Fortune Teller AU
cw: mentions of blood and pain.
Outside it is damp and crisp though inside the tent you wouldn't know it. Light from the white, overcast skies is still enough to brighten the stripes of purple silk, and just as any other light from any other sunnier day, it does not come in through the patches of heavier cloth. Every oil lamp and candle is alight to chase away the cold, burning a scent of myrrh and lavender into the air.
Regina frees her long dark hair from the tie she'd used to keep it from getting wet on her way here, but the ends of her curls still drip as they fall loose against her back.
"Madame," her assistant's voice floats from just beyond the curtain that makes the entrance to the place. "Whenever you are ready, your first inquirers are here."
"Thank you, Sidney," Regina tells him, adjusting her skirts as she sits on the cushioned red velvet chair. "Give me one minute and then show them in."
It is clear from the moment they step through the curtains that these are not people who would ordinarily be able to afford to consult with her. From their simple clothes and worn-out boots, Regina can gather that they are the kind of folk who count their fortunes from one day to the other. From the woman's sickly appearance and her large, round belly, Regina understands that this couple is spending their every last penny to be here.
She smiles kindly and urges them to take a seat. The woman's eyes are coal black and they flit around the tent, taking in every shimmering treasure. Most of these serve no real purpose but to give a sense of ambiance; candles and treasures — they give the tent an otherworldly appearance. Regina has always had a penchant for the dramatics.
The man doesn't seem too impressed, however. His every countenance is of a man who would not have chosen to do this. He looks at the table, at Regina and at the way out.
Regina has seen plenty of men just like him.
It is the hope in the feeble woman's face that makes her put aside her usual deck.
Instead, Regina brings out her old Venetian set, the first one she ever owned, with cards decorated by beautiful drawings that resemble intricate stained glass panels. This is a deck for special occasions, and something about this couple makes her believe it is time to put it to use again.
Plain enough is that the couple is here to inquire about the woman's chances of reconstituting her health. Underlying in their words, Regina understands that the pair is considering a journey, a dangerous journey, to seek a treatment rumoured to help women in such a state heal and give birth to their children safely.
With deft hands, Regina begins to shuffle the cards.
There's already a growing lump in her throat, and she hides it behind a soft smile to put the couple at ease. Il Papa Invertito. The feeling grows as the session progresses, with each card the woman chooses. L'appeso, and the woman's breath catches as she turns a card into an image of a man hanging in a gallow by his feet.
"Marian," Regina reassures, despite the ominous pull at the bottom of her own stomach, "the cards are not always what they seem to be."
Only when the husband's bright blue eyes snap to hers, aghast and wide open with surprise, does Regina remember that the woman never told her her name.
The reading tells her of a journey, of difficult decisions, of — some things Regina chooses to forego, reminding herself that this is always a work of interpretation. That the visions and sensations that shimmer at the back of her mind are not set in stone. She keeps her words purposefully vague, focuses on the general ideas the cards give instead of her own negative perceptions. Clouding her mind's eye, though, is the persistent image of a pool of blood and desperate, insistent screams.
Regina is not so baleful as to pass on to this pregnant woman everything the tarot draws out of her.
"Our lives are not books to be read in a certain order," Regina tells them. "They are much more like maps, and can follow many different paths."
The man's brows knit together at this but Regina knows Marian understands even if her husband does not.
She will take the journey, and the treatment, for the sake of her child, and will be happy enough even if it turns out only the child…
By the time they leave, Regina is exhausted. She asks Sidney for a few minutes before her next session and tries to ignore the pounding in her head.
She is pouring herself a glass a liquor when she notices the shawl the woman has left behind. Crossing the tent slowly, Regina picks up the woolen wrap in her hands and closes her eyes with a sigh. This is the worst part of her gift. This heavy feeling of powerlessness in the face of something she dare not name.
His voice jerks her out of these reveries.
"Pardon the intrusion, madam," the man says, his accent curling around the title. "I know I shouldn't barge in here like this."
He must be very light on his feet, Regina thinks, for her not to have heard his footsteps coming in. She raises one perfectly arched eyebrow at him, taking in his appearance as if for the first time. She'd been so focused on his wife that she had not given much thought to this man.
"It's just that my wife, I believe she forgot her…" he is saying, sounding out of breath. He looks down at her hands and grins with the corner of his mouth, embarrassed. "… wrap."
"Indeed," Regina agrees with a thin but genuine smile. "I thought you would be long gone by now."
He is handsome. Rough around the edges but there's something distinctly trustworthy and honest about him.
"We were across the bridge," he admits and runs a hand through the back of his hair.
"You were eager to be away from here," she states, not harshly but straightforward, making light of his posture throughout the session.
He hesitates at this, seeming abashed by her observation. "I —"
"Don't believe in the cards," she finishes before he can say more. "It's alright. They are not for everyone."
The confident shake of his head surprises her. He is serious and thoughtful as he tells her, "Oh, I do believe in the cards and many other powerful things. I would just rather not get involved in them. No good can come from… dealing with magic beyond our comprehension."
Regina blinks and her lips part as she takes his words in. It's is unexpected, unusual even that someone would express this kind of opinion so openly to her. And yet, it is a perspective that she has often considered herself. Her gift has not always been kind to her.
He takes her silence to mean she's been offended and looks again uneasy. "Apologies, I'll go. If could just —" and he reaches out an arm to take the fabric from her hands.
As he turns his palm up to receive the shawl, Regina's knees tremble and threaten to give up from under her.
It's there. The tattoo. The very same one from her dreams, a black crest of a lion in the exact lines and shapes Regina had envisioned. A memory pulls at her, strong as a swirl, of a night by Seine with Tink, of the moment the girl fell into one of her predictions — those strange overcoming prophecies her old friend would have sometimes — of her exact words, come from far away. A man with a lion tattoo and Regina, lives intertwined.
Her pulse thumps hard against her ear, her breathing suddenly shallow.
It's him.
"Milady," he says, stepping forward toward her as if to hold her in case she should faint. He puts a steadying hand on her elbow without so much as a by your leave, and his fingers seem to burn into her skin.
"Are you alright?" he asks.
She cannot say.
