Chapter 27 The Lovers #3
Sequoia set down her teacup and her eyes lingered on the one card I had ignored. “And what about her?”
“The High Priestess? I don’t know. I’ve never felt connected to her.”
“She represents the knowledge within, turned inward, relying on intuition,” Aspen said, his gaze steady. I nodded, recognizing the definition.
“That’s not me. If anything, I’ve spent my life pushing my intuition away.”
“It must have been there, at some point?” Sequoia suggested.
“Maybe, from my mother and grandmother. They read cards using intuition. But I don’t . . . I look for facts.”
Sequoia nodded with a knowing smile. “That is your intuition. What about the next years of your childhood?”
I swallowed, pulling the next five. “The Chariot, Ace of Swords, Five of Swords, the Magician, the Devil.” I stole a glance at Aspen, regretting it immediately. Was he staring at my lips, or was I imagining it? I watched him swallow, the movement distracting me for a second.
“I . . . uh . . . started school, obviously. I studied a lot, fell in love with books—all kinds. School ones, the ones in my mom’s bookshop, and, most of all, the ones I wasn’t allowed to read,” I said, pointing to the Devil, a symbol of rebellion.
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Aspen biting his lip.
I ignored the shudder it elicited through me.
I pulled the next five. “The Five of Pentacles, Ace of Wands.” I flicked my gaze up at them, hoping they didn’t know as much about the cards as I did.
But of course they did. “First blood, the coming of age.” I cleared my throat and continued.
“The Hermit, Seven of Cups, Ace of Pentacles. Opportunities began to appear. I was admitted into Sawyer Academy; I would have been the first woman to go in the school’s history.
But my parents struggled to afford it. I told my father I’d study at home and become the Hermit, but secretly, I really wanted to go.
My only friend Gabriel went.” As I admitted this, the cards hummed under my hand.
“But I didn’t. That didn’t stop me from reading all the books on the summer reading list, though, pretending I’d be there in the fall.
” The memory felt ripe, dripping like rotting fruit.
I could taste my desire, my unfulfilled potential.
Who would I have been if I’d done more, become more?
“You’re getting close, but you’re not there yet,” Sequoia said. “What do the cards reveal that you’re too scared to face? Use your intuition.”
My throat bobbed, and I already regretted the next set I was about to pull. “I don’t know if this is a good idea,” I murmured, my hands lifting from the deck. Sequoia’s hands drifted to mine and pressed them back down.
“Yes, it is. You’re doing great.” She smiled, and I swear the candle flames flickered higher. I let out a breath, surprised by how comforting her touch felt. People begged me to tell their stories, but no one had ever asked for mine.
Pain mingled with relief in my chest as memories rose to the surface like bubbles. Telling my own story was uncomfortable but felt necessary. I was beginning to realize that Julian’s death wasn’t just his story, his puzzle to solve. It was deeply my own.
My fingers found the deck again, and I pulled.
A humorless chuckle escaped, hot air filling my cheeks.
“Adolescence: the Tower, Nine of Wands, Judgment, the Moon, the World. Heavy Major Arcana,” I said, surrendering to the memory of that time in my life.
“This is when my mother got sick. We closed the bookshop for months, in and out of hospitals. My father even paused his practice, something he’d never done.
But I could tell he hated being a caretaker.
I took it on, and while I knew he felt ashamed of his young daughter carrying the weight, I could see he was relieved,” I said, tracing the Tower card’s edge.
“I didn’t have much of a life, but I became a recluse during those years.
I stopped helping my father in the lab. My mother was my only company, along with a warehouse of books.
I learned to read her every scowl, every grimace, every unspoken need.
I lost myself in those years. My only solace was the bookshop—no one could forbid me from any section.
I read everything and more. But I was so alone,” I said, my voice faltering.
“I convinced myself it was for the best, that people were more trouble than they were worth,” I said, and the words stung.
For someone so obsessed with truth, I’d become skilled at hiding from my own.
“But are they? Worth the trouble?” Aspen leaned closer, watching me thumb the cards in the candlelight.
“I still haven’t decided,” I said, meeting his gaze.
“That was also when I reopened my mother’s bookshop.
” I broke my eyes from his, looking back down at the cards.
“The books didn’t sell well, but the fortunes did.
” A sad smile crept up to my lips. “It was what little help I could offer my parents.”
“It wasn’t little,” Sequoia said, and my chest lifted. I had never asked my parents for thanks. It was my responsibility to look after them, but their praise was non-existent, even when I felt like I was giving them my all.
“You wanted more than the bookshop, didn’t you?” she asked gently.
“Of course. I wanted the world. I wanted to travel, to experience my own adventures, not just the ones in books. The darkest adventures always fascinated me,” I admitted, my shoulders feeling lighter. “It was something in my blood—because my father had the same drive as I did. Or I had his.”
I thumbed through the next five cards, but it was Aspen’s hand that caught mine this time, warm and steady beneath my clammy fingers. I found myself welcoming it.
“The truth,” he said softly.
“The truth,” I echoed, my voice barely a whisper.
The deck felt alive under my fingertips as I pulled the next five.
“And now, the last five years of my life. Death, Three of Swords, the Wheel of Fortune, the Fool, Ten of Wands.” I let the cards settle around me, pausing before I spoke.
As I did, a faint, almost imperceptible hum buzzed in my ears.
I would have dismissed it as my blood pressure rising, but I knew better by now.
It was magick.
I shook my head, focusing on the cards, pointing a shaky finger at Death.
“My father’s death, just over a year ago,” I said, my voice flat.
“They found him with a bullet through his head, gun in hand, the blast powder on his fingers,” I said, swallowing the sob that threatened in my throat.
“It felt like a puzzle he left behind, one I was meant to solve, but there were no clues to follow. So, it must have been me; I must have been his undoing.”
The buzzing grew louder, but my words felt detached, like they were spilling from someone else’s mouth.
“And now, the Wheel, I’m here, searching for answers to the wrong questions, in a house full of monsters, when I’ve always felt like the biggest monster of them all,” I said, but the hum grew so loud that I could barely hear myself anymore.
“That I was somehow . . . the cause of his death. I wasn’t good enough, worthy of being his daughter.
” I blinked, trying to hold back tears, but it was Sequoia’s gentle hand that wiped them away.
She pulled me close, letting me fall against her chest. She whispered something, but the words blurred.
“Shh . . . everything . . . okay,” was all I could make out.
But what I felt, instead of hearing, was a sob welling up from deep within me, vibrating up to the top of my head.
The sound, I realized, was muffled by Sequoia’s hair.
I took a deep inhale, the scent of rosehip and lavender flooding my senses, washing over me like a storm. She smelled like fresh rain.
“You did so well,” Sequoia hushed against my cheek.
Then, there was another presence—the scent of musk and clover, maybe even something faintly burning. I felt Aspen’s hands winding around mine, his thumb tracing gentle circles into the soft space between my fingers.
“We’re here for you,” Aspen said softly.
And for the first time, I believed him.
I melted into Sequoia’s embrace, feeling her body against mine, our limbs tangling together.
I found my steady breath again and broke the embrace, our cheeks brushing as I pulled back.
The feel of her skin on mine sent a rush through me—a new, yet somehow familiar sensation.
Her eyes, brown and swollen—had she been crying too?
—locked onto mine, and I felt pierced, almost breathless under her gaze. Her eyes drew to my lips.
I had always been like a lone seedling, desperate to sprout, but now I found myself in a new kind of garden. One full of strange, wicked growth beneath the surface. And yet, there were beautiful things here too, even if equally devastating.
I could no longer deny my truth. I wanted her. And I wanted him, too.
I stole a glance at Aspen. He was watching us, his gaze fixed, lips slightly parted, and fingers digging into his thighs as though he were bracing himself. A spark ignited in my core at the sight. He gave me an almost imperceptible nod. It wasn’t permission, it was encouragement.
I looked back to Sequoia, her eyes equally alight with hunger. It took a fraction of a second before my lips met hers. Sequoia sighed into me and I tasted something I could only describe as spun sugar and lost innocence. I wondered what she tasted on me.
I didn’t care that Aspen was watching. There was even a part of me that was thrilled by the thought of him seeing this moment, of sharing what he had once claimed as his own. I pulled away briefly to meet his heated eyes.
“Your hair . . . it’s beautiful,” he murmured, brushing a stray strand behind my ear. The hunger in his eyes raised my own desire above its breaking point. I looked back at Sequoia, her lips still parted, her gaze still locked on mine. I leaned in again.
We became a tangle of limbs and fingers, her grip mirroring mine, firm and unrelenting.
Somewhere in the background, a teacup clattered to the floor with a soft thud.
The cards scattered around us like rose petals, as if granting their approval through their constant, low hum growing louder with each touch.
My fingers traced the delicate line of her neck, and at some point, she let out a quiet laugh, the sound sweeter than sunset.
I didn’t think; I only felt. Every sense was heightened yet softened, as though we were drifting in a dream.
I broke my kiss with her just to find another warm, welcoming mouth waiting for me. As I kissed Aspen, he smiled against my lips, before biting my lower lip. His earthy scent of musk and clover and wax mixed with hers, lavender and lilac and rosehip.
It was intoxicating, like feasting in Eden.
Mouths opened, but no words formed—only sounds of different pitches and rhythms. A low groan here, a gasp there, a gentle sigh somewhere else. Nothing mattered except this moment, this suspended fragment of existence, where I felt myself transforming.
In that sacred, entangled embrace, I became something I had always longed for. No longer a solitary seedling, I was a blossoming bud of pleasure.
I was a flower in the garden.
Growing, growing, growing.