Chapter Five The Nova #2
Beside it, a much older, poorly preserved book, with fraying binding and looser deckled pages. Some spots of mold dotted the fabric.
It was bound in an indigo-dyed cotton, the pages worn at their edges. On the cover, an old seal that dated back to the conception of Astrium itself. But no title.
A grimoire.
The weight of it in my hand was odd; it seemed much heavier than an average book of its size. Some small itch in the back of my brain said, Take it. I dare you.
I checked my timepiece.
I swear the hours feel like minutes.
With my artifact swiftly tucked beneath the safety of my satchel’s flap, I made my not-so-grand escape back through the stairs. A slap on Maxim’s back, then out to the front of the building.
Though if I wanted to make it in time, I’d have to keep a swift pace for at least two blocks.
A chorus of chiming cutlery, the hum of thorough deliberation, and the snapping of shuffling cards were key to the Everium.
Not unlike my own preparation for rituals, the Everium was the same for those who were mildly superstitious.
Practicing with Everie cards was not only as common as traditional orison, but a grounding self-therapy for the more secular. The other end of the spectrum considered Everie practicing as a type of invocation, but there was little to prove such a thing.
No matter the reason, the practice was rarely troublesome.
No one was hurt by entertaining cards. It wasn’t like gambling, tossing money to chance.
It was a culture. A community gathering.
Sure, people spent good money on finely crafted cards and specialty tables; even the Everium had a membership base.
But these things were not considered wasteful due to the practice’s community value.
The teas were all herbal, formulated for harnessing different moods and emotions.
They were meant to calm and stabilize you, no matter the questions pestering your mind, pecking at the back of your eye until the words blurted out.
The tables were finely carved, circular with rimmed edges, to keep all contents on the surface.
Each table provided cards and included samples of burning incense to cleanse.
The cards flicked and rippled between my fingers as I split and folded them in a dovetail shuffle. They said the more neutral the dealer, the truer the premonition.
“One card, for my week,” Clara chirped, taking bites of her uncrusted cucumber sandwich.
“One card,” I repeated to my sister-in-law.
“Draw three, I have a busy rest of the quarter,” Mrs. Fairfax said. My mother-in-law distractingly arranged her gloves on her lap.
I glanced across the table, the cards snapping again as they folded. “And you?” I queried the newcomer.
The girl’s chest puffed like a pigeon’s, a smirk like a cat’s. “I don’t think I want any.”
“Why waste the entry fee?” I placed the deck in front of me, the shimmer of the gold details tainted by the reflection of the girl’s stare.
Young, foolish. This should be interesting.
“You touched them.” She glanced at the markings of my hands. “I will do mine at home.”
“Don’t,” Mrs. Fairfax warned her, a thud from under the table that was most likely a shoe to the girl’s calf.
Clara continued to eat, slower, as if the noise would agitate an already offbeat beginning to the session.
“I’ll pull one for you anyway, no touching required,” I taunted. “It seems you may be in need of guidance.” I pulled a card, sliding it to Clara. “You’re Ava, correct?”
The girl straightened her back, picking up her tea as if I hadn’t spoken.
I nodded, as if I had any reciprocation. I flicked three more cards from the top, sliding them to Clara’s mother.
Then I pulled a card for sweet Ava.
“Do you know why I have these markings?” I asked the girl.
She stared, a crease in her brow.
Ava was one of Clara’s younger cousins. Dorian had a large family on his side.
Every function, we met more and more of them.
My husband and I had been sweethearts since school, but Clara was a friend before she became my sister-in-law.
While our families were close now, I understood that the younger ones could get quite resentful if no attention was paid to their tantrums.
“You know, our ancestors regarded uniqueness as holy.” I placed Ava’s card in the middle of the table; the vitiligo on my hand had spread since the last ritual, making my hand starkly pale against the dark wood.
“Shadows are the absence of light—doesn’t mean things don’t exist within the unknown, even if you don’t understand it.
My condition is random, unpredictable. It is also wholly mine, never repeated.
Skin is sacred, passed down and constantly changing.
It is a map of those who came before you, and those who come after. ” I flipped her card. “It is divine.”
Her card revealed a Cathal in Nova.
Cathal was the patron of Implodium, the collapse of the year. The flora began to wither, the animals moved south, and the sun spent less and less time in the sky.
The patron was symbolized by a coyote, the scavenger, an arrow through his mouth and out the back of his head.
Scavengers were complex beings. They were creative, resourceful risk-takers and were social chameleons. They could survive anywhere, as well as make friends. They worked exceptionally well as individuals or in unconventional groups equally.
The scavengers were also some of the most intelligent, with vices including avoidance, lack of inner joy when tying their worth to institutional accomplishments, and a fear of change and loss.
Some said they could be cruel, manipulative, and had a weak moral framework.
Some suffered from reckless spending, living beyond their means and playing on false success.
I moved the card toward her. “Respect for the unknown is paramount. It seems you may learn that very soon. You never know where you may find yourself.”
Ava snatched the card and sank slightly in her seat, studying the illustration. A tinge of hurt, I could see it clearly. Her cheeks burning, brow tense. She was misguided now, but that was just how the young found their footing.
Clara cleared her throat, waving her finger back at the deck. “You too! Pull one for yourself.”
I took my eyes off her cousin before pulling one more card.
I turned it between my fingers.
The ice on my chest again. A sickening twist of my stomach.
The first time, ironic. A coincidence. A second time? More like a cruel reminder.
Altair in Eclipse.
Again.
Clara leaned over to peek, wincing when she saw. “Oh, Lucia . . .”
“It’s all right. I know myself, a brief burnout is inevitable for anyone,” I reassured her, clearing the lump in my throat. “They’re just cards.”
“If only your mother could hear you!” Mrs. Fairfax teased, slapping her fan on the table.
“I’ll tell her when I see her today,” I said, smirking. “I never mind a good debate with my mother. Not sure if Clara ever gives you lip—”
“Not unless I want a boot in my backside,” Clara mumbled.
Which prompted a laugh from Mrs. Fairfax, then a nudge at Ava.
“Speaking of”—my mother-in-law dug in her bottomless purse—“give this to your mother for me, since you’ll be there anyway.” She handed me a card, a professional font and a doctorate suffix.
The most irritating thing about Dorian’s father being a doctor was the number of cards we got for peers of his, for all sorts of ailments.
Unfortunately, none of their suggested specialists had been able to help my father.
No one knew what to do when a relatively healthy man suddenly presented with memory problems, as if he were twice his age.
“I will make sure she receives it.” I tucked it into my purse. My mother wouldn’t accept the help, I would gander because she was tired of unfulfilled promises. Therefore, I wouldn’t bother her with it.
We continued our session, enjoying the tea and snacks as the trays came and went.
Even with such pleasant amenities, the card was always in the corner of my eye.
The reversed eagle, the third eye seemingly watching.
Like I was waiting for the metaphorical talons to snatch me.
With the way my day had been going, I knew something was afoot.
Negativity was banished from my mind in an instant.
No negative thoughts, you are going to visit your father. Keep your mind sharp, keep it pleasant.
Crowds in Aisl Park were expected; nearly a million people lived on this little peninsula.
It was busy along the water, through the parks.
The food—in a restaurant or on the street—was like no other.
A unique and specific combination of cuisines that could be found nowhere but here, in this city.
A fusion of culture, of history, all gathered in one densely populated peninsula.
The magic of Astraea wasn’t just in its chaos; it was also in the quieter parts my parents and I took for granted, the whispers and secrets, the romanticism of empty corners.
As you walked south, the storefronts became increasingly infrequent before disappearing completely, a quiet café of independent Everium on the corners, marketplaces scarcer than anything.
After you crossed the bustling boulevard, everything silenced.
The difference a block or two could make was astounding. The tourists disappeared until the locals, even the fashions, were quieter. Loud groups looking for excitement were replaced with mothers pushing their strollers, a dog walker on their route, and the occasional businessman with a brisk pace.
The townhomes were shaded by flowering trees lining the road. Even after the warm-season blooms wilted, the greens were rich.