Once upon a time-and by that, one should say over 100 years ago-James Moody was on the first morning train to Belfast, where he would check into the Royal Avenue hotel to meet with his superior officers aboard Titanic.

He'd taken this route to sea countless times before, an unremarkable two hours of his existence. He ordered the same breakfast and distracted himself with the same writers in the commentaries of the morning paper, uninspired by the unchanging seascape passing his window.

And as it should have, this day would have gone by like any normal day going to sea, if not for the stunning pair of amber eyes in his peripheral vision.

Eyes that were determined to break James's tradition of uneventful train rides.

The girl stood up, giving him the opportunity to get a better look at her. A tame but easy flirtation sparking his ocean-strong blue eyes over his paper. Somewhere in his gaze was an unspoken good-morning-to-you-miss, as he had never seen anything like her come out of the Orient, save for his own imagination of the exotic women in Arabian Nights. And James could have sworn this goddess of the desert was floating right to him, for he'd never seen a lady walk on a moving train with such flawless grace.

And she placed herself so soundlessly before James's tea and paper that she could have very well been a witch.

Or dare he say it, fate.

"Why, madam, don't you look like a snake basket full of trouble?" he remarked, more amused by her inviting herself into his company than offended. As he should say, a woman with her own goal in mind and a plan on how to get there was nothing short of irresistible.

"May I sit here?"

"As you please, madam," he nodded to her. "I've not much longer before my stop in Belfast anyway."

"I was just thinking to myself," she said, in an accent that made him think of sand dunes and belly dancers.

And for a moment, James wished he wasn't due to a ship so urgently, as he would've liked to get to know her better.

"How many untold stories sit among us on this train now? What roles are we all destined to play once we meet that final, distant platform?" she said-quite poetically, he thought. "And then I saw you, and out of all of them, the only story I took an interest in knowing was yours. I'm Nour."

"James Moody," he introduced himself. "Though if it's my story you want, it'll turn out to be a rather short and uneventful conversation, indeed."

"James Moody?" she echoed his name like the hushed sacredness of a ritual, her coal-fire eyes taking her time to study him. His hands folding his paper away. The neatly knotted navy black necktie against his pristine white starched collar and navy vest. And that puppy-dog blue gaze that whispered something wistful into his easy smile. "There's more to you than that, Mr. Moody, I think."

"I'm sorry to say, madam, that I have very few secrets to tell. Not the good ones, that is."

And James couldn't very well bare his heart to a complete stranger anyway.

"But there is 'the mark' upon you," she whispered solemnly.

"Pardon?"

"The dark fog," she explained, though James found that oxymoron as cryptic as ever, as her eyes appeared to look into his very soul. "A hooded cloak hangs over your spirit light. It caught my attention instantly when I came here, and it is the most pronounced I have ever seen in anyone. Tell me...have you lost someone most precious to you as of late? Has there, by any chance, been a death in your family?"

"Why should you ask me such a question?" James replied, finding this sudden and morbid interview rather kooky indeed, even for a kooky woman like her.

"Death has been following you closely behind," she informed him. "You should take care."

"I'm no stranger to him, and he has never cared to ask what I think," James remarked, mimicking her low mystiquey tone with a hint of cheek. "He has taken what he pleases from me, when he pleases. Why should the bastard stop now?"

And knowing that she had pushed up against just his right wall at just the right time, she thoughtfully considered James's hands again.

"You have a working man's hands...Yet you carry yourself like a gentlemman, no? You speak in a distinguished manner, like one who has had the benefit of a good education, but has since put it behind him for other pursuits. And I would say that in itself is a big, walking contradiction of a secret, if you ask me. Such terrible grief I see in your eyes. Such unsatisfied desire...Tell me your story, sir, and in return, I will light the path of what you want most."

"Truly, I'm flattered by the romantic light you've imagined me up in," James answered, diffusing the awkward situation by snapping out his morning paper again. "But I'm only just a man sitting on a train on his way to work with his morning paper. Whatever it is you're trying to sell me, I'm afraid I'm not much a believer in it."

And thus slighted, her eyes darkened at him from behind his newspaper.

The devil's mistress, she was.

"Seems the House of Commons passed the Minimum Wage Bill by a vote of 213 to 48," James passed their time by changing the course of their morbid conversation. "About bloody time someone took care of our working people. Now, if we can only push for safety and reasonable working hours-"

"You're a solicitor then?" she kept up her guesses of him. "Or perhaps a politician?"

"Afraid I never did care much for sitting around blowing smoke and discussing what can be done, like my predecessors," he said. "I prefer to make things done. Though I suppose that wouldn't be very gentleman of me, from some other gentleman's point of view. Even so, I suppose more that my opinion on the matter keeps my lawyer for a father sharp for his profession, as we can't ever seem to hold our peace when let in the same room together."

"A socialist then?"

"Is it not enough that I am only a sailor?" James smiled politely at her. "Alas, I come from a strong line of lawyers and doctors, but I'm none too sure that I am made of the same stuff. I'm a seaman-with his morning paper-who can't overlook the misery of others. And that is all."

"Ah, come off it! Another bloody sailor?" she sighed drastically, dropping the mystic act and the foreign accent double quick as she rolled her eyes and waved him off dismissively. "Why is it always a blooming sailor on this train? Don't you young lads ever want more for yourselves?"

"Frankly, I don't feel I've missed out on anything," James remarked, his eyes still on his paper.

"And I suppose you don't have two pennies to rub together either!"

She sighed heavily.

"Forgive me. It's not you I'm frustrated with," she said. "It's sea folk in general. These last few weeks, with all this talk about Titanic, that's all you meet on these trains now. Sailors, stewards, stokers. They make terrible business clients. One quick session, and then they're off to the seas, never to be heard from again. Of course they promise to refer me to their friends, but I rarely acquire new clients from sailors."

"Sorry, I don't understand. Are you that kind of working lady?"

"If I didn't have a bad wrist, sir, I'd make a mop out of your face," she glared at him. "You assume because I'm a brown woman traveling alone and offering services, that I must be a prostitute? Is that it?"

"I mean, no," he quickly retraced his steps, fearing she might decide to throw a hex on him. "I was just curious as to what sort of business would require you to seek new clients like this. Aren't there more ideal places to set up shop than a train?"

"Yes, and I'm working on it," she said, holding her chin proud and high to look down on him. "I haven't raised enough money to set up shop in London. Rent is so damn expensive, and the spaces that are affordable aren't available to just anyone. The landlords pick and choose their tenants. And no one's going to pick a woman like me, especially considering the nature of my services. They are seen as...well...alternative methodologies to the popular view. A hoax, even. Something you encounter at the fair or circus, but not to be highly regarded in good society. If I am to set up shop, I must work twice as hard. Raise twice as much money so the landlords can't say no to my offer."

"Doubt it. London is the cesspool of England. You'd have better luck going North, than making a living for yourself there," James said, setting down his paper. "But alright then, let's hear it. What services are you really on about?"

"I can answer a question," she said mystically. "A question that you have not yet found an answer to, and wish to know before the time has come. But be warned, no one has the ability to see the future. I can only give you clues to draw your own conclusions."

"Alright," he gave in. "No harm in that. I've got a shilling or two to throw away. How will you see my future?"

"Depends on what you can afford, sir," she bargained, twiddling her long raven hair between two fingers. "Five for a palm reading, and ten for your tea leaves."

"Hardly justifiable," James disagreed. "I don't even believe in this sort of thing."

"A compromise then?" she offered quickly, desperately trying to keep her customer. "I will give you a session of your choosing for half price, if your friends are as handsome as you are, and you promise to tell them all about my services."

James gave in to half a smile.

"Well, anything to help, I suppose. I'll take the leaves."

"Done," she said. "My pay?"

"You mean now?"

"Business before pleasure, sir," she winked at him.

James sighed and stuffed his hand into his navy pockets, searching for a coin in the midst of a bosun knife, tooth pick, and extra needle and thread for his officer's uniform. He slid a pence across to her, which she examined thoroughly for authenticity. Once she was satisfied, she dropped them into her fat coin purse. A ruckus jingled inside as she hid it away quickly in her wizardly great shawl.

A prize from all the other suckers just like him, he imagined.

Then carefully, she slid James's empty teacup toward her breasts, took up his spoon, and stirred exactly three times. "Do you favor your right or left hand, sir?"

"My right?" James answered, uncertain as to how that affected his future.

"Now, the first thing I need you to do is to clear your mind of all thought. Breathe deeply and think of nothing but the question that you wish to know the answer to most."

"The one where I ask how I got myself into this?" James remarked. "I really don't believe in divination. Some answers really have no questions-I mean, questions have no answers-You know what I mean?"

"You're not focusing."

"On what should I be focusing, exactly?"

"The question that you can't chase away from your mind. That haunting thought which screams when the rest of your heart begs for peace. The last thing you remember before you fall asleep, and the first thought when you wake up."

And before James could pin down this mystic rogue thought, she slammed the teacup upside down onto the saucer.

"While we wait for the leaves to settle, let's go over a few matters of importance. The rim of the cup represents the dominant character or a great influence in your life. The middle, the near future. The base is the answer, or more accurately, your conclusion. Are you ready to read your leaves?"

"Well...isn't that what I've paid you to do?" James asked, confused.

"Well, I can't exactly read them for you," she said, as if it were the daftest question he could ask. "That can only be done by you. You are most qualified to make a study on your life. Your recognition of symbols is most relevant and accurate to your experiences. No tea reader of any skill can ever read that intimately into your life."

Carefully, she turned the cup over.

"Start with the rim. Tell me each symbol you see, in order of proximity to each other."

"Ermm...an anvil? Or anchor of some sort. It's hard to tell. Not exactly a work of fine art."

"Good, good. That's just fine, sir," she said, nodding and drawing it out on her handkerchief. "What else do you see?"

"You want me to analyze every bit of tea leaf in here?"

"Whatever you can make out."

"Alright," James went on awkwardly. "An axe?...A balloon? A bowstring. A cloud...A broken x figure, I imagine...A paper or an envelope of some sort...A cross...A world globe?...A question mark hanging off of a waterfall?...Are you sure I'm doing this right?"

"Good. Now let's move on to the middle section. What do you see there?"

"A spuggy?"

"Be more specific, please."

"Dunno. It's a bird of some kind. A swan, perhaps. Perched up next to something that looks like a flower or a tree. A dog bone. A lock. And a wheel."

"Oh," she said, her thick wrinkling brows squishing together. "Is that it?"

"You think I've missed something?" James asked, squinting one of his sky-blue eyes as he looked down thoroughly into the cup again. "It's all just black blotches. What am I supposed to make of it?"

"Alright," she said, blowing out a puff of air. "Go on then. The base section."

"A scale and a drum," James threw out his answer quickly, ready to be done with the whole thing already.

Then he added jokingly, "So what is my grand future then, and when should I expect to die?"

"Soon," she answered bluntly. "Sunday, in fact."

James's grin slowly deflated into surprise.

"That's rather precise, don't ye reckon?"

"Oh, liven up, you chicken liver. I'm only teasing you. None of this stuff is written in stone, you know. Will you just give me a moment?"

James waited, tapping his fingers on the wooden surface to a jazzy tune he'd spent all morning trying to get out of his head, as the fortune-teller finished up her sketch of his life.

On her handkerchief, she'd drawn three circles, traced out in diminishing sizes like a bull's eye, with every symbol that the officer had named carefully placed in the appropriate position.

And with her attention so intensely engaged in her work, James couldn't help but to take his revenge with a little bantering in return.

"No, no. The anchor should be a little more to the left of the balloon," he said, pointing to a spot within a fingernail's length from the original. "About 0.003 of a meter that way."

She glared at him. But making no argument, crossed out her original drawing of the anvil, and placed it where James had jokingly indicated.

The lady was certainly keen about her craft.

"Anything else?" she dared him to make more fuss.

James shook his head.

"No, no, carry on."

One more word out of him, and he knew she'd turn him into a voodoo doll.

She didn't speak again until she was satisfied with the perfection of each symbol placement.

"The anchor," she began mystically, as if they were beginning a séance. "It represents consistency. Stability. Whether in love or friendship, you will always be faithful. However, that does not make you a good lover, for here the balloon shows that even with your stability, your heart and spirit are not easily settled. The axe represents a quick thinker, and your ability to cope with difficult situations on your toes. Then we come to this positive little cluster here, the bow and waterfall, which predict wealth and prosperity, obviously. Tangled in the middle of that duo is an envelope or notice, meaning important news is on its way. Yet, there is no guarantee that it will be happy news, as the cloud symbol hangs closely by, a rather dark and thick cloud at that. It carries immense sadness into your future.

"The flower you spoke of resembles the image of the fleur de lis, flower of the lily, which in the past has been infamous for political power, sovereignty, and military strength, but in certain hues can translate to loyalty and love. The swan guards nearby, which can mean that a love interest is on its way...or is already present...considering that the swan shares a line with your future and your present...and your past...strangely enough, all at the same time?...The bones you mentioned are a call for inner strength, as you will face many obstacles of the heart and soul. One of these obstacles will be overcoming a great loss, symbolized by the broken and shattered x. Yet, it is also a warning, for this loss will be of your own doing."

"And in conclusion, I die miserably," James remarked. "Unless of course, I pay you more, eh?"

"You're catching on."

"But what of this last bunch here?" he asked, indicating the base of the cup. "I don't believe you've given them a chance to doom me yet."

"Well, because you asked, I suppose I must tell you. But whether you choose to listen, is entirely up to you," she warned him. "You are going to take a long journey, represented by the globe, but the symbol is occluded by the raven, an omen. The wheel follows closely behind, warning that the event will be out of your control and bring about a great change in your life."

"What sort of change would you say? Locusts? Famine? Rivers of blood?"

She chuckled.

"You've got me there, sir. But the point you make with your cheek is a valid one. I am only a tassographer. Not a psychic. I don't know what's in store for you or if these leaves have any meaning to them. I only make my living off travelers who are entertained by this sort of thing. All in good fun," she said. "But what if our lives were indeed governed by cups of tea? Then I would think very seriously about your line of work, sir. One of your journeys to sea may not promise a return. But if you are able to stand against the very slight odds that are in your favor, the end of that journey will still not be the end for you. The base of your cup calls you to action by the symbol of the drum, and if you make the right decisions, you will bring balance back to a scale that has tipped with your past wrongdoings that you are yet tormented by."

"Sounds like I'd better get working on that then," James said, as the train slowly coasted to a stop in Belfast at last.

James grabbed his luggage from the upper shelves, formally excusing himself from his traveling companion.

"I wish you all the best of luck in your business endeavors," he told her. "If not a psychic, you make one 'eck of a storyteller."