Page 35 of We Already Dug the Grave

She doesn’t hate me. I assured myself, but it was hollow. I could feel that pit calling to me, a rattle at the internal door.

Look, look, look, it urged, my whir of emotions amplifying its summons.

Fine. I’d look. Reading my own leaves wasn’t technically against any of the real rules. Ruth just didn’t like it much.

I pulled a cup from the cabinet and scooped the tea, then filled the kettle and put it to boil.

A faint wave of guilt washed over me. I knew I shouldn’t turn to my own fate to solve this. Ruth’s warning echoed in my head.

You gotta face your life head on, Milly girl.

Part of me secretly thought Ruth overstated the risks of searching for my own fortune in the bottom of my cup. It wasn’t far-fetched to think my frugal aunt’s true concern was me wasting the tea on myself. I snuck glimpses of my own fate all the time, usually over some silly nonproblem. Other times because I was bored.

But this time wasn’t like that. This time it was desperation that drove me to look. Desperation to know that everything would be okay. That place inside—the Sight—urging me toward the conduit.

When the water was warm enough, I pulled the kettle from the burner before it could whistle, then filled my cup. As it steeped, I thought of my sister and Mr. Fortenberry. I thought of my promise to always protect her. I downed the tea and eased open the internal door. The Sight uncurling in my chest, welcomed me. It was just beginning to show me something—a weight in my hand, a vibration up my arm, fear and relief and forest sounds—

“What are you doing?” Aunt Ruth’s voice, thick with sleep, startled me, and I almost dropped the teacup.

“Uh,” I said. “I was…I was having some tea. To help me rest.”

It was a weak excuse.

Aunt Ruth crossed the room in two strides and took the cup from my hands. Without a word, she took it to the sink and filled it with water, washing away the link.

“Milly. I don’t know what’s going on with you and your sister, but this ain’t the answer. You know better. I’ve told you time and again. Reading your own fate’s a slippery slope. At best you’ll waste your life peering into the leaves. At worst… Well, I’ve told you the stories about Robbins women unable to face their own futures without first consulting the Sight. Ain’t no way to live, always curled over a teacup in fear.”

There was nothing I could say. I could’ve argued that I’d read my leaves off and on for years and I was just fine. Or even admit how once I’d secretly witnessed her do the very thing she was fussing about, and since she always kept the rules like they were her sacrament, deciphering our own fate must not be that big of a deal.

There was a lot I could’ve said. If I’d have had it in me.

But in the moment I could hardly breathe.

“Go to bed,” Aunt Ruth groused. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

“Yes ma’am,” I mumbled, heading toward my room.

Later, I lay in my bunk staring at the ceiling until pink morning light glowed through my window blinds.

The leaves had spoken to me. I’d glimpsed them, if only for a moment.

I’d been thinking of my sister as I drained the tea. My baby bird who I’d do anything for.

Tears born of stress stung my eyes.

Because when you see death in a teacup, it’s not always literal, but it’s rarely good.

Chapter 13

Now

My hands shook so badly, it took three tries to stab my house key into the lock of my apartment door.

The adrenaline that had powered me through the journey to Moss Grove had faded, and halfway home, the lines of the highway had started to blur.

Except, as tired as I’d been, I couldn’t stop. My brain wouldn’t let me. The argument with Frances playing on repeat. The anger in her voice, the accusations. The bruises on her wrist. Her ordering me to leave.

God. Had I really driven nearly six hours for a twenty-minute conversation, only to turn around with nothing to show for it? At least I’d had the sense to scratch my number on a slip of paper from my car and slip it under her doormat before I left. The only proof that I’d been there at all.