I know it's been a while, but I very nearly lost my inspiration for this fic. Thankfully (?) it came back :). Anyways. Disclaimers are the same as ever, and I hope you enjoy!
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The sun was nearly halfway across the sky and Christine had pulled her shawl forward to shade her – regretfully pale – skin from the sun's rays glinting off the snow when Petr came the next morning to help her Papa chop firewood. For Christine, who had never bothered with the modesty and decorum that was required of most girls her age – her father, while kind and loving, had no true idea of how to raise a proper lady and for most magickal beings, clothing was usually decorative at best and shame, as a general rule, was frowned upon. And so it was that she sat on the edge of the cart, ankles swinging her skirts in some semblance of a breeze, trying not to giggle at the fake – a feat of engineering that never quite lost its novelty – play of muscle on her guardian's bare back as the logs split down the middle. Sitting as she was, it was easy to understand why Rosa, a local dryad, would be so enamored with him.
He turned to reach for his water canteen, and as he caught her frank gaze, grinned and winked. Flushing a little, Christine smiled back. Her papa was still concentrating on a log with a rather large knot in it as she summoned the canteen into her own hands, taking a long, dramatic drink; he rolled his eyes and over-extended his arm to snatch it back.
"Show-off," she muttered, trying unsuccessfully to hold it out of his reach.
"Brat," he shot back, patting her on the cheek before retracting his arm. When her Papa looked up to see what the fuss was about, they both smiled and waved like guilty children. Christine giggled and summoned the water bottle once more, tucking it underneath her thigh and settling her weight on that one leg.
"Beautiful day, isn't it?" she called out cheerfully, catching her Papa's warm smile and Petr's wry grin.
"Absolutely wonderful, love," he said, the familiar endearment making her flush a little deeper and his grin widen.
"If by wonderful you mean wretchedly hot," murmured her Papa, who had never gotten used to any sort of winter but the cool Scandinavian weather. Christine hopped to the ground to bring him some water; in the warmth of midday, he seemed as ageless as ever, but the memory of last night's revelation still tugged at her heart every time she thought of it.
No, but that would not do. Intent on enjoying the warm weather to its fullest, she pushed all thoughts of the sort from her mind and smiled resolutely. Her Papa drank gratefully, as Peter watched with an odd smile on his face. She was about to ask him about it when Pimeur appeared from behind their cart, his cheeks smudged with dirt and his eyes laughing as always.
"Madame wants to see you, Christine," he said with that odd, sharp accent that Petr had never quite mastered, and leaning forward conspiratorially, he added in a softer tone: "I think she's bored, to be honest."
Christine sighed; when Madame was bored, that usually led to hours upon hours slaving over the cards, memorizing every position and every nuance until her head hurt and her eyes couldn't see straight. For some reason, she had never been able to grasp the concept, and for some reason, Madame wouldn't just let them go. Her Papa nodded, in a semblance of permission, and she reached up on tip-toes to kiss her cheek.
"Behave," he said, thumbing her nose affectionately. She shared a sympathetic glance with Petr, who shared her annoyance with the so-called art of Tarot.
"Keep your head on, girl. We can go visit Rosa when you return."
Buoyed by the prospect of a visit with the bubbly tree spirit with an odd, obsessive love for Lieder and a certain shapeshifter, she took Pimeur's hand and with a parting wave, they hurried off through the camp. As they passed the remains of last night's fire, she shivered with a remembered chill and searched the surrounding trees for anything out of the ordinary. Nothing but brush and shadow, and Christine wasn't sure if she was relieved or disappointed.
When they reached Madame's tent, Pimeur left her with a pilfered apple – which she slipped into her pocket – and a smile before scurrying off to the impromptu game of rouge et noir that always seemed to start up whenever he was around. With one, last wistful look at the blue sky, she lifted the tent flap and slipped inside –
Only to be brought up short, as if by a wall.
"Ah, there you are, girl," Madame Semele said, from her usual, cushioned seat behind the pitted and scorched old table, the scent of patchouli rising from a monkey's skull on the smaller table next to her. In Christine's usual spot, however, sat two – two beings in the shape of men, at least – one dark-skinned man with a kind face and a familiar aura, and a cloaked, masked man that radiated nothing but the cold of winter. Despite the heat kept in by the dark angles of the tent, she shivered involuntarily. Even though a fedora hid his eyes, she could feel his assessing, calculating gaze following her every move. "Christine, these men would like to have their cards read-" she very nearly groaned, but Madame's sharp glare kept her silent – "and I would like it very much if you would do the honours."
For the first time ever, she shifted to make room for Christine on the far side of the table; she hurried to oblige before Madame could change her mind. To make her way over in the cramped space, she had to squeeze by the dark-skinned man: she stumbled on the bench leg and only a quick, strong grip kept her from tumbling face-first into the ground. "There is no hurry, girl," he said kindly, in an odd off-kilter accent that never quite rang true. Christine had to take a moment to filter his words, and smiled shyly before continuing on her way. The second man, even with a white mask made of cloth covering his face, managed to convey disapproval with only the set of his shoulders and a put-upon exhale. Bristling automatically, Christine let herself sink into the scented cushions, noting with relief that Madame had pulled out the Russian tiles instead of the Tarot. Perhaps she might not make a fool of herself, after all.
"And what brings you two gentleman to our neck of the woods?" she asked cordially, arranging her skirts and smiling in the way she had seen Madame do so often – trying for mysterious but aware that she fell short by a long shot. Something under the mask moved, as if he intended to speak, but the dark-skinned man cut him off.
"We were simply passing through." There was a quiet finality to his voice that dissuaded any further questions. The masked man huffed and shifted impatiently in his chair, but from her side of the table, Christine found that she did not care so much. Smiling demurely, she picked up the tiles in her right hand, face-up, and shuffled them into her left to clear the deck, hands nimble after so much practice.
"Who would be first?" she asked, assessing the dark-skinned man's frank stare, trying to see the gaze of his companion. It was the former that held out his hand, into which she placed the cards. He also shuffled from left to right, seven times, before handing them back. The solemn ceremony of it all nearly made her giggle, but she managed to keep her face cool and aloof. Mostly. Hopefully. Cutting the deck once, she laid out ten tiles, five in one row, and five below, and watched to see if any two adjoining cards would form a complete picture if rotated. To her surprise and pleasure, there were more than usual.
"The clover in first position," she said, rotating the tiles so the colourful green and red tile matched up, "means you have recently found happiness and the fulfillment of your desires, is this true?" His short laugh prompted her to continue. "Luck will continue to be on your side, at least for a short while."
"Good to know," he said, absentmindedly patting his pocket. "What about this one?"
"The ship?"
"I hate water," he confessed slyly. She giggled, behind her hand, and then attempted to compose herself.
"That signifies travel, but it doesn't specify how. Combined with the road," and here she gestured to the bottom row, "it makes the prospect of a long trip very likely." Here, he hummed quietly; the man beside him was eerily still, but Christine did her best to put him out of her mind. Perhaps it was her new position in the tent or the pressure of performance, but she had never done so well! Even Madame was smiling proudly.
The scythe. She frowned. "There is an evil fate that pursues you? Oh, my…"
"This is not news," the masked man said at last, causing Christine to recoil in shock. He had the most amazing voice that she had ever heard, deep and rich and almost like the chocolate they had bought in Switzerland that one time, with an odd undercurrent of bitterness, like it had been burned. She felt the resonance of power hidden deep within, and wondered if that meant she wanted to hear more, or run far, far away.
"It's not me, it's the cards," she snapped finally, "how am I supposed to know?"
"Leave him be, girl. He means no harm." A sharp glare in his companion's direction served as insurance. Sighing – longing? – Christine rotated a few more tiles.
"The knot means that a tie you have formed long ago will be renewed, and will stay with you for a lifetime." There was nothing more – a look at Madame confirmed it. "That is all I can say, monsieur, for that is all I have been given."
He nodded, still as kind as ever; it was strange, her heart warmed just to look at him, even as she found her gaze drawn to the stranger by his side. Could he speak just one more time, perhaps? She had almost forgotten the thrill of it. "It has been more than enough. Thank you." His hand was held out, to drop a few coins into her palm. "You have a gift, dear child. Don't ever take that for granted."
Blushing, she dropped her gaze and pocketed half the money, pushing the rest towards Madame. He chuckled and got to his feet, his companion following suit. "You do not want your cards read?" Christine found herself asking; steeling herself against the steely glare she could just imagine being behind that mask.
"I do not believe in such fancies," he drawled, "it is an art I leave to those foolish enough to believe in fate." As the dark-skinned man rolled his eyes in apology, he turned on his heel and was halfway through the tent flap –
"You're lonely!" Christine nearly shrieked, "you are lonely and the evil that follows you is not simply external. You search for peace, and yet you search in vain, for peace will only be found in a sparrow's song, or in the shine of moon dust, or in the shade of a Fairy's wing. Even so, you will search and you will search and you will never stop until-" she could not control the words being torn out of her, as if from her very soul, until at last she cut herself off to find that her hair had fallen free of its shawl and was sparking madly around her head, that her fingernails had gouged tracks into the wood table and her fingertips were bleeding, that her throat was raw and when she swallowed reflexively, she tasted blood.
"Until what?" The man's voice was coaxing, now, and she wanted to answer him, she did, but the end of the sentence had left her along with the trance.
"I'm sorry," was all she could say. The dark-skinned man was frowning reflexively, and Madame even seemed shocked. "I do not know any more." The masked man turned once more, and an unbidden, half-memory came to her. "We will meet again," she called out; this time, he paused but did not turn around.
"I somehow doubt that," he said, before the tent flap fell and he was obscured from her view. She only had room to breathe in once, twice, before she fainted.