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“You can read people,” a woman once told her. “Hear their thoughts, their emotions, even share in their hopes and dreams. You have the gift of insight — one of the rarest gifts that can ever be given. But it must be cultivated. Tempered with caution, and moderation.”
Melody had been fourteen at the time. Fourteen and secreted inside the strange dark tent at the heart of the fairgrounds, surrounded by a thousand people enjoying the Renaissance Festival. The “gypsy” woman confided that she wasn’t a gypsy at all. She was a tarot card reader who, self-admittedly, didn’t have any of the gifts her grandmother once possessed. By the end of the reading, she’d even given Melody her money back. She did it almost fearfully. With reverence and respect.
“Be very careful how you use your insight,” the woman had warned. “Employed correctly your gift can bring you great things… but also enormous sorrow.”
She’d left the Oracle’s tent more confused than ever. Up until that day, Melody always assumed she had good intuition. That everyone could read people the way she did, only maybe she was better than most. She couldn’t see the future any more than she could shit gold. Couldn’t conjure up the winning lottery numbers, or tell when a plane crash was about to happen, or anything even remotely that useful. All she got was bits and pieces of the present. Flashes of memory, of emotion and instinct, from the person she focused on at the time.
Her friends had laughed at her story. They cared little about her experience in the tent, and wanted to talk only about their own. It was all silly stuff, too. Boys. School. Love…
It wasn’t until she returned to the Oracle the next day, on her own, that Melody realized what she truly had. At first the woman wasn’t too happy to see her. She could feel it — no, even see it in her mind’s eye. The Oracle feared what she could do, and the more it seemed to scare her the more it frightened Melody as well. By the end of their second encounter however, the woman had softened. She was consoling toward Melody, which she needed, but also guided her in new directions.
“Take this,” she’d said, opening a darkened drawer. She pressed something cold into Melody’s hand — a thin token, carved from jade. On one side it was intricately etched with a symbol. On the other, an address had been scratched crudely with the head of a pin.
“Contact them,” the woman had told her. “Show them this was given to you, and they might help you.”
Melody had no idea who ‘they’ were. But the address on the back of the token — somewhere in upstate New York — had changed her life forever. She began receiving letters at first, hand-written missives inquiring about what she could do. She described all of it, every last detail, listing encounters and examples and how she generally felt before, during, and after using her ‘gift’.
A week later two people had come — a man and a woman. They approached her cautiously and in secret, but with a warmth and openness that quickly eased her fears. They could show her how to use her gift, they told her. Teach her how to call upon it, to turn it off and on. She was not to inform her parents. Not to inform anyone. If she did, there would be no more visits. No more knowledge.
Melody kept her promise.
Shortly after her eighteenth birthday a car arrived for her. It took her to the airport, where she was flown to New York on a private jet. It was her first time in an airplane — her first time ever being so far from home. Her grandmother had been wary of her choosing outside study rather than going straight to college. Her parents would’ve objected outright, but an accident had taken them from her when she was only ten.
Blackstone Manor was an all new place, where she began an all new life. Xiomara was there to greet her when she arrived. The tiny African woman stood at the massive front doors, wearing a bright red robe and muttering a stream of colorful but hilarious curse-words.
Those doors were a lot like the ones Melody stood in front of right now. Only these were a lot less warm, a lot less welcoming than the Blackstone.
There was the heavy click of a latch, and one of the doors swung open. A man appeared before them, taller than anyone Melody had ever seen. He was pale and gaunt, with sunken cheekbones and stark white hair. He wore a somber expression as he gestured them inside, uttering only a single word.
“Greetings.”
Eric led the way, and she followed. As the man closed the door behind them Melody’s breath was taken away by the beauty of the plantation house. The walls were washed in bright, elegant white. Wide paneled floors gave way to a sprawling staircase that dominated the massive foyer. Everywhere she looked Melody saw things of beauty — paintings, portraits, exotic furnishings. Colorful vases. Meticulously-woven rugs.
“You rang?” Eric whispered into her ear with a giggle. Melody’s brown furrowed.
“What?”
“You rang,” he repeated again under his breath. He bumped her and nodded toward the man who’d let them in. “Lurch! From the Addams family!”
“The Addams what?”
Eric looked wholly disappointed. ?
?Forget it,” he sighed. “I guess it was before your time.”
She wasn’t sure how far ‘before her time’ it could’ve been, really. Eric looked like to be in his mid to late twenties, tops. Only a few years older than she was.
The man was staring down at them impassively now, as if expecting something. Melody pulled a small card of parchment from inside her dress and held it out to him.
“Hi!” she began cheerily. “I’m Melody Larson, here for the cotillion.”
The man stared at her as if she hadn’t said a single word. Just as she began feeling uncomfortable, his eyes shifted to Eric.
“Me too,” was all Eric said.
Their host nodded slowly but didn’t take her invitation. Eric didn’t offer one of his own, either.
“The Lady of the House is expecting you,” the man said impassively. “This way please.”
