Page 83 of Foresyth Conservatory
“Stay,” she said, her brown eyes wide with something startlingly sincere. Shemeantit. I saw it then—the unguarded truth flickering behind her gaze.
She actually wanted to help me.
And that was the part I couldn’t reconcile. Why were both of them—Sequoia and Aspen—so willing to help me, when I was unraveling the very threads that bound this place together? Threads that includedthem. If the truth about Julian lay buried, I was digging straight through their secrets to reach it. And still . . . they wanted me close.
“There are two paths for you here, Alice. One leads you across the threshold out of this room and back into your bed. The other one is taking a sip of that tea, letting yourself relax, and us teaching you how to access magick,” Aspen purred, his voice soft as velvet.
I closed my eyes, centering myself. It was true that I could likely figure out how to deliver whatever magical artifact Leone desired another way, perhaps even recruit Nina’s help. But I needed that pen. Even if I couldn’t trust them, I needed them to trustme.
“Free will?” I teased, taking my seat back on top of my cards. I sighed, faintly wondering if I was going to regret this. I reached out to the other cup Sequoia had set out and poured myself a cup of tea.
A smile broke out on Aspen’s lips, illuminating his other features and the dimple in his right cheek. He was so handsome it almost hurt. It was part of his allure, the way he disarmed, like Sequoia. Being cognizant of it didn’t make me immune to it. But a wave of calm settled over me as soon as I took a sip of the comforting warm liquid, and I sank deeper into the mattress and into the cards.
“Now what?”
“Now, it’s up to you,” Sequoia said. “What would you like to offer to the Shattered Mother to access her magick?”
Offer? I had nothing. A paperweight and a broken compass. A mismatch of clues that I didn’t know where they led. I started shuffling around in my bag to see what else I had.
“It has to be anemotionaloffering,” Aspen continued, reaching his hand over mine, still rummaging through my bag. His touch sent a jolt of electricity through me. “It can’t just be something material. It has to come from you. It has to . . . elicit a feeling. Breaking out of your material form.”
“I don’t know if I have anything like that.”
Aspen and Sequoia exchanged a glance that made me feel like I was speaking a different language.
“What’s your medium?” Sequoia asked.
I thought back to my conversations with the Meister—my cover story. “I . . . I’m studying Tarotology with an arts concentration in theater.”
“Then that’s it . . . you have to channel the magick through story. That’s your medium,” Sequoia said, her excitement bubbling over. She inched closer to me, while Aspen sat still, watching us intently.
“Story . . .” I echoed. Maybe it wasn’t so far from the truth. I did tell people stories through the cards—mostly reflections of the ones they told me with their eyes, their lips, the way they brushed their hair back. But those stories weren’t my own.
“I tell stories when I read for people,” I said. “But they’re theirs, not mine.”
“Then tell yours. Do a reading for yourself. Tell us the story of your life,” Aspen suggested softly. “Instead of constructing someone else’s narrative, construct your own.”
“Yes. Dahlia should read for herself. Oh, the Mother will love that,” Sequoia said with a bounce.
Panic set in, though I tried to hide it. I wasn’t exactly the sentimental type. “I wouldn’t even know where to start.”
“At the beginning, of course,” Sequoia said, smiling as I instinctively rolled my eyes. Beginnings were arbitrary. With clients, I often liked to start in medias res—right where the action was.
“Depending on how much magick you’re trying to channel, the emotional weight of the story should match it,” Aspen added. “You can’t cheat magick; it has a way of coming back to collect unpaid debt.”
“Fine, an epicdrama. Got it,” I said, wondering if I really did. “How will I know it’s working? Let me guess, you justknow?”
Sequoia smiled and nodded, cupping her chin in her hands.
I took a deep breath, pulling the cards from under me and letting their warmth seep into my palm. I had never read for myself before. I’d never wanted to confront myself in thatway. Maybe there was a truth embedded into the stories I told. The same truth I was afraid to see in myself right now.
“I guess I’ll do a life spread,” I said. “A full pull of twenty-five cards, each set of five representing five years.” I’d done it plenty for clients—mostly those looking to understand past traumas and find solace in naming them.
Aspen and Sequoia nodded encouragingly, their presence strangely comforting. I never thought I could do something like this alone. Sitting with myself, without a gadget to fiddle with or book to chew on, was maddening. My hands fiddled with the cards, shuffling them, my fingers shaking. I placed the deck in front of me and focused on my breath, as I would tell my patrons. I counted to ten before opening my eyes, pressing my fingers to the top of the deck.
At the touch, a spark jolted me upright.
I brushed it off as static, but then something deeper took hold. I felt a steady pulse radiating from my fingers, down my arm, through my chest, my core, my legs. I pushed the sensation aside and concentrated on pulling out the top five cards.
