Page 28 of A Dead Girl's Guide to Living
I barked a laugh and blinked back tears. “Yeah, pretty much.”
“Ah, kid,” Ida sighed heavily, shaking her head. “Life sucks, then you die, get locked in a tin, and shoved into a cupboard next to a half-drunk bottle of scotch and a DVD collectionfrom 2007.” She patted my shoulder gently. “Something to look forward to.”
“Can’t wait,” I muttered, shaking my head.
At this point, I’d be lucky to end up inanyone’scabinet.
I was single. I had zero friends my own age. And my family wasn’t exactly close. I’d tried making friends with the girl who owned the overpriced succulent shop next door, but when I’d guffawed at the price of a tiny succulent in a two-inch pot—fifty dollars—she stopped waving at me through the window when I walked past.
“I’m going to put these in the back for shipping,” Ida told me as she scooped up a few of the boxes. “Then I’m going to make some tea. I’ll be back.”
I nodded and picked up my stylus once more, opening the design app on my iPad. I paused at the sight of my half-finished tarot card illustration—The Star—sitting untouched on the screen. My hand hovered, trembling slightly. I hadn’t worked on it in weeks. Not since Margaret died. It felt as if every creative part of me had dried up.
The familiar jingle of the bell above the door signaled another customer. I glanced up at the browser who’d entered earlier, now slowly pulling things off the shelves and placing them in one of the brown wicker carry baskets we provided. Then my eyes shifted to the woman who had just walked in.
She wore a sharp blazer over an expensive-looking white blouse. Her heels clicked harshly against the old, weathered wood as she approached the counter, and I resisted the urge to wince.
As she came closer, I noticed her brown eyes, red-rimmed and glassy, as if she’d either been crying for days or holding it in for too long.
Ida returned from depositing the scarves and making tea, setting a cup down for each of us on the counter with a small smile.
“Are you doing readings today?” the woman asked, her voice hoarse. She cleared her throat, adjusting the buttons at the neck of her blouse.
My pulse skipped a beat at the severity in her tone. She looked like someone about to enter a confessional. My gaze caught on the gold crucifix around her neck, hanging from a delicate chain.
Interesting.
“Yes,” I said. “I can do tarot. Ida here is a medium.”
“Okay,” she whispered shakily, sniffling. “I’d like a tarot reading, please.Now, if you have the time.”
I nodded once, stepping back from the counter and gesturing toward the curtain that led to the back rooms; the small kitchen, the storage room, and the reading room.
“I’ve got the till,” Ida said as I turned, and I nodded again, my insides churning.
It wasn’t that I was bad at tarot, I was far from it. I was amazing at it, mostly because I actually believed in it. But emotional readings…
I glanced at the woman as I held the curtain open for her. She was overly emotional, and I wasn’t sure how this would go.
Her heels clipped loudly behind me as we walked down the narrow hallway, past bundles of sage and moonstone pendants hanging from wall hooks.
We reached the reading room, and I slid the door open. The scent of clove and sandalwood rushed to meet me, heady and familiar. For a fleeting second, I half expected to see Margaret sitting tall in her proud white wicker chair, throne-like, high-backed, the once-vibrant lavender cushion now faded with time.
I waved the woman inside, stepping in after her and gently sliding the door shut. I gestured toward the small stool opposite the wicker chair, the two separated by a round table draped in a deep red velvet cloth.
As I settled into the wicker chair, it creaked a little—the way it always did—and I smiled to myself before looking up at the woman sitting stiffly across from me, clutching her handbag and glancing down at the deck of cards between us.
“Do you have anything in particular you want to know?” I asked calmly, picking up the deck, not Margaret’s. That one was safely packed away, secured in a soft velvet bag. My hands began to deftly shuffle the cards, the task as familiar to me as breathing.
I set the deck down between us and watched her across the table, noting her hesitation.
“You—you can’t, um, feel anyone here with me… can you?”
My heart thumped in my chest. “I thought you wanted a tarot reading.”
“Oh, well… I mean, I’m in here now,” she stammered, her fingers toying with the cross at her neck. I wondered if she even realized she was fidgeting with it. “This place has—has good word of mouth… people have really connected here… I need… closure? I don’t know.”
Cold dread filled my body. Yet another person asking for a service I had no business providing. Mediumship had always been Margaret’s strongest domain, and it was still Ida’s...
