Page 88 of A Resistance of Witches

Twenty-Four

“It’s midday, love. Come on now. Up with you.”

Lydia was racked with aches and chills, and her bedsheets had an unsavory, lived-in feeling. She’d spent the better part of the night searching the shadows, waiting for whoever or whatever was in her room to reveal itself. Then, slowly, the sun had emerged, flooding her room with weak morning light, and Lydia had realized that she was alone. She’d fallen back into a troubled sleep and woken later that morning, long enough to wash and have a coffee, before returning to her bed, where she’d spent the remainder of the day.

“I don’t understand why I’m not getting stronger,” Lydia gasped as she pushed herself upright.

“Perhaps it’s because every time I leave you alone for more than a minute, you’re trying to leave your body and fly off to France.” Lydia looked at her mother in surprise. “Oh please. You think you’re such a mystery?”

Lydia reached for her dressing gown. Her legs quivered as she stood. “What are we doing?”

“Reading cards.”

“Mother,no.”

Evelyn rummaged through the chest of drawers. “Where is that deck I gave you? I was sure it was in here. Ah! There we are.” She produced a small bundle, wrapped in an old green silk scarf. There was a sprig of something tucked into the knot of the fabric, now dried beyond recognition.

“I think I should lie down.” Lydia tried to return to her bed, but Evelyn intercepted her with a firm hand on the arm.

“Lie down long enough, you’ll never get back up. Come on, the tea’s ready.”

She settled Lydia in a kitchen chair with a pillow behind her back. Evelyn’s own tarot deck was already on the table, set atop a swatch of black silk. Grudgingly, Lydia unwrapped the bundle in front of her, setting the tiny dried flower off to one side. The deck had been a gift from her mother for her tenth birthday, a perfect copy of the one Evelyn used. She turned the deck over in her hands and noted how the cards were still crisp and new looking, barely touched all these years later. Meanwhile, Evelyn’s deck was worn at the edges from decades of use.

“I’m not sure I remember how to read them.”

Evelyn clucked her tongue. “There you go again, always so concerned about the meanings. Relax. Go with your instincts.”

“Easy for you to say.”

Evelyn poured the tea, then handed her own faded deck to Lydia. “I’ll read first, give you a moment to get reacquainted. Go on, then. Think of a question and give them a shuffle.”

Lydia began to shuffle the cards in her hands. They gave off a familiar odor—oakmoss, vanilla, tea, dust.

“What’s your question?”

Lydia hadn’t told Evelyn anything about what had happened in France. She’d become so accustomed to keeping her mother in the dark about her work within the academy, she’d hardly known where to begin.

“My friends,” she said after a moment. “Are they alive?”

Evelyn frowned, but nodded. “Cut.” Lydia cut the deck, as she had a hundred times when she was a child.

Evelyn began laying out cards, drawing two to start—the knight of swords and the Hermit. She laid these at the top of the black silk, then drew five more. The images didn’t speak to Lydia the same way they did Evelyn, but they still stirred strange feelings in her—like a story being told in a language she only vaguely understood. Evelyn arranged the cards in a straight line: five of cups, five of swords, six of swords, eight of swords. Too many swords always made Lydia anxious. When Evelyn laid down the final card, Lydia took in a quick breath:Death.

“What have I told you about the Death card?” Evelyn said calmly. “It represents changes, transformations.”

“Is it ever interpreted literally?” Lydia tried to hide the tremor in her voice.

“Sometimes. But not today.” Evelyn placed her fingers on the two cards at the top of the spread, the knight and the Hermit. “They’re alive.”

Lydia exhaled. She and Evelyn had their differences, but Lydia knew one thing for certain—her mother’s cards always spoke the truth.

Evelyn laid her fingertips on the five of cups, with its solemn figure standing morosely over his spilled chalices.

“They’re worried about you. They don’t know if you’re alive or dead. They fear the worst.”

She moved on to the five of swords. A smirking figure stood in the foreground, with his two vanquished foes behind him. Their swords lay abandoned at his feet.

“They were captured.”

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