Page 86 of Born to be Wilder

“What’s wrong?” Sylvie asked.

“There,” she said.

“There what?” My gaze followed her finger to where it pointed.

Sandwiched between a praline shop and a bar with a hand-lettered sign was a door draped in purple-and-gold beaded curtains. Above it, a painted wooden sign: MADAME CECILE—READER OF FORTUNES—ALL FUTURES REVEALED.

Marge spun back to us, eyes as wide as her grin. “Fortunes! Let’s go get them read!”

“Absolutely not,” Doris whispered, her eyes widening to match Marge’s but with horror instead of wonder.

“Absolutely yes,” Marge said.

“That is the devil’s business, Marge, and I will not set foot⁠—”

Marge closed her eyes, huffing before saying, “Doris. It’s a carnival fortune teller. It’s for fun. It’s not the devil at work.”

“All divination is an abomination to the⁠—”

“I think it sounds fun!” Sylvie interrupted. “And Marge is right. She’s not actually reading our fortunes, Doris. The only sin she’s guilty of is lying, but who cares? This is part of the culture here. I’m in.”

Marge clapped her hands once and pointed to Sylvie. “Yes! I knew you’d have my back on this. Alice? You in?”

I looked at the purple door.

I knew exactly what was behind it. My time on the Vegas stage taught me everything there was to know about illusion—how you built it, what it required, and why people surrendered to it even when they knew better. A good fortune teller was simply a person with sharp eyes and a practiced read on human nature, and I had no particular objection to that as a profession.

I also wasn’t in a position to dismiss anything that might say something useful.

“Let’s go,” I said.

“Alice—” Doris started.

“You can wait outside,” I told her. “Or you can come in and pray very hard for our souls. Your choice.”

She pressed her lips together, briefly held up her rosary like she was loading a weapon, and followed us to the door.

Inside, the room was small and cool, draped in deep-purple velvet that swallowed the noise of the street. Incense smoke curled up from a brass holder in the corner. In the center of the room sat a round table covered in red cloth, a crystal ball catching what little light there was and throwing it back in soft fractured pieces.

Behind the table sat Madame Cecile.

She was somewhere in her seventies, with dark skin, silver hair wrapped in an indigo cloth, and rings on every finger. “Welcome,” she said, eyes passing over us, already sizing us up. “I’m Madame Cecile.”

Doris positioned herself slightly behind the rest of us, rosary moving through her fingers.

“Who would like to know their future first?” she asked, voice low and unhurried in a thick Cajun accent.

Marge’s hand shot up.

But before Marge could launch into the seat, I stepped in front of her and sat. “I’m the captain, so I will.”

Marge grumbled under her breath but didn’t try to push me out of the chair.

“How does this work?” I asked.

Madame Cecile just opened her hand, gesturing for me to place mine in it.

She took it, her hands soft and gentle, her gaze drifting down to my palm.