crystal ball, there are several chunks of quartz set upon it. A few teapots on electric burners sit in the corner, with a teetering stack of mismatched porcelain cups behind them. Loose teas in glass jars cover the surface the next table over. Thin plumes of smoke trail from cones of incense, and I miss the smell. Mom always, always had some burning in her office back home. And lined up neatly on a shelf at the back of a tent, near a loosely closed flap, are dark-green glass bottles that look way too familiar.
Duncan beckons me closer to the table. “Emma, meet my sister.” He gestures to the girl at the back of the tent. A cloud of black curls frames a pretty, dark-brown face with perfect cheekbones. Both siblings have the same mischievous smile that probably did—and does—get them into trouble constantly. Curves strain at her vintage T-shirt, and she has stacks of mismatched bracelets on each arm.
“So,” Duncan is saying, “this is Pia.” As I get closer I realize she has a tiny silver stud at the curve of her nostril. When she grabs my hand, warmth fills it, and I don’t want to let go.
“Sorry about the curse thing,” Pia says as she plops down into the chair next to Duncan. She picks up a worn tarot deck, shuffling the cards between her hands as she talks, her plump fingers nimble and quick.
“Why would you be sorry?”
She shrugs and makes the cards jump from one hand to the other. “Family history says it was our great-aunt who started it.” She points to the corner with the bottles of wine. “We make that. It takes a year to produce one bottle, and according to family legend, it’s our penance. You can take a bottle to keep in the booth if you want, or just swing by here when you’ve got a rube.”
“Is that why you helped me the other day?” I ask Duncan, thinking back on my makeover in the costume trailer.
He waves a hand at me. “Nah. That had more to do with my love of gossip than anything else.”
“I wish I could do a reading for you,” Pia says, grabbing my hand suddenly and running a finger over my unlined palm. “You’ll have to come back when you transfer the curse.”
“There are other ways to do readings,” Duncan says, his eyes alight with interest. “But,” he says with a sigh, glancing past me to the growing flux of customers outside, “it’ll have to be another time.”
I leave and make my way through the carnival, past a woman with impossibly purple hair and a pack of dogs—including the scruffy terrier who cuddled with me my first night here—jumping up and down ramps and through hoops, and past a pen where Gin is riding a horse bareback. There I have to stop for just a second to watch.
There’s no saddle, just Gin and the horse. She runs him in an easy canter around the pen, and then rises to stand on his back in one fluid motion. She sees me watching from the perimeter and gives me a wave and a wild whoop before sitting back down. I continue my search.
After leaving Gin, it isn’t long before I find the box, exactly where Ben promised me it would be, prominently in the center of the midway. The scarlet paint is a fiery glow in the lights of the other midway attractions. The glass glitters, the gold leaf swirls prettily on the sides. Inside, the curtain twitches just before Ben appears. He ducks down, and a moment later the golden lights wash the interior with their bright glow. He runs a cloth over some smudge on the glass, drops a few quarters into the bowl, and with one last look around, he exits the booth.
For whatever reason, it’s easier to trust him, more so than anyone else I’ve met so far. Maybe it’s because he oozes sincerity, like he can’t even help himself but to be honest. Maybe it’s because try as I might, I can’t seem to find an agenda with him—no guilt to work off, no selfish reasons for being here. Or maybe it’s just because I’m apparently a sucker for a boy with ridiculously adorable Disney-prince hair and brilliant-blue eyes.
“Hey,” he says, his voice as bright as the new bulbs he just installed in the booth. His shirt has shifted, showing off the line marking his golden tan and the lighter, actual color of his skin. It takes me longer than I’m proud of to drag my gaze away. “Made a few tweaks, cleaned the thing up. The drawer on the inside was sticking, so I oiled the tracks, but let me know if it gives you trouble, okay?”
I nod, racking my brain for something clever to say, but it seems as though the curse has petrified the witty part of my brain, too. I may spend a little more time than is polite watching his slightly too-small T-shirt move over the muscles in his back as he walks away.
When I get into the booth, I can see the small touches he’s put into place. The quarters make it seem like other people have already found me interesting enough to take a chance on a fortune. I think he’s upped the wattage on the lightbulbs, because the inside of the box is warmer than before, and my twitching is just a little bit less than it had been the other night. When your world is all about being stuck in the cold, you notice things like that.
The crowds trickle in. I’m between a booth selling sodas and a row of Skee-Ball machines, so there are far more people around than last time. The quarters in my bowl multiply, but not a one of their donors seems like a good candidate to take over my position. I don’t have the nerve to ask Sidney why he chose me—I know what he’ll say and I don’t think my delicate ego can take it. I was alone and I was gullible as hell. In a word—perfect. None of the patrons so far fit that description. There are too many bright and shining stars that would be missed if I forced them into this life.
Until the boy shows up.
He’s alone, and that’s a good start. His eyes are as dark as his hair, which seems like it might be curly if he grew it out. He wanders up with a vague curiosity, reading the swirling gold promises of futures told that decorate the glass. When he isn’t looking, I put on the most charming smile I have in my arsenal.
A stab of guilt hits me in the gut when I think about taking this boy out of his life. But then a spasm knocks my leg into the side of the booth hard enough to make the boy look around, and I think about feeling warm again. About breathing and a breeze tickling my skin.
I can do this.
The boy digs into his pocket and finds a quarter, a bright and shiny thing in the dark, and he slips it into the slot. As it plinks on top of the others that fill the bowl, I start my act. I remember Sidney, and what he had done. The boy watches my every move, the way I gaze at him from under my lashes, how I tap my chin thoughtfully as I pretend to contemplate. There is a split second where I could change my mind, where I could offer him some banal fortune and send him on his way. But when I drop the card into the tray, I know what it will say.