A/N: Happy 4th of July to my American readers! We have a lot to celebrate, but also a lot of work to do.

This chapter is the first part of a two-part flashback sequence, and we have some content warnings for Olive's past.

Content Warning: References to and descriptions of drug use, addiction, and child abuse/neglect

To be clear, I don't condone the kind of drug use we see in this chapter, especially if you have a child to take care of. Olive's mother is a good person, but not a role model. But Olive really loves her mom, and is a child here, so I guess you can consider her a bit of an unreliable narrator.

Chapter 5: In the Beginning, Part I

Olive is nine years old, and she is happy.

Roanoke, Virginia

11 years ago

Olive peddled her bicycle down the sidewalk at a snail's pace, weighed down by the grocery bags piled into the bike's basket and dangling precariously off of the handlebars. She felt about as slow and sticky as molasses in the still, humid August heat. Olive stuck to the shade as much as she could, but it was the middle of the day. The sun's rays beat down punishingly from almost directly overhead, leaving the pockets of cooling shade small and infrequent. Olive's shoulders tingled with the unmistakable feeling of a developing sunburn, already a delicate pink that would later blossom into a vivid, swollen red. Her nose and cheeks, she was sure, faced a similar fate.

Olive dared to lift a hand away from the handlebar, swiping at the sweat on her forehead that was threatening to drip into her eyes and obscure her vision. The bike wobbled dangerously, but years of practice allowed Olive to remain upright. She'd bought eggs at the store, and she didn't intend to crush them.

No, just to cook them in their shells in the hundred degree heat, Olive thought sarcastically, glancing back at the basket as she slowed to a stop at an intersection and absently pressed the button for the crosswalk signal. Was it her imagination, or were the plastic grocery bags looking a little melted?

Mom would be upset that Olive had gotten plastic bags instead of paper. She'd go on and on about the sea turtles again. Olive felt for the sea turtles, she really did, but the paper bags at the convenience store didn't have handles, so she couldn't carry nearly as many of them at once, even with the help of the bicycle. Plastic bags had been a necessity if Olive wanted to buy enough supplies to last them more than a day or two. The sea turtles were just going to have to deal with it.

When Olive's mother was fully sober, she was very aware of such things, and agreed with Olive that their own circumstances were more immediately relevant than the sea turtles. But when she was a little stoned-which she would be today, since she had a couple of clients lined up-she tended to fixate on things that didn't really matter, and couldn't always be swayed by such things as logic.

(When she was on the hard stuff, she didn't care much about the state of their pantry, the sea turtles, or anything else.)

Normally, the thought of being cooped up in their tiny apartment in the summer heat-surrounded by the thick, cloying scent of incense and smoke-wouldn't be Olive's idea of a good time. Especially when Mom was going to be spending the day doing readings. But today, Olive would be grateful for any opportunity to hide from the sun, even if it meant whiling away the afternoon in their stuffy apartment. She'd been meaning to clean the place up a little anyway. She had this weird feeling in her gut that CPS was going to send another person by "to check up on them" soon enough, and Olive had no intention of giving them any reason to believe her mother took less than perfect care of her.

Even though, by government standards. . . that was probably true.

Whatever. No random CPS caseworker was going to understand that Mom got high as much for Olive's sake as for her own. How could they know what life was like for Olive's mother, with spirits and shadows and voices constantly whispering to her, reaching for her? The drugs helped keep away the Others, helped keep Mom in control. And they were responsible about it! They even had a system in place! Mom was sober whenever she could be, but she drank poppy tea in the morning and before bed. She smoked pot around once a day most days-to take the edge off the voices, when they inevitably started getting louder-and when she had clients coming in, she smoked again or ate some of the special food that Olive wasn't allowed to touch. That way, when Mom had to actively reach out to the Others during a reading, they couldn't get an easy foothold in her mind!

And when things started to get bad, Olive's mom had a series of things she tried before she even reached for the hard stuff. Smoking some more was sometimes enough, or taking a sleeping pill, or. . . some other kind of pill. It was only if none of those worked that Mom went for the stuff in the needles. Olive hated it when she had to do that, hated the blank, blissed out look on her mother's face. . . but she knew Mom did it for her. Because if the Others managed to take control. . . it usually didn't end well.

Truthfully, though the thought made her stomach squirm guiltily, there were times Olive thought she liked her mother better when she was high. When Mom was sober, there was always this. . . worry (fear, really) hovering at the back of Olive's mind. The knowledge that, with her mother's mind clear, the Others could come at any time. That foreign voices and words might tear themselves from her mother's throat, that her face would contort grotesquely as she thrashed around, wrestling with spirits who sought control of her body. And worst of all, that she might lose that fight, leaving Olive alone with whichever dead soul was wearing her mother's skin. Some of them were fine, walking around the apartment and running Mom's hands along everything in sight in wonder, or stuffing Mom's mouth with food they had missed so they could taste it with her tongue. But others. . .

Olive shivered, a chill running down her spine despite the heat of the afternoon. She turned the bike onto her street, forcing back memories of grappling with strangers who snarled and sneered at her out of her mother's face. She curled her fists around the handlebars, the plastic of the grocery bags crinkling beneath her fingers.

She didn't mind Mom nagging her about the sea turtles if it meant Olive didn't have to see her like that.

Olive was standing on a footstool and heating up a couple of cans of Spaghettios for dinner when her mother made her way upstairs to the apartment at long last, final appointment of the day completed. Her footsteps were heavy, but she wasn't stumbling and her eyes were mostly clear, so Olive figured she was having a pretty good day.

Olive's mother Iris was a beautiful woman of an age that wasn't easily gauged by eye. She'd had Olive late in life, and her once vibrant red hair-a riotous mess of curls and twists that she had passed on to Olive-had faded to a gentler strawberry blonde in many places. She was graying (or whitening, rather) a bit at the roots near the front of her hair. But Iris had a vivacious personality and a pleasant and youthful face, with a small nose and a full, wide mouth that showcased her bright and easygoing smile. Her eyes were a warm cinnamon color, and the crinkles at their edges looked as though they could just as easily be smile lines as wrinkles. All told, even though Iris was in her late 40's, she looked much younger than her years. Olive resembled her greatly in the texture of her hair and the shape of her face, though she had inherited her father's more subdued coloring.

"How's my little adult?" Iris asked joyfully, crossing to Olive and pressing an affectionate kiss to the side of her head.

Olive laughed quietly at the exaggerated kissing noise her mother released against her ear, glad that marijuana made Iris relaxed and happy instead of withdrawn and paranoid. "Just fine. And how's my big adult?"

"Just fine," Iris assured. She reached over to crack open the window above the sink with a great heave, straining with effort. Olive wasn't tall or strong enough to open the sticky window, even when standing on the footstool. They both sighed in relief as-comparably-cool evening air rushed into the apartment, and the hot steam from the Spaghettios rushed out. Iris turned around to lean against the counter and look at Olive, inhaling deeply. "Ahhh," she sighed the breath out happily. "Smells good. What's on the menu, Chef?"

"Hmm," Olive hummed, tilting her nose up proudly and putting on her best fake accent. She couldn't decide between French and Italian, and instead ended up somewhere in between. "Today, we have tender, thinly rolled pasta rings," Olive described, "cooked to perfection and coated in a smooth, seasoned tomato reduction. Accompanied by a buttery, garlic and herb encrusted flatbread," she finished haughtily, gesturing to the toaster oven where the frozen garlic bread was defrosting.

Iris laughed delightedly, clapping her hands. "Oh bravo, darling!" She smiled brightly, eyes shining, and Olive's chest swelled with happiness. "I didn't realize I was attending a Michelin Star restaurant! I'd better go clean up before dinner, I'm hardly presentable," Iris teased, winking.

Olive sniffed, breaking character. "Yeah, you do kind of stink," she agreed, wrinkling her nose. Her mother reeked of a number of incenses, since she often lit many different kinds over the course of her appointments, depending on what people were looking to get from their reading (and depending on how insistent and loud the Others were on a given day). Olive could smell evergreen, frankincense, and the floral, woody tones of Nag Champa in particular.

Iris slapped Olive's arm lightly, gasping in mock offense. "Alright, that's enough from the peanut gallery," she joked, making her way towards the bathroom. "I'm off to the shower."

"Leave the door open," Olive reminded absently, stirring the bubbling sauce in front of her. They had an open door showering policy after the last time Iris had passed out in there. It had been nearly a full ten minutes before Olive realized her mother was unconscious. With the door open, Olive would be able to hear if Iris collapsed.

"Which one of us is the parent here?" Iris grouched good-naturedly. But when she hopped in the shower a few moments later, she did indeed leave the door open.

Half an hour later, the pair of them sat curled up on opposite ends of the pull-out couch, dipping garlic bread in their Spaghettios, which Olive had garnished with a couple sprigs of basil fresh from the potted plant that lived on the windowsill.

Iris' skin was dewy from the shower, her hair piled on top of her hair in a towel turban. Her eyes were wide and clear as she came down from her high, though the mug of steaming herb and poppy tea by her elbow would help a little. The last of Iris' special tea blend had gone into that cup, so she and Olive would have to make some more that night if Iris was to have any in the morning.

Though she knew her mother had to drink the tea to help keep the Others away, Olive still couldn't even fathom the idea of drinking a hot beverage at the moment. The apartment had cooled a little with the windows open and the sun finally beginning to sink beneath the horizon, but it was still all too warm and sticky inside for Olive's tastes. She vastly preferred winter to summer. In protest to the weather, Olive had poured a glass of icy water over her head upon arriving home, and even now-hours later-her thick, wild hair was still damp. Mirroring her mother, Olive had piled it all on top of her head and secured it with a bandana. Here and there, a stray brown curl poked out from between the folds of fabric.

Iris hummed in delight as she tore off the crusty edge of her garlic bread and soaked it in tomato sauce. "Mmm, delicious," she crowed with relish, savoring the bite as if they really were eating at a five-star restaurant. Olive snorted helplessly into her bowl, and her mother's smile softened into something more gentle and sincere. "The house looks lovely by the way, sweetheart," Iris complimented, glancing around the apartment. Olive had managed to find places to either store or display their vast collection of knick knacks and photographs, and had dusted and scrubbed every surface she could reach until it was shining. Well, almost every surface. She'd left the walls alone only because she figured it would look suspicious to the CPS people if they were only cleaned up to a child's height. Olive didn't want them to think her mom was using her for slave labor, or something.

She grinned, proud of her accomplishment. The apartment had been an absolute wreck when she'd gotten home, but now it could pass muster by any definition. "Thanks! You know, we actually do have places to put things other than 'on the nearest flat surface,'" Olive teased, referencing her mother's habit of just. . . putting things down and walking away. "Oh," she added, remembering another important detail, "and I hid all of the drug stuff back in your secret spot. I think CPS is going to drop by again soon," Olive informed. Her mother's current "secret spot" was inside the toilet tank in a plastic bag. To Iris's credit, she did try to keep anything untoward or dangerous away from Olive, and she always picked a new hiding spot once Olive figured her out. It was just that Olive was. . . really good at finding things. She just always knew where the new hiding place was.

"Shoot, Olive," Iris complained, though she was smiling. "Now I've gotta find a new secret spot. That's the fourth one this year! The apartment's not that big, you know." Olive graciously elected not to mention that she'd known about this most recent secret spot since about two days after her mother chose it. Iris sighed. "But I guess the toilet tank was pretty obvious. If CPS is coming, I'll have to find somewhere better to put it, in case they want to look around."

Olive blushed, oddly embarrassed that her mother was taking her weird hunch seriously, though she wasn't really surprised. As a psychic, Iris sometimes believed more in Olive's gut than Olive herself did. "Pretty sure they can't just come in and look in our toilet tank without a warrant," she pointed out, trying to will the pink out of her cheeks. "Besides, it was just a feeling. They might not even be coming."

"Nonsense!" Iris exclaimed. "If you say they're coming, then they're coming!" She put her bowl to the side and reached across the couch to grasp one of Olive's hands in her own. Delicately, Iris traced the lines of her daughter's palm, a distant, knowing glint in her amber eyes. "We don't always have to see or touch or hear things to know them, Olive," she reminded. "You have remarkable intuition. You shouldn't disregard it just because the idea of being like me makes you uncomfortable."

"It doesn't!" Olive protested automatically. Her mother was the best! She was smart and kind and funny and beautiful! It was just. . . Olive saw what being a psychic did to Iris sometimes. She lived in fear of the spirits, that she would lose herself to them, that they would use her to do bad things. And Olive also saw what happened when Iris wasn't strong enough to control her own abilities, to stop that from happening.

Olive wanted to be like her mother. She just didn't want to suffer like Iris did.

"You don't have to explain, I understand," Iris insisted, lifting a hand to chuck Olive under the chin. "Sometimes our abilities can be frightening. And being able to somehow perceive things you have no way of knowing consciously. . . well, it'll drive you crazy if you think too hard about the hows and the whys, trust me on that." She smiled wryly. "But that doesn't mean we should disregard the things our. . . extra senses tell us. Or that we should reject our abilities."

Olive nodded, subdued.

Iris pursed her lips, examining her. She could probably tell that Olive wasn't 100% convinced. Olive had no proof that her mother was a mind reader. . . but she could always see straight through Olive. Whether that was because she was a psychic, or because she was a mom, Olive didn't know.

"You know, all this talk reminds me," Iris said suddenly, switching from serious to excited between one breath and the next. She popped up out of her seat and bounded over to the bookcase. "I've got a little something for you ." A sly smile spread across Iris' face as she pulled a book off of the bottom shelf. She opened it to reveal a cut out in the pages, which contained what looked like a deck of cards. "I've been hiding it in my secret secret spot!"

Olive blinked, bewildered. It wasn't often that her mother-or anyone, really-managed to surprise her like this. It. . . felt kind of nice. Warm. Iris must have gone to a lot of effort to keep Olive from discovering her present.

"Don't look so shocked," Iris chided gently, still grinning. "I've got a few tricks up my sleeves, you know."

Olive did her best to school her expression, though she suspected she wasn't fooling anyone. "Yeah well, you might, but you also just exposed your secret secret spot." Not just its location, but also the fact that it even existed to begin with. Olive genuinely hadn't even suspected. "So I guess you'll have to get two new hiding spots, and some new tricks," she observed.

Iris twitched. Evidently, she hadn't really considered that. "Hah. . . shi-shoot," she muttered, glancing at Olive furtively. Olive tried not to smirk too obviously. Iris had no problem smoking pot in front of her, but tried not to swear around her delicate young ears. "Well, that's a problem for future Iris, I guess," the woman said with forced cheer. "Here, open your present!" she added quickly, shoving the deck of cards forward into Olive's hands in a transparent attempt at distraction.

There wasn't really much to open, considering the cards weren't wrapped. The cardboard box bore a distinctive, easily recognizable yellow and white design. A man in a red and white robe lifting a candle high into the air, an infinity sign above his head. The Magician. Olive swallowed. Ah. Now she saw how their conversation had reminded her mother of this particular gift. "A tarot deck," she said, trying not to sound too tense. "What's the occasion?"

Iris sat back down on the couch, this time pressed right up against Olive's side. "Consider it an early birthday present," she chirped. She was very obviously intentionally misunderstanding Olive's question, but her response was strange enough to throw Olive off track anyway.

Olive's brow furrowed. "It's. . . August," she pointed out. Iris hummed and nodded, unconcerned. "My birthday is in December," Olive huffed, starting to get fed up with her mother being so deliberately dense.

"Like I said: early," Iris defended. She reached out to curl Olive's fingers-which had been limply cradling the deck-more firmly around the cards. After doing so, she left her own hands in place, cupping Olive's as she held the deck of cards. Olive's mother smiled at her, and there was something strange about the expression. Almost sad. "I was just really excited to give these to you. They say your first tarot deck should always be a gift. . . I wanted to make sure you got yours from me."

Who else would it be from? Olive nearly asked, but something stopped her. An uncomfortable feeling in her gut, at the back of her mind, pounding behind her heart. Her intuition-as Iris called it-raising the alarm about something. The phrasing of that last sentence was weird, wasn't it? I wanted to make sure you got yours from me. . . "And you couldn't have waited four months to give it to me?" Olive asked, uneasy. She tried to shove the feeling aside.

Iris' smile was definitely sad now. Not around her mouth, but in her eyes. "Maybe I'm just impatient," she said quietly. "Your daughter only turns 10 once, after all." Her words were soft and light and loving, and it sounded like. . . well not a lie, because Olive could always hear those, could practically taste them. But something close. Those sad eyes roved over Olive's face almost desperately.

Why did it sound like Iris didn't think she'd be around to see Olive's birthday?

Olive hesitated, that horrible feeling growing her stomach. "Is everything okay?"

Iris stroked a thumb over Olive's cheekbones, tracing the undersides of her dark green eyes, brushing gently over her sun-pinked skin. "I hope so."

That night, Olive helped her mother prep a new batch of her special herbal tea. They sliced up mint and valerian root, and crushed cardamom and poppy pods, using the strange silver dagger that Iris usually kept sheathed and displayed on the wall. It clearly wasn't meant for kitchen use, what with its symmetrical blade and slender, decorative hilt and pommel, but Iris handled it like a pro, even for the mundane task of preparing a tea mixture.

Olive spread the chopped herbs and seeds over a paper towel in a thin layer so they could dry out over night, watching her mother clean the knife out of the corner of her eye and trying to shake the feeling that soon the dagger would be needed for its true purpose.

The tarot deck felt suddenly heavy in her pocket.

A/N: Bonus points to anyone who can figure out where this is going (it's hard for me to tell if it's actually obvious or not, since I KNOW where this is going).

As always, thanks for reading, and let me know what you think!