Outrun the Moon(37)

Elodie drops her voice to a whisper. “His own special and very elusive ladybird. One wonders why he is always calling you to the chapel for extra ‘practice.’”

That mean old French pastry. Francesca would never do something so heinous.

Francesca has gone white. “That is a lie, and you know it!”

“There is only one way to be sure,” I say, trying to defuse the situation. The three girls turn their stares to me, and I open my right hand. “The palm. Fortune-tellers are revered in China—akin to your scholars—and they are experts in arranging marriages.”

Francesca frowns while Elodie’s eyes narrow to chips of ice.

Ruby nervously coils a thread around her finger, causing the tip to swell like a grape. “Isn’t it unchristian to tell fortunes?”

“Probably. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t work. No one—at least no one in China—wants to be married to a bore, a lout, or worse, a scoundrel.”

Elodie snorts. “Sounds like a heap of bunkum to me.”

I ignore her, and address Francesca. “Let me see your dominant hand.”

Reluctantly, she extends her right hand to me. I squeeze to let her know it’s okay, then spread her hand open on the table. Her fingers are long and tapered but not weak, like a pair of gloves. They’re the kind of hands that know how to kill a chicken, with clipped nails and muscular thumbs.

“This is the heaven line, governing matters of the heart.” I point to a crease that curves from the pinkie toward the index finger. “A chained pattern indicates a series of complicated and often tumultuous relationships. Yours is perfectly unblemished, meaning a steadfast relationship is in your future. Congratulations, you’ll also have two squeakers.” I’ve watched enough of Ma’s readings to know my way around the palm.

Elodie emits an unbecoming sound, but Francesca’s eyes light up. “Boys, or girls?”

“Can’t tell. But they’ll be healthy.” I don’t know that for certain, but it makes her smile widen.

“Oh!” Ruby sticks her hand out. “Could you do mine?”

I take her homely hand with its short fingers and wide palm, though I worry what I’ll find there. I check her marriage lines—dashes between the base of the pinkie and the heart line—and, to my surprise, find a single perfectly inscribed mark. “You will find true love, though it might take longer because of your exacting standards.”

Ruby brings her other hand to her mouth, covering a smile so big, it pulls at her ears. Before letting go, I notice that her jade column, the central line of fate that governs her relationship with the world, seems shorter than normal. It could mean a lot of things.

“What is it?” she asks. Our eyes meet, and the hanging blade disappears.

I want to tell her that worry leads to chronic disease and accidents. That people with round faces and wide-set eyes are beloved because they are solid and trustworthy. But Ma would be tearing at her hair if she heard me making such statements when real fortune-telling is a complicated endeavor that involves so many factors, like star alignment, facial features, maybe even the last time you moved your bowels.

“Nothing.” I release her hand with a reassuring smile.

Elodie makes a face that looks like she hasn’t moved her bowels in days. She pops up from her seat. “Mrs. Mitchell,” she calls loudly. “I would like to switch seats. The conversation in this circle is rather scandalous.”

Mrs. Mitchell lifts her head from where she’s helping Harry. “Well, aren’t you the lucky one,” the teacher lilts. “The more scandalous the conversation, the more I want to hear it.”

“But she’s nothing but a phony and a faker!” Elodie spits, glaring at me.

Soon, everyone is looking at me. So this is it. Even the embroidery hoops with their half-finished pansies, roses, and bluebells seem to pan their disapproving faces at me.

Mrs. Mitchell bears down on us, her bustle bouncing.

From one table over, Katie gives me a hesitant smile. Today there are purple smudges under her eyes, all the more visible against her pale skin. She is not wearing her shawl, though the morning is cool.

Maybe that snake Elodie needs a reminder that I bite, too. I pull out a brown spool of thread from the basket and pretend to match it to the tiger on my handkerchief. “If it’s scandal you wish to avoid, I suggest you sit down.” The look that I give her could bend an iron bar.

Elodie’s skirts swish about as she shifts indecisively from side to side. Mrs. Mitchell grabs the backrest of Ruby’s chair. “What happened, Ruby?”

“Mercy was just reading our fortunes.”

The woman’s scraggly eyebrows lift, but then her softly wrinkled face grows thoughtful. “Well, my granny used to look for our fortunes in cracked eggs, she did. It’s called cultural differences, and that doesn’t mean she’s a phony, Miss Du Lac.”

Elodie’s lips have turned white from clamping them so hard, and her blond curls have gone limp. Perhaps they’re playing dead after sensing her murderous mood. She glowers at Mrs. Mitchell, but her venom cannot penetrate the woman’s serene demeanor.

A hundred black emotions gust through Elodie’s delicate features. I hope she’s thinking about her own future at St. Clare’s if it were found out that her father lied to the school board. I imitate Mrs. Mitchell, face serene, though my breath stalls in my throat.