To be seen. To start living.
Out with fantasies, in with flesh and blood.
She turned to him, ready to issue a command. The words fell away when she saw what he was doing. He was bent over the foot of the bed studying her abandoned tarot cards.
Chapter 7: The Unturned Card
“What’s all this?” Squinting down at the bed, he strained to make out what she’d been doing with the cards. Her spell had deprived him of his powers, including his night vision, making it hard to see much of anything.
“All what?”
“The tarot cards.”
He probably shouldn’t be surprised she read the tarot. Catharine had, though the older, French Tarot de Marseille , rather than the newer, English Rider-Waite. Caitriona, whose mother came from Viking stock, had used the runes for divination and magick.
S he’d begun the same three-card reading he’d done that morning. Coincidence? He thought not. For one thing, he didn’t believe in coincidence. Fate was a cruel mistress, but never an arbitrary one. She’d overturned The Lovers and The Devil, but had either left the third card unturned or done something with it. He glowered at the goat-headed baphomet he associated with Lord Fitzgerald. Its appearance beside The Lovers knotted his bowels.
“What was the card of things to come?”
“I don’t know.” She moved behind him. “I didn’t look.”
With a quick backward glance, he asked, “Why not?”
“Beca use I think I know what it is.”
She put her hands on his back, a distracting gesture to say the least. It was as if her touch was temptation itself. When she’d put her arms around him just now, his heart almost stopped. Like the other two, she wore eau de violets, another of fate’s careful tricks.
“And I don’t want to know.”
He frowned. “And what is it, d’you think?”
“ Death .”
He coughed in surprise. “What makes you think that?”
She moved to the edge of the bed and sat down, but didn’t look at him. “Because it’s the final card you drew the day you met Catharine.”
The memory flooded back, as clear as this morning. Catharine at the riverside cafe smelling of violets and desire as she surveyed the cards on the table. Death can mean many things. Change, for instance, which is inevitable. Swallowing, he shook his head to dislodge the scene. That time, unfortunately, the card’s meaning turned out to be literal. Now it appeared history would repeat, as he’d feared.
“Release me, Cathleen. I beg you. For both our sakes.”
“No .” She grabbed him around the hips. “You’ll only run away. And I need to know more.”
“Then turn the card .”
“And if it’s Death ?”
“ You’ll release me and I’ll go back to Scotland. And Lord Fitzgerald will never know you’ve returned.”
“No .”
“Turn the card, dammit.”
“No! I don’t want you to leave me.”
He stiffened, heartsick. He didn’t want to leave her either, but what choice did they have? “Even if my staying results in your death?”
She hesitated. “Yes.”
Diving onto the bed, he seized the card while scattering the rest. She jumped on his back and tried to snatch it from his hand, but he played one-man “Piggy in the Middle” with her and the card. Holding it at arm’s length, he squinted at the image, straining to make out what it was. His effort was unaided by the lack of light and by her hair pulling, which hurt like the dickens. Bloody hell. She was so like his other Cats he couldn’t decide whether to laugh or cry.
He strained to focus on the shadowy image , but couldn’t quite tell what it was. It did not, however, appear to be Death’s skeletal knight astride a white horse. Instead, he could make out a rainbow stretching across blue sky. As he combed his memory for a match, she started poking him in the ribs with her fingers, which, given his ticklishness, was insufferable.
“It’s not Death , you wee feisty witch,” he told her, squirming and laughing. “So will you kindly quit
Out with fantasies, in with flesh and blood.
She turned to him, ready to issue a command. The words fell away when she saw what he was doing. He was bent over the foot of the bed studying her abandoned tarot cards.
Chapter 7: The Unturned Card
“What’s all this?” Squinting down at the bed, he strained to make out what she’d been doing with the cards. Her spell had deprived him of his powers, including his night vision, making it hard to see much of anything.
“All what?”
“The tarot cards.”
He probably shouldn’t be surprised she read the tarot. Catharine had, though the older, French Tarot de Marseille , rather than the newer, English Rider-Waite. Caitriona, whose mother came from Viking stock, had used the runes for divination and magick.
S he’d begun the same three-card reading he’d done that morning. Coincidence? He thought not. For one thing, he didn’t believe in coincidence. Fate was a cruel mistress, but never an arbitrary one. She’d overturned The Lovers and The Devil, but had either left the third card unturned or done something with it. He glowered at the goat-headed baphomet he associated with Lord Fitzgerald. Its appearance beside The Lovers knotted his bowels.
“What was the card of things to come?”
“I don’t know.” She moved behind him. “I didn’t look.”
With a quick backward glance, he asked, “Why not?”
“Beca use I think I know what it is.”
She put her hands on his back, a distracting gesture to say the least. It was as if her touch was temptation itself. When she’d put her arms around him just now, his heart almost stopped. Like the other two, she wore eau de violets, another of fate’s careful tricks.
“And I don’t want to know.”
He frowned. “And what is it, d’you think?”
“ Death .”
He coughed in surprise. “What makes you think that?”
She moved to the edge of the bed and sat down, but didn’t look at him. “Because it’s the final card you drew the day you met Catharine.”
The memory flooded back, as clear as this morning. Catharine at the riverside cafe smelling of violets and desire as she surveyed the cards on the table. Death can mean many things. Change, for instance, which is inevitable. Swallowing, he shook his head to dislodge the scene. That time, unfortunately, the card’s meaning turned out to be literal. Now it appeared history would repeat, as he’d feared.
“Release me, Cathleen. I beg you. For both our sakes.”
“No .” She grabbed him around the hips. “You’ll only run away. And I need to know more.”
“Then turn the card .”
“And if it’s Death ?”
“ You’ll release me and I’ll go back to Scotland. And Lord Fitzgerald will never know you’ve returned.”
“No .”
“Turn the card, dammit.”
“No! I don’t want you to leave me.”
He stiffened, heartsick. He didn’t want to leave her either, but what choice did they have? “Even if my staying results in your death?”
She hesitated. “Yes.”
Diving onto the bed, he seized the card while scattering the rest. She jumped on his back and tried to snatch it from his hand, but he played one-man “Piggy in the Middle” with her and the card. Holding it at arm’s length, he squinted at the image, straining to make out what it was. His effort was unaided by the lack of light and by her hair pulling, which hurt like the dickens. Bloody hell. She was so like his other Cats he couldn’t decide whether to laugh or cry.
He strained to focus on the shadowy image , but couldn’t quite tell what it was. It did not, however, appear to be Death’s skeletal knight astride a white horse. Instead, he could make out a rainbow stretching across blue sky. As he combed his memory for a match, she started poking him in the ribs with her fingers, which, given his ticklishness, was insufferable.
“It’s not Death , you wee feisty witch,” he told her, squirming and laughing. “So will you kindly quit
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