The Butcher and the Wren(17)

“Tarot readings for everyone, please!” Lindsey announces.

Wren slips into the black chair in the waiting area and puts her clutch on top of the table before her. These tables are famous for their impressive zodiac wheel designs.

“Anyone getting some tea while we wait?” Debbie looks up at the flavors, and Wren follows her gaze. The walls showcase dozens of tea flavors along with various metaphysical goodies that promise to set the mood just right for anyone who wishes to step into a more whimsical realm.

“Yeah, actually, tea sounds great. What are you thinking of getting?” Wren scans the names and ingredients, feeling a bit overwhelmed by the choices and flavor combinations.

“I am stuck between the Monk’s Blend and Buckingham Palace Garden Party,” Debbie answers, giggling a little.

“Oh, definitely Buckingham Palace Garden Party, if only for the name,” she decides, finding it on the list. “Also, jasmine and cornflower petals sound too pretty to pass up.”

Debbie nods, walking toward the counter again. Before she returns, a beautiful older woman strolls out from the back of the shop. Her hair is tightly tied up on her head, and her cheekbones rival Bowie’s. Beside her, a middle-aged man emerges. He has kind eyes and a clean-shaven face, with wild blond curls spilling out from the top of his head.

“Evening. I am Martine. We can do two at a time,” the statuesque woman explains. “One of you can come with me, and the other one can go with Leo here.” She gestures to the man next to her and then holds her hand out to usher someone forward.

Lindsey jumps to her feet, grabbing Wren’s hand as she does.

“Let’s go before this one falls asleep. This is the latest she has been out without a homicide involved in months.”

“My tea!” Wren protests.

Debbie rushes over, thrusting a to-go cup in Wren’s hand. “I got you covered.” She winks, and Wren purses her lips.

“Thanks, friend,” she mocks before standing up to surrender.

Martine lightly touches Wren’s arm, showing her where to go. She leads her down a small hallway and into a door on the right. Inside, there is a black table with a small green lamp resembling an antique candelabra. A large gold-framed mirror is over the table on the wall, and a stack of tarot cards sits in the center.

“Please, make yourself comfortable.” Martine smiles, pulling Wren’s chair out for her as she settles in across the table. “Shall I record the audio of this reading for you to take with you when we are done?”

“Thank you, that would be great.”

Wren sits, pulling her chair into the table and taking in the light spa-like music playing softly in the background. She leans forward to admire the intricate designs on the back of the top card in the stack. Martine smiles softly to herself, reaching for them gently.

“Beautiful, aren’t they? They are very old. Passed down to me by my grandmother. These cards hold a lot of history.”

Martine pauses a moment before looking back up into Wren’s eyes. They lock together before she pushes the cards to the side. “Would you be open to a brief palm reading before we look at the cards?”

She seems compelled into the suggestion, and Wren nods wordlessly. As skeptical as she is about the lines of her hand telling a story, she is too curious to refuse.

Martine takes her hand in her own and turns it over, studying her palm and using her fingers to stretch the lines out for better viewing.

“You see this? Like a natural ring?” she asks, tracing her own finger over the small, arched line under Wren’s index finger. She strains her eyes to see it, but it’s there.

“Yes. It does look a little bit like a ring.”

“It’s called the Ring of Solomon. It tells me that you are a leader. You are strong, independent, and highly intelligent. It also tells me that sometimes these traits can run your life. Your work and success stifle your more creative impulses,” Martine offers. Wren can’t help but feel exposed.

How can a line under her finger tell this woman all of that?

Martine grins, twisting Wren’s hand another way.

“This line,” she continues, pointing to a very faint line extending across the middle of her palm from the bottom of her pinky to the space between her index finger and thumb. “This line is unique. It’s the Simian Line.”

Wren sees it faintly but makes sure she looks at Martine’s face to study her expression. Martine furrows her brows together before clasping her other hand on top of Wren’s, almost in a show of comfort.

“This line tells me that you have a hard time viewing life in abstract ways. You see black and white. But not gray. Your analytical nature is your greatest asset, but also I have a strong feeling that this is something detrimental to your current situation.”

Wren can feel her mouth open of its own accord.

“And what situation is that?” She can’t believe she is indulging Martine.

“Let’s see if the cards will tell me,” Martine responds calmly, handing the stack to Wren. “Use your left hand and cut this stack into two piles. Cut the stack where you feel the strongest urge to do so.”

Wren does as she is told but doesn’t feel anything, so she cuts it at random, placing the cards facedown on the table. Martine pulls a card from the top of each stack, turning them over and placing them on the table in front of them.