Bevan banged the mugs on the table. Rita smoked and heaped sugar into her tea. Mae sweated and sweated. Bevan didn’t sit back down; rather, she leaned against the counter, eyebrows raised.
“There’s as many bad cards as bad things in life,” Bevan said. “The Daughter of Cups can also signify naïveté. Immaturity. Inclination toward addiction. Dependence. I mean, you’re a twin, so of course you’re overly dependent. The Daughter of Cups makes promises she can’t keep.” Bevan listed these flaws out on her fingers, her eyes on Mae all judgment.
“That’s enough, Bevan,” Rita snapped.
Mae felt like a bowstring, too taut, about to break. There was a beat or two of awful silence as Rita took two long pulls off her cigarette. Ragged inhale, hiss exhale.
Bobby purred, nudging the biscuits toward Mae with his paw. “Bevan can be a little prickly. Teenager business. You’ve all that ahead of you.”
“I . . . can . . . can we open the doors, please? It’s very hot. I can’t drink my tea—can I have something cold—please?” Mae’s voice was shakier than she liked, but at least she’d managed to say something. She felt charmless now. Out of place.
Bevan swanned over and flung the veranda door wide, a swathe of air refreshing the room. “Let me ice that tea for you. You’ll like it.” She swooped up the cup from Mae and walked to the fridge, ignoring the hardness in Rita’s face.
“Bevan sometimes can’t quite look away from the negatives,” Rita said. “You can focus in on the darkness too hard while you read the tarot. It’s almost easy—like all shadows, they pull your vision.”
Bevan set a tall, cold glass down in front of Mae, and Mae took a long drink. It wasn’t sweet, but it was cold—and that was enough, for a few seconds.
“Have you been reading the cards for long?” she asked Rita.
Rita hissed a low sigh. “I came to the tarot after I lost someone I loved very much. I wasn’t much older than Bevan. For a long time all I could read in the cards was tragedy. This house was a house of swords: I drew the Devil again and again.”
She stubbed her cigarette into the ashtray and immediately lit another. Mae thought of Rita’s age, her deep voice—Mae’s eyes flickered to her rising and falling chest, imagining her lungs. How many cigarettes had she demolished at that pace? How much smoke was in her body?
“Where did you get the cards? Is there a shop for these kinds of things?” Mae asked.
“It’s bad luck to buy your own cards,” Bevan interjected. Rita let the statement hang.
“Superstitions will get you no place,” murmured Bobby.
Rita held the middle distance in her gaze a second, then spoke again.
“These ones . . . dear Imelda, Bevan’s mother, got for me when Bevan was just a child. They aren’t my only deck, or my first. But they’re my favorite. My—well, Audrey—my best friend gave my first deck to me many, many years ago, before she left Dorasbeg. I don’t know where exactly they came from.10 I’ve still never seen anything quite like them, they were full of strange figures in strange rooms. It was hard to find any light in them at all. They’re long gone now, but each image is seared into me. Even in these cards I see those bodies, those rooms.”
The ash grew long at the top of Rita’s cigarette, climbing towards her fingers like rot. “Rita gave me a deck for my twelfth birthday and it’s not even a little bit like either of those,” Bevan remarked, diffusing the dark energy with her clipped, confident voice. Mae marveled at the control Bevan held over the space. Not necessarily over Rita, but over the mood in the room.
“What do yours look like?” Mae asked.
Bevan closed her eyes and sighed. “They’re a traditional Toth deck. They’re way weirder looking than these ones here. More psychedelic, or something. I’ll graduate to a fresh deck at some point, but I kind of like these ones. They tell the story of life in a different way than Rita’s cards. Besides, I’m not ready to read for anyone but myself yet, so they’re kind of just for me.”
“You are ready, you know,” Rita corrected. “You just don’t want to.”
Bevan shrugged. “Well, that’s more or less the same thing, isn’t it?”
“Perhaps.” Rita stubbed out her cigarette. “Look, Mae. We’ll meet here in the afternoons, while you’re staying with us. Most days I practice yoga on the lawn in the early morning. Then I visit clients or see them in the living room from around nine until midday. We can begin after that.
That was Rita’s business. A medium, a mystic, and yes—yes, a witch. Mae let out a soft “Oh!”
“Before we finish up, will you perform a reading for me please, Bevan? Rossa can’t possibly be out much longer, and I don’t want him getting involved in all this just yet. He’s quite a closed boy; we have to go gently. No use in disturbing him.”
Mae almost snorted at the idea of Rossa being disturbed over anything. Though it didn’t seem fair to her at all if Rita was just getting him out of the house so they could play with these cards without him seeing. Leaving him out felt bad to her, a rupture in something already weak. Why couldn’t they involve him somehow?
Rita shook her head and began shuffling the cards again. “The little love offered to bring some parcels down to the post office, so I gave him a list of jobs to do for me in the village. He’s a dear heart.” Rita was smiling into the cards.
She drew one and held it facing her, the back to Bevan. Her expression was blank. The witches were locked at the eyes.
The tall girl crossed her arms and leaned back. Mae looked at her, then at Rita, then over at Bevan again.
“The Star. Inverted,” Bevan said.
Rita set the card facedown on the table. She drew another. Bevan took more distance, moving across the kitchen, cocked her head to the side.
“The Page of Pentacles. Upright?” There was a query in Bevan’s tone, an inflection of uncertainty that surprised Mae. She sounded almost like a normal person.
Rita’s face remained expressionless this time, as she put the card beside the last on the hideous tablecloth.
“One more,” she said, drawing a final card.
The answer was instant this time.
“The Tower,” hissed Bevan, almost as soon as Rita had the card upright. The brutality in Bevan’s voice ran a jolt through Mae. Rita placed the card on the table and sighed deeply.
“Three for three,” said her great-aunt, an air of resignation in her voice. “Though the Page of Pentacles was inverted, not upright.”
Bevan thrummed her fingers on the table, impatient. “Can I please move up to six? I can do it. Just let me show you.”
“Not yet. Last time we went to six you collapsed—your head missed the corner of the table by barely an inch.”
“I want to know what happens after the Tower.” Bevan’s teeth were clenched. She wiped her brow. From the beads of sweat on her face, it was clearly physical work, all that reading. Mae was awestruck—she cast a glance to Bobby, who gave her a nod.
Rita shuffled the three plucked cards back into the deck. “You’ll know in due time. Don’t exhaust yourself. Look at you, ringing with the sweat already.”
Bevan exhaled petulantly. Rita placed the cards back into a soft linen bag, bidding them goodbye with a kiss.
“Why don’t you take a lie-down, Bev? That was a lot of hard work.” An order framed as a suggestion.
“Sure,” Bevan accepted. “Later, Mae. See ya, Bobby.” For a strange moment, she stood, towering over Mae, surveying the table one last time. An uncomfortable few seconds passed; then Bevan suddenly ruffled Mae’s hair. Intense and invasive for a second, and then she turned on her heel and walked out of the kitchen. The door clicked shut behind her. She was gone.
“Bevan’s clairvoyance comes easy to her, but pushing and asking her to see through surfaces exhausts her. In time, she’ll get stronger.”
Mae tilted her head to the side. “Can you do that, too? See things?”
“Your brother will ring the doorbell twice, in seven seconds.�
�
Rita counted down with her fingers—seven, six, five, four, three, two, one. Ding ding.
Mae’s skin nearly leapt off her body, but even so, she dismissed it as a silly fluke as she rose to answer the door. Rossa stood there on the steps, rain just beginning, a plastic bag in his hand.
“Howya.”
“Howya,” Mae replied as he stepped indoors. Was his voice different?
“What did you get up to today?” he asked, rustling his shopping bag at her. “Just missed the rain!” Bobby stalked down the corridor and nuzzled Mae’s calves.
“Nothing much. Just listened to some music. Played cards.”
“Sounds dull,” Rossa said.
Mae shrugged. Bobby looked up at her, eyes like butter.
Chapter
Six
You kneel on the carpet, like praying. Isn’t this prayer? A slim strand of the girl’s hair is woven between your long fingers, almost cat’s cradle. Your breathing is still uneven from the reading. You should sleep, but you cannot wait to call him with this—this small stolen thing, this piece of the child. This must be something like what he wants. It might have been safer to wait until after dark, when the house was sleeping—but you couldn’t hold on for him much longer. Nobody has ever caught you. Why would they catch you today? You can’t imagine someone just walking in on you, Christ.11
“Sweet James . . . ,” you whisper, placing your left hand on the wall, the hair woven across your fingers, your palm an altar.
The air around you distorts electric, delicious. You pull your hand away and look up at him as he comes together in the paper, the clicking and crumbling and pulling sounds of it waking your whole body up. You wipe wet salt from your forehead.
He arrives fully, his toxic eyes on you, his pupils god-awful triangles. Today he catches the light, like more mirror than bone. As you let him fill your vision, you could almost swear you see his reflection in the scaffolding of him—an infinity that goes on and on. His laugh is deep and long, double bass and bad. Your skin prickles with delight.
what have you brought me?
He sounds different: amused. Strangely human.
“A piece of the girl twin,” you say, holding up the hair, and he laughs again. But this is not good laughter, this is scorn. Heat gathers in your cheeks.
a lock of a child’s hair. how archaic. do you think you live in a fairy tale, bevan? do you think i can feed on stray strands of a child? this waste?
Hellish, rolling laughter. Mockery. You are so stupid. You’ve never displeased him like this before. You are panicking. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you splutter, fat tears escaping your eyes.
eat the hair, he commands, and you do, brittle choking string in your mouth. It pulls at your throat, but you’d do anything to please him. You gag and try to swallow, you retch but force it down. You murmur sickened apologies while he laughs.
next time bring me something more, something harder to steal. work harder for me. i give you so much.
He’s right. He does. He chose you, he comes only to you. You have to be better for him. You have to give him more. You nod, his eyes pulling you apart at the seams.
“I can’t bring them up here yet. Rita will be suspicious,” you nervously admit.
What you don’t say is that you don’t want to share him, and you don’t want to hurt them: you’re not sure which impulse is stronger, but combined it is a blaring no.
He takes a moment to respond, his breath low and thrumming. He is considering the risk of Rita. You wish you knew more about their relationship. What happened before is still only hushed hints, some eternal rivalry percolating over that fire in the kitchen, burning away in the stove.
fair, he concedes. bring me something better, something more of theirs next time. steal me something hidden.
“Will you let me into the rooms again if I do?” you ask, longing swelling up inside you for that faraway air, that break in reality, the smell of running water, the neon—your hand on the doorknob, the shock of whatever comes next. Sweet James chuckles as you sweat there.
you can have one more room now for being such a good girl. you will work hard to come back, won’t you?
You will. As he speaks, threat and order, he unfolds into the door. You are on your feet before you even know it, propelled by curiosity, by rapture. The only thing you notice about the neon and water room is the smell, because you are bolting to the next door, your greedy fingers on the knob. It turns and opens and you step beyond, the glory of new light on your body. God, it is different here—this is what you craved.
The room is chalky white and long, ceilings arched, a fat tunnel. All over the walls bloom graying flowers, and you draw breath as they twitch, as their slate petals blink—they are moths, resting in clusters. Beyond the breathing flutter of their movement, you think you hear a bird singing somewhere. But you can’t see any birds. Just moths. The air smells tropical, floral. Sweet James rumbles a soft laugh, and you are pleased.
“Yes!” you gasp. You are delighted. “Can I touch them?”
take one, he offers, in exchange for your little present. be quick.
You step forward and face the wall. Their soft bodies are the length of a thumb, marked in white and black—almost like dotted eyes and sharp teeth, almost smiling. Their wings open, a greeting. You extend a finger, an invitation. One little fool steps cautiously onto your skin, a thrill.
Each second that passes rings heavy in your veins, hurry hurry please don’t let this end before I have you. The owl laughs again. Your finger is a gangplank the moth tiptoes up, boarding the trembling ship of your body. You have it. It is yours.
The air begins to pull around you, and you know it is over. You pray the gust of expulsion doesn’t dislodge your tiny prisoner, your papery treasure.
You run, alight, your velocity disturbing the remaining holy creatures, their wings opening all at once in a quiet thunder but too quick you’re back into the glowing first room and the new door slams behind you. The strange wind picks up further as you sprint, landing back in your room on your knees, carried by Sweet James’s force. You look over your shoulder as the door begins to fold away.
You get up, skipping, elated, to your bedside table, an empty plastic water bottle, pink, waiting for use. An old gift from your ma. “Stay hydrated!” and all that half-arsed advice. You unscrew the fat lid with your free hand, awkward. The moth folds its wings, obedient now in your world. You lead him down this new corridor, this plastic trap, and promise you’ll make him a new, better home tonight, after you rest. Moss, you think, maybe. A few little pebbles.
“In you go,” you murmur, “in you go.” He tumbles into the pink, and before he can spread his wings, you have the lid on. He flutters, rose colored and helpless in this prison. You leave the top a little unscrewed, for air. Does it need air? Was the air in that room the same as out here? You place your captive down on your locker and flop onto the bed, face into the blanket.
Sweet James says, you are happy.
You reply, “Yes.”
He tells you to say it again.
“Yes,” you say. “Yes . . .”
Your eyes droop closed, and a deep nap takes you in the fading afternoon light. The moth in the bottle stops fluttering. He gives up.
Chapter
Seven
The week rolled on, lazy days identical in their hush. Rossa sat alone in the guest room, fat sketchpad in his lap, headphones in. Sometimes he had to check what day it was, so similar were they. He was bored, but cozy in that boredom. A magazine depicting a burning forest sprawled out in front of him. A rapidly cooling mug of milky sweet tea and a clutch of chocolate biscuits on a floral saucer sat beside him.
It was still bright out, even at nine o’clock, waiting on sunset. This must be what his mam meant when she’d sigh at their kitchen window in the dark, long winter nights.
“We won’t be long waiting for the grand stretch now, just a few more months,” she’d say. Like she was solar power
ed, she only got strong in the bright light.
He led the soft coal of his pencil this way and that, pulling something that resembled a stag out of the air. He liked drawing animals; they were gentler to look at than buildings or machines. They had faces. He wanted to tell Mae that he was homesick. He could have, maybe six months ago. But he had no idea how to talk to her anymore. He pushed the pencil harder. Why was she so different now? Something was going on with her and Rita. This week he’d caught them whispering in the kitchen two afternoons in a row. And both times, they paused upon his entry to the room, before a dramatic, too-loud change of subject. Mae had no subtlety. Why wasn’t he being included? Did he do something wrong?
He scowled, splintering a pair of antlers on the page in dark lead. Was it because he was a lad?
He could really do with a few quiet rounds of Star Fox or Mario Kart with his dad right now. He couldn’t remember the last time they’d done that together—or maybe they’d only done it once or twice, and he was stretching the memory out as far as it would hold. Rossa didn’t even need to have chats with him. Just to be near his smell, fabric softener and Major Gold cigarettes. Rossa was mortified at himself, red cheeked and wet eyed with homesickness in an old lady’s house, barely over a week into his stay.
Bowie’s weird minor trills just made it worse, and he pulled his headphones out, resentful. The stag was just an outline. Wonky. Rossa struck him out then, a bolt of thick black, a strike of frustration. He got up to shake it off. Where was Mae now, anyway? She’d skirted off with that bloody cat and he hadn’t seen her since. He’d go and find her and confess, straight out, that he was homesick. Anything not to face weeks and weeks of this strange silence, this not knowing, this being left out. Maybe if he nipped it in the bud, this could be an adventure summer for him. If he gave Mae a secret, one of his very own, maybe she’d tell him some in return.
He stepped out of the room into the hallway and there she was; had she grown another three inches? Her jeans were too short on her, her feet bare, mop of curls just like his but in an unwieldy scrunchie on the crown of her head. The cat, too large, was under her arm, her phone in her hand. The bright white of the messenger screen cast light up onto her face. A ring of short, slim Virgin Mary statues was right by her feet, as though they’d just sprung up there, like mushrooms. Had he just not noticed them before?
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