Witch Water

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“That’s a misconception.” Now she seemed to be inspecting the undersides of his knuckles. “The lifeline has nothing to do with how long a person lives. Palmistry isn’t about one’s death, it’s about one’s life.”

Fanshawe opened his mouth to speak, but then she seemed to notice something important on his hand. “Now this I don’t see very often, you’re part Aqua Hand and part Fire Hand; it means you’re energetic but shift from one interest to another. Oh, and now I see why you’re not concerned about the summer discount.” She smiled down but not at him. “You’re very wealthy.”

Someone at the hotel could’ve told her that, he knew. And also, “You can see that by the watch.”

She glanced at the five-figure timepiece. “Oh, yeah. Didn’t notice, but left-dominants are always skeptical.” A pause as she squinted closer into his palm. “Not only are you successful in your business, you—well…wow. You’re probably a genius in your field.”

Fanshawe shrugged. “Let’s get to the good stuff.”

She giggled. “Okay. Let’s see… Mmm, yes, great heart line, and an interesting fluctuation of your Girdle of Venus. It means you’re passionate and unselfish—”

Fanshawe took exception. “You could say that about anyone and they’d find a way to agree with you—”

“It also shows me in detail that you love your wife but you’re either divorced or separated. It’s a severe injury to you…that she…” Her lips closed quickly.

“That she what?”

“You already know, so why would you want me to repeat it?”

“I’m paying you,” he pointed out. “So tell me.”

Her eyes glanced down. “Your wife hates you. She’s disgusted by you for some reason.”

The words dulled his vision; he could’ve been staring a mile off. But how could he not be impressed? There was no way she could she have known that. After a few moments, he said, “You’re right.”

“But here’s the good news!” she chirped too quickly. Her voice lowered. “There is someone else on your romantic horizon. She has more in common with you than you think, and she’s nuts about you.”

Abbie, the name unfolded in his mind. “I hope you’re right,” he muttered. I need someone to be nuts about me…

“And”—her black eyebrows shot up—“she’s here? Here in town or nearby?”

For all Fanshawe knew, Letitia might be friends with Abbie, who could easily have mentioned their date. He made a rolling gesture with his right index finger. “Just…keep telling my fortune, okay?”

Finally, a genuine smile appeared on her face. But just for a moment; she isolated one finger. “Truncated finger pad tridents, and…” She blinked. “You have a weakness—”

“So does everybody.”

“—a weakness that’s considered anti-social? Hmm. You want to be a good person but your weakness keeps you thinking you’re not.”

Fanshawe’s face seemed to turn to granite.

“It’s a weakness that nearly ruined you—not occupationally but, well…”

“Personally,” he said.

Lett clearly sensed the dark note. “But, there’s more good news!”

Fanshawe’s shoulders slumped. “Please…”

“You will soon reduce this weakness to nothing.”

He considered this. Probably EVERYONE could say they’ve nearly been ruined by a weakness or fault. This is all gray area. “You’re not being specific,” he said as if in defense. “If you can’t be specific, it’s all suggestion versus interpretation.”

She fidgeted in her seat. “I’m not sure specifically, but… Want my hunch?”

“Sure.”

“Something visual, something about seeing,” and that was all she said.

Fanshawe’s lower lip trembled.

“Something—”

“That’s, that’s fine,” he cut her off. He faked a laugh, trying to joke.

She perked up again; in fact she seemed relieved to. “But you will succeed in defeating this weakness, and the conduit to this success will, in part, be your new romantic partner.”

“In part? What other ‘parts’ might help me?”

Instantly, she answered, “A revelatory interest—”

“Revelatory?”

“Yes. Lately you’ve become interested to the point of obsession with something totally foreign to you, something you wouldn’t ordinarily be interested in at all.”

The words popped into his head without any conscious prompt: Wraxall and Evanore. The occult. Witch-water… “Why do I get this idea that you’re genuinely psychic?”

“Because I am sometimes. And sometimes I’m all wrong. Just…not today.” Her attentions returned to his palm. When his eyes flicked to hers she was looking right at him over her glasses, smiling.

“And you have a fascinating partial joining of your heartline and headline. The angles suggest a future change of the direction of your life, and it’s a drastic change.” Her expression squeezed up as if she were suddenly perplexed. “It has to do with what I said a minute ago, a sensitivity to para-naturalism and non-physical realms, meta-physics, even. Are you…” but again she didn’t finish, holding something back.

Fanshawe sighed, exasperated, and snapped, “Am I what?”

“Are you, well… Are you a student of the occult?”

He wasn’t sure how to take this, and he wasn’t sure what he even expected, but in a sense he was such a student. His sudden interest in Wraxall, and more especially the things he’d found in the hidden chamber of the attic, suggested that. He didn’t believe in such things, did he?

But did he believe in what he’d seen last night through the looking-glass?

He was about to admit that he had a slight curiosity about the topic when something on the wall was suddenly harassing his attention. Some pictures hung there, mostly photographs but one was a portrait that seemed as old as those at the hotel. Fanshawe’s eyes seemed to bloom at the image within the old carved frame. It was a clean-shaven, stark-eyed man in a Colonial hat. The man looked sullen and unexpectant, and had an overly large jaw.

Fanshawe pulled his hand out of Letitia’s, jumped up, and strode to the painting. “Hey, this is Callister Rood, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, and why on earth would you…” Was she somehow fatigued by his sudden separation from her hand during the reading? “Oh, you must be staying at the Wraxall Inn.”

“That’s right. I saw the painting of Rood over there. Abbie and Mr. Wraxall claim he was a warlock who worked for Jacob Wraxall.”

Her eyes grew enthused. “So you are a student of the occult. But since when?”

“Since, well, a few days ago, I guess, but I wouldn’t call myself a student. It’s just kind of interesting to me.”

“Hmm. Well. Callister Rood was a fledgling, not a genuine warlock. And it was more than merely the occult they were interested in. It was deviltry.”

Deviltry. “I remember that word on Wraxall’s grave. It was one of the crimes he was charged with, right?”

“And found very guilty of, yes. The premeditated solicitation of the devil, to incur favor by making oblation, homage, and sacrifice to Lucifer, which, when practiced with faith, results in future actions in which the devil personally assists. This was what Wraxall, and in a sense, Rood as well, were up to. But Wraxall was the true sorcerer. Rood was his underling, and the muscle for Wraxall’s dirty-work.” Letitia popped her brows. “There was a lot of dirty work, trust me.”

Confused, Fanshawe looked back at Rood’s likeness in murky oil paint. “But why is his picture hanging on