Seven of Wands, Reversed
Having pushed her luck as far as she could with Jean Guilcher, Dolcequita finally left the prison and made her way onto the rainy streets, her baby on her back. She felt no sorrow for herself or for her child – she had done what she had come to do, and now she was going away again. That was all there was to it.
And besides, she had friends in Brest. Or, rather she had those who would show her hospitality because she was as they were, did as they did, and those were the rules. They child, too, they would welcome, and they would train him to be as they were and do as they did. For, when one is spawned in the same mire . . .
. . . seated before the fire on the flagstones of a tapis-franc kitchen Recouvrance, Dolcequita again took out her cards, intending to read them properly for her babe. Not that she was a superstitious woman, far from it! Dolcequita was the subtlest beast of the field and mostly when she read her cards it was for the stupid, the gullible, and the desperate, those who would believe anything. And she delighted in making them believe anything. Deception was her livelihood and the theatricality of this particular deception pleased her more than most. But, in quite another frame of mind, she would sometimes read the cards for herself since there was truth in some things, and all that was to be done was to bow before it.
Firstly she searched for the card that she had drawn back in the prison, the King of Swords. That she lay in first place. Then she drew the Seven of Swords, placing it in the house of possession, and she wondered if there would be many swords in this fortune.
The next card was a Wand, the Seven, and it was reversed.
Dolcequita, in an uncharacteristic moment of self-pity, did not apply the card and it's meaning, Insecurity, to the child but to herself. She was so tired, had been tired, it seemed ever since Chabouillet had sent her away from Grand Malaunay. She had come to Brest, and done what she could, but who knew if Andoche would ever get the message, or what the message was for or what good it would do.
She had been shocked when Chabouillet had sent her away from Malaunay, perhaps too shocked. Perhaps she had trusted in her ascendancy over the man too much. Well, at least she had given nothing away – every line of his palm that she'd read or line of his face that she'd caressed had been paid for. It was not a habit with her to give what she could sell.
And Mme Chabouillet had with to come to Malaunay herself for her confinement. Dolcequita could see that it would not have done for her to have remained there, and she could appreciate the humour of the situation. When she retold the tale, of course, it would be the humour that she played up, cutting down the time between her departure and Madame's arrival to the merest sliver, whilst exaggerating other details beyond all proportion. She would tell the whole tale deadpan in her harsh, bitter voice, occasionally casting a smirking look from under her lashes at her audience to see them smile or widen their eyes.
The thought of tales yet to be told was enough to restore Dolcequita to her customary equilibrium, so she set down the Seven of Wands and gazed again at the child, thoughtfully this time. She would have a stubborn child on her hands here, that was sure, a child blessed with courage in adversity and doggedness in defeat, certainly, but the Seven of Wands was also the card that warned of the pitfalls of pride, the card of the Fanatic. Still, it had been drawn reversed, which may well have meant something . . .