Page 4 of Crown of Roses
She was also Maeve’s best friend.
“Why were you in such a rush to get out of the castle anyway?” Saoirse asked, drawing Maeve’s attention back from her wandering thoughts.
“The queen has guests arriving soon. “
It was all that needed to be said.
Saoirse nodded stiffly. She was well aware of Maeve’s blood curse. She heard the way Carman spoke to Maeve, how she treated her, how she more or less exiled her to the city of Kells whenever her reputation was on the line.
“Come on.” Saoirse linked her arm through Maeve’s. “Let’s go find whatever smells so delicious.”
Together they strolled through the market square, passing numerous vendors and shop owners selling an abundance of goods. The center of Kells had come alive with townspeople moving through the stalls, bartering prices, and trading merchandise. They passed a bookshop filled with cozy nooks, stuffed with oversized chairs and comfortable pillows, and shelves upon shelves of reading material. There were jewelry-makers, blacksmiths, leatherworkers, and any number of storefronts crammed into the old brick buildings, lending Kells an air of serenity and charm.
Off one of the side alleys, Maeve caught a glimpse of a large red tent with a wooden sign propped up on the cobblestone that read “fortunes”. Curiosity piqued in the back of her mind, but Saoirse was already dragging her toward the cart where an elderly couple always sold the best lemon sugar scones.
Maeve took a bite of her scone, and the tart lemons collided on her tongue with gooey white chocolate and crumbling pastry. It was decadent. She bit off another piece and nodded toward the red tent. “Do you believe in fate?”
Saoirse, who was usually the epitome of a femme fatale, licked the lemon sugar drizzle running down the edge of her scone. “Of course. It’s hard not to, but I also think everyone is given a chance to change their fate. Nothing is permanent.”
Maybe not even a blood curse…
Saoirse had a point. The hands of fate wove a delicate tapestry, and each thread was a soul with a destiny all its own. But how often had she prayed to the night skies for the removal of her curse without a response? Perhaps it was a course she would have to change by herself, without the help of gods and goddesses.
Maeve glanced over at Saoirse who was finishing off the last of her scone. “What do you think is written in the stars for you?”
“For me?” Saoirse arched her brow, as though she’d never considered her own future. She looked out past the city, toward the Gaelsong Port. “Honestly? I believe my fate is tied to keeping you alive.”
Maeve grabbed Saoirse’s hand and tugged her toward the swaying red tent. “Let’s go, I want to hear my fortune.”
“What?” Saoirse eyed the tent where chimes jingled in the cooling breeze. Her hand instinctively went to one of the daggers on her jeweled band. “Are you serious?”
“Yeah, come on. Just for fun, I promise.”
But the moment Maeve stepped inside the moody tent, her blood started to hum.
The air was perfumed, incensed with a scent of cedarwood and orange blossom that was so dense, it caused her eyes to water. Strands of glossy black beads dangled like a curtain, and ivory skulls were perched on stakes. In the middle of the tent stood a round table draped in a black cloth and a clear crystal ball was propped up on a block of wood. Overhead a bronze lantern spun slowly, causing flickers of gold to flash along the tent walls like shadows. Goosebumps prickled Maeve’s flesh, and a strange sensation seized her gut, but she brushed off the feeling, thinking it had more to do with the heady scent hanging in the air, and less to do with her own intuition.
Saoirse scowled. “This is a terrible idea.”
A second later there was a startling pop and a puff of smoke.
Maeve jumped and Saoirse glued herself to her side.
“Hello!” An old woman moved out from behind a sheer layer of fabric draped from the ceiling and gestured them forward. “Come in, come in my dear hearts.”
The woman ambled forward, and the stack of bracelets stretching up her arms jingled in song. Her back curved with age, she had long, spindly fingers, and her yellowed nails were sharpened to a point. Stringy gray hair fell down to nearly her waist, and when she smiled, tar and some other unknown substances clung to her teeth. She bowed regally. “I am Madam Dansha.”
“You can’t be serious,” Saoirse muttered.
Maeve jabbed her lightly with her elbow.
Madam Dansha’s beady gaze zeroed in on Maeve. “You…you are the one who wants your fortune told.”
Saoirse crossed her arms, unimpressed. “Lucky guess.”
“Sit, sit,” Madam Dansha crooned.
Maeve ignored the complaints of her friend, and slid into the chair across the table from the fortune teller.
