Page 107 of The Black Table
“The…table?” I translate. “What’s that mean?”
“I alreadysaid, I’m not sure,” Morgan all but snaps. She looks me dead in the eye, and for the first time since the day we met in our dorm room I see a sharp edge of suspicion in her gaze. “What did you ask?”
Lucinda intervenes with a slight cough. “You don’t have to tell her, ah?—”
“Gwenna,” I say, not looking away from the cards.
“Gwenna,” Lucinda finishes graciously. “Morgan, perhaps it’s an old deck. You know how the classictarocchihas some variations in the cards that?—”
But Morgan is only fixed on me. “What did you ask?” she says again, a bit more gently.
I stare at her, stare at the cards.
What am I doing at Camlann House?
But before I can answer, a soft hum breaks the silence. Morgan’s phone, in her back pocket. She shakes to life, pulls it out and gives the tiniest eye roll.
“Sorry,” she says. “I’ve got to take this.” She waves the phone in the air, scooping her purchases and the loose cards into her tote bag. “Gwen, meet you for coffee? I won’t be long.”
I nod, swallowing, hiding the untethered wriggle of panic that’s now taken up residence in my chest.
Be normal.
“Great.” She whips the phone out of sight, but not so quickly that I can’t see whose name came up on the screen. “Hey. I’m getting it now. Can you…”
Kingston.
With its reclaimed wood tabletops,stark white walls, and minimalist decor, Eclipse Coffee Lab is decidedlynotHoly Grounds.
But heads still turn my way when I enter.
Fine, I think, lifting my chin.It’s going to be that way? Stare all you want.
Armed with my fake-it-til-I-make-it energy, I get at the end of the long line, trying to lose my train of thought in the whistling of the espresso machine and the faint sounds of 70s yacht rock—played ironically, I’m sure—over the PA system.
The letterboard behind the bar informs me that I won’t be getting a beverage for less than six bucks, which makes me wince a little—but still, it’s caffeine. And I need some kind of pick-me-up after that tarot card incident.
As I’m debating between a macchiato and a flat white, the line shuffles forward, and the guy in front of me flicks a glance over his shoulder. I see him from the corner of my eye, but do my best to ignore him, staring straight at the tiny plastic letters and emitting as manyfuck offvibes as I can without saying as much out loud.
It doesn’t work. He looks again, this time angling himself to look at me more fully, and the prickling sensation of being not just seen, butobservedcreeps up my chest. I give it another few seconds, waiting for social decorum to kick in and for him to deflect his stare, but…nothing.
My fingers start to shake, and I tuck them up inside the sleeve of my peacoat. The line shuffles forward again, more heads from nearby tables turning and more whispers stirring. Somewhere overhead, the soundtrack shifts to a bumping disco track, upbeatand vaguely familiar, but pinging something in the back of my brain that saysdanger.
Another step forward. The guy still stares. And then the chorus kicks in, and I realize why I hate this song.
Disco Inferno.
Burn, baby, burn…
Titters come from the coffee shop crowd as heat climbs up my neck. And this fucking guy is still staring at me.
I can’t take it. I wheel on him.
“What?” I say, a tremble in my voice. “Is this your little prank?” I sweep a hand in the air to indicate wherever the fuck the speakers are. “You want to get a reaction out of the crazy pyromaniac girl, or whatever? Cute. Very mature. Points for creativity.”
The guy’s expression shifts from curiosity to blank indifference.
“I beg your pardon.” His lips tilt in a smile—apologetic, but not guilty. “I only wanted to see what all were staring at,” he goes on. “I see it’s you, and…”
