The Fortune Teller(49)

Then she stopped and opened her eyes.

The chair was turned away from the desk, facing the back table, where her father’s appointment book rested in the center. She picked up the leather-bound notebook and flipped it open.

Her chest tightened when she saw his handwriting. Her father’s penmanship had always been graceful with its forward and upward slant, his t’s crossed high and long, and open end-marks—traits of a high achiever who loved his work and the people around him. “A scholar and a gentleman” is how he had been described at the service.

The week he died, his writing looked robust and healthy, and this made Semele frown. When someone was sick, usually the illness showed in their writing. Graphologists believed writing revealed every aspect of a person—their mental and emotional states, their physical well-being, even their level of intelligence—and Semele had done enough analysis to agree. Studying someone’s handwriting was like reading their diary.

She checked all the entries in her father’s calendar, looking for clues that pointed toward a looming stroke, but she could find no abnormalities. Her father had died in April. Nothing he wrote that month, or in the months before, indicated he was near the end of his life.

She flipped forward to May. What she saw made her stop.

There, in the first week, her father had marked an appointment:

Marcel Bossard, 1 P.M.

Semele couldn’t stop staring at the entry. The way her father had scribbled the words seemed rushed and agitated, unlike the others. She struggled to grasp the implications. Why had her father made an appointment with Marcel Bossard? How long had they known each other?

Did Theo know?

The questions consumed her. Part of her wanted to call Theo right then and ask if he knew about the meeting. Was this what he had been holding back from her?

She wasn’t sure if she could trust him. She wasn’t sure about anything at this point except that she needed to finish Ionna’s story.





Simza was a seventh daughter and a powerful cohalyi, a witch-wife trained since birth in all things magic. The Rom believed all their people were gifted with supernatural powers, but a seventh daughter possessed the ability to become a great seer.

Every Rom woman was taught to read fortunes from an early age. Their ancestors came from the Far East in India, a motherland of ancient mysticism steeped in Vedic magic, and the Rom carried on this tradition through their travels.

To tell a fortune they would read a person’s palm or gaze into a crystal. The crystal gazers preferred to hold the crystal ball in their hands. They would stare into its depths, opening their minds to truths waiting to be told. Quartz crystals with little to no imperfections were always best. The balls were made of stone that had been washed on the full moon and charged with its light. Palm readers examined the lines of a person’s left palm to determine their innate gifts, and the right hand showed what he or she would make of them. Every etched line had meaning and created the map of that person’s life.

The Rom also practiced the art of reading tea leaves. Tea readings required a special ritual. The tea was steeped, never with any milk or sugar, and then poured into a white teacup. The cup always had to be white or light colored so each pattern could be discerned. The deeper one read into the cup, the deeper one read into the future.

A Rom seer could use anything to see the future—sticks, water, fire, dice, even playing cards. Every seer had a favorite medium, and Simza’s was seashells. She would throw her shells into the air, let them land, and read the pattern. Then she would pick up her favorite shell and hold it to her ear.

“What do you hear, Grandmother?” Aishe, her granddaughter, would always ask.

“The ocean, telling me its secrets. Here, its song sings forever.” She would pass the shell to Aishe so she could listen. No matter how long and hard she did, Aishe was sure her grandmother could hear more.

Simza was also skilled in the art of finding missing people: she would track them down using an object they had owned. People marveled at her ability. Sometimes a child would purposefully hide in the forest and others would run to get Simza. They’d place the missing child’s favorite toy in Simza’s hand, and off she would go to find them, the other children chasing after her skirt.

Simza said possessions were filled with the owner’s spirit, and if she listened closely enough they would whisper in her ear just like the shells. Each time Simza found the missing child without fail.

Aishe would beg her to explain how she did it, but Simza would only say, “The wind is the wild hunter. I follow it.”

Simza practiced all the old ways. She believed power resided in her hair and refused to cut it. She believed every day was special. On Tuesdays spinning fabric was forbidden. On Wednesdays no one was allowed to use a needle or scissors or bake bread. Thursdays were considered unlucky. On Fridays no one could bargain. And on Saturdays no one could wash a thing.

Simza also believed garlic was a powerful charm for protecting against evil spirits, storms, and bad weather. She hung ropes of garlic bulbs outside her family’s tent and wagon. She rarely spoke during the day, but when she did, she would usually go around yelling “Garlic! Garlic! Garlic!” Just saying the word, she believed, was enough to ward off evil.

Nightfall was the only time Simza talked at length; she would join the other elders, telling stories by the fire. The campfire was the center of their lives, where they passed down their history, and in this way, the flame never died.