Poison Priestess by Lana Popovic (some good books to read TXT) 📗

And yet they are here, I think with a rising thrill. Perhaps this was once the divineress’s haunt.

“What is this place?” I breathe to Marie as I dip my head to examine the markings more closely, until I can smell the stone’s rusty mineral odor. “And why have you kept it from me all this time?”

“It’s a haven of divination,” she replies. “One of many in the cité, and my favorite. As to why I have never taken you …”

The barkeep interrupts her by sliding two sloshing goblets across the stone, tipping Marie a brusque nod as she drops a clutch of sous into his waiting hand. The wine the goblet holds is rich and red, better than I expected. It burns furiously down my gullet, like a falling star escaping the firmament.

“The lawless dealings that transpire here are not for the faint of heart,” Marie continues, her eyes glinting secretively above her goblet’s rim. “I wished to keep you clear of it for another few years yet, at least. But were I to wait any longer, I fear that blasted book might swallow you whole. At least here, I can be certain you do not sell your soul to le Diable all unwitting.”

Her impulse to keep me safe never fails to warm me, unnecessary though it is in this case.

“While I appreciate the thought, ma chère, I’m quite certain Lucifer has far more pressing things with which to occupy his time than lurking in wait for me,” I scoff, rolling my eyes. While I do not doubt that notre Dieu and le Diable wage their eternal war against each other somewhere far beyond our ken, I do not truly believe now, any more than I did back at the fabrique, that either of them deigns to meddle directly in the affairs of men. “And what do you suppose I shall learn here, that all my failed attempts with the grimoire haven’t taught me?”

Marie makes a thoughtful moue, lifting a single finger. “Not learning, but the right sort of practice. Those born with the true gift, like you, ma belle, are few and far between. And though the chiromancers here are exceptional grifters to the last, most of them have about as much real magic as I do—which is to say, not a jot of it. But I put up a lively enough pretense when there is coin involved, do I not? And if even I can convincingly pretend to read the future in a palm, think what you might be able to do.”

I frown at her, cocking my head. “But I have never even tried to read a palm!”

“Not yet, you haven’t. But a certain woe-struck lady who wishes to remain unnamed comes here tonight, seeking a stolen glimpse of what lies ahead.”

She leans in closer to me, her dark eyes sparkling with mischief. “And I’ve a mind to have you read for her in my stead.”

A quarter of an hour later, Marie and I sit at one of the tables with the nameless lady across from us.

“Pardonnez-moi, but I came for your talents, Mademoiselle Bosse,” the lady protests, her cultured voice barely above a breath. She is wealthy but not highborn, Marie believes, most likely some well-heeled tradesman’s wife. “You come highly recommended, whereas your companion … Catherine Monvoisin, you say? Well, I’ve never heard so much as a whisper of her name.”

“Catherine is my apprentice,” Marie lies smoothly, the corner of her plush mouth quirking when I dart her a peevish look. “And an exceptionally promising one. Her star is on the rise, madame. Soon her name will be on everybody’s lips—and you will have been the first to sample her gift.”

The lady’s eyes shift to mine, clouded with uncertainty. “But …”

“What harm can it do to try, my lady?” Marie cajoles. “Allow me to ease your mind. Should you be dissatisfied with the reading, I shall take over for Catherine—free of charge, bien sûr.”

The lady weighs the offer a trifle longer before deciding that she has little to lose. When she extends her hand to me, I bend my head over her proffered palm, thinking furiously. My sight has always been unpredictable, tempestuous as a summer storm; if I can barely claw it up with the grimoire’s exacting guidance, why should it heed me now?

But, I tell myself, I have watched Marie do this same thing so many times. Drinking in the intent lines of her face as she subtly scanned her targets, reading intentions from the cast of their expressions, discerning hidden desires from their eyes.

If she can lie her way through a divination, then surely so can I.

“A … a fearsome cloud hovers over your path, madame,” I improvise haltingly. “I can see its outline casting a shadow on your palm …”

And then I sputter out, unable for the life of me to think of what might come next.

As the lady gives me a dubious look, I take a few deep breaths to calm myself, under the guise of letting magic build. I allow my eyes to drift up to the lady’s face, taking stock of her. The sort of troubles that drive people to a soothsayer tend to hail from a common source—health, or wealth, or matters of the heart. This woman is too young and clearly hale to be besieged by some deathly ailment. Nor, from her fine skin and the rich fabric of her cowl, does she seem to lack in means.

Which very likely leaves us with love.

“Alors, you wish to know what will become of you and him,” I venture, searching her face for confirmation that some “him” exists at all. When the skin at the corners of her eyes crinkles minutely, I take heart and plow ahead. “And given what has come to pass between you, whether his attentions will hold true.”

“And will they?” she whispers, eyelids fluttering to contain sudden tears. “Now that, now …”

Though I am only spinning a grift, something about the raw fervor