Page 2 of Foresyth Conservatory
Outside, blanched clouds cast gloom over the stained glass, their colors becoming opaque, closing the room into a tighter space. I kept my gaze on the Meister as I moved, taking in the details of his form. What he didn’t realize was that he had lost his advantage the moment he stepped into my bookstore.
My eyes darted to the cane in his hand. An old injury—I could tell by the smooth cadence of his walk. As if he’dlived with a limp his entire life. An injury from birth, or perhaps childhood? The grass outside had wetted the wood of his cane, but a resin coating kept the water from soaking through. It beaded instead at the tip, leaving a mark on the rug—pentagonal in shape. An odd, custom design. He must be wealthy to afford such a custom build. Then there were the markings on the cane—jagged, angular, and not from this century. Nordic runes, perhaps?
An admirer of old magick? Nowthatwas interesting.
As the Meister sat down, a rumble of thunder resounded outside, filling the shop with a burst of light. I noticed a scar on his face, running from the top of his eyebrow down to his cheek, interrupted only by the edge of his bespectacled eye.
Meister . . . of music, or of art? My eyes scanned upward, noting the fabric and fitting of his attire. When he placed his hand in his pocket, I caught a glimpse of the fine silk lining of his coat—a geometric design in red and blue. A stark contrast to his otherwise dark, plain outerwear. His fingers bore no calluses from playing instruments; on the contrary, they looked soft, refined. So, I bet on the latter.
“A wealthy Meister of art, with a proclivity for old magick, I take it?” His eyes widened for a fraction of a second. I suppressed a smile as I circled the table and gestured for him to sit. He was indeed one of the most interesting people I had come across in Greenwich.
“Very impressive. But not just a proclivity, I must admit—an obsession.” His grin widened with eyes alight. “Let’s see what else you can tell me from the cards.”
I prepared the deck in my usual custom. First, a sage smoke cleanse to dispel any residual energy from previous patrons. Then, a twig of Palo Santo for a sacred cleanseagainst demonic or otherworldly forces. I wafted the cards through the rising smoke, carefully ensuring every edge was covered. From the drawer beneath me, I selected the stones for the final step in purification, narrating each movement as I worked.
“I’ll select a collection of crystals that represent your aura, so that we may imbue the cards with your energy, now that all others have been cleared.”
The Meister nodded slowly, his eyes following my every move. I feathered my fingers across the minerals and stones. This step was crucial. Gaining the patron’s trust was what kept them coming back. I had to choose the exact right combination of stones, making him feel as though I’d peered into his very soul and plucked the crystals right from within him.
Patrons needed to feelseenby me. Hence, I became the seer.
“Obsidian—a protector stone—to ward against harmful forces.” I placed the black, glossy stone atop the deck and studied his reaction. Unmoved.
I needed something more. I brushed my fingertips across the other stones, their colors twinkling under the lamplight. What was he after—knowledge, power, or sex? The three greatest motivators of the human spirit. As I thrummed my fingers across the stones, I recalled Carousel Michelle (as I’d dubbed her after uncovering her circular romantic proclivities). Today she had wanted to know if she should visit her cousins up north without her husband in attendance. I had pulled the Ace of Wands, the most lascivious card in the deck, and assured her that her time away would be full of passion and new awakenings. Her eyes widened just as her wallet did.
But now, as I admired the well-groomed man before me, I realized he already held power (anyone pretentious enough to call themselvesMeistersurely did), and his expensive dress hinted at a sincere self-obsession. It was hard to imagine he lusted after anything aside from his own reflection. So, what did he want?
I plucked a blue stone from the drawer and set it atop the cards. “Lapis Lazuli. A stone for the seeker of enlightenment. A spiritual intelligence.”
His brow arched slightly. I was getting warmer.
Another thought pulsed through me. There were five sides on his cane. The pentagon.
I pulled the drawer out as far as it would go, reaching to the very back. This was where I kept my more obscure stones. Not lesser in value, but far more unusual. Most patrons were drawn to the shiny ones. The deep, rich colors with obvious beauty. But this gentleman was no stranger to magick—he wouldn’t be swayed by amethyst or citrine. He was an astute believer, perhaps even a practitioner. He needed something real, something raw.
I grabbed a jagged stone from the depths of the drawer and placed it alongside the others. In between the beige limestone, bits of metal sparkled. I watched as the Meister’s eyes narrowed, focusing on it.
“What is that rock?” he asked, leaning in closer.
“I find ‘rock’ too vulgar a term for this precious stone,” I replied. “It’s an alloy of aluminum, copper, and iron, scavenged from Russia’s Koryak Mountains. It harbors an icosahedral crystal structure with five-fold symmetry.”
The Meister’s eyes widened. I was getting closer.
“It’s a rare stone indeed. In fact, it was my father’s prized possession. Even when he died, my mother couldn’t part with it,” I continued. Though it would have kept us fed for a year, my mother preferred to starve rather than sell off my father’s private collection. At least I re-purposed it for my readings, finding a way to generate income.
“It doesn’t have a traditional spiritual meaning, as its unique composition was only discovered in the modern century. But given the rarity—improbability, in fact—of five-fold crystal symmetry, this stone represents a great unification. Perhaps even of the five elements mirrored in the suits of Tarot—fire, water, air, earth, and spirit.” I played with the arrangement of the stones on the deck. “You’re seeking a great union, are you not, Meister?”
The Meister leaned back, releasing a breath. He smiled and said, “Go on.”
I continued my ritual, indulging in a faro shuffle, breaking the deck in half and weaving the cards together. I studied the Meister as my fingers worked quickly and effortlessly. It was at this point—when I’d cracked through my inquirer’s exterior—that I brought out the pickaxe to start unearthing the layers beneath. The gooey center was what I sought.
Magick might be the Meister’s obsession, but this was mine: seeing people for who they truly were. Most of the time, there was nothing worth seeing—but still, I hunted, hoping to be proven wrong.
My eyes drifted to the empty coffee cup sitting at the edge of the table as I shuffled, a ghost of the last patron I saw before closing—Marcus. A ghastly twig of a man, I ventured to guess I was the only woman he’d spoken to in five years. Though I hardly counted, seeing as I wore men’s trousersand didn’t bother to brush my hair most days. Marcus always asked about business ventures and bets on the market—stocks to buy and exotic animals to trade. Once, he asked if purchasing an endangered African spurred tortoise for five hundred dollars was a smart choice. It took all my willpower to stifle a chortle. Five of Pentacles for you, sir. A bad investment, and quite illegal in Greenwich County.
The truth was, when people came into my shop, they already had half the answer in mind. Most were afraid of making decisions, of being the hero of their own story. They asked for the cards dealt by Fate, all the while knowing the answer before it slipped from my lips. A bit of confirmation bias is all they wanted, and I was happy to offer it, if it kept my mother and I fed, and this shack of a bookstore over our heads.
I delved into people’s worlds of wants and desires all the time, but no one has ever stopped to ask me what I wanted. Not that I have time for desires (or that it’s fathomable for a woman to even allow such things). After my father’s death, survival was paramount.
