8 Jasper
JASPER
Death. That’s what’s haunting me? It makes sense. Witches are mortal, after all. Death will come for me in the end, as it does for all mortal creatures. I suppose I was just expecting the answer to be a bit less obvious. I’m curious to see how Birdie interprets the card.
Across the counter, the fire that was raging in her eyes simmers down to crackling embers. She’s embarrassed by her outburst but too proud to take it back. She nervously flicks her hair over her shoulder. “So, umm . . . I’ll just go then—”
“Read the card first.”
“What?”
“Read the card,” I repeat. “Tell me what you see.”
She looks down at the card. “It’s Death.”
“And knowing my question, how would you interpret the card for me?”
She arches her pierced brow. “Your question still being ‘Who’s haunting me?’”
“That’s my question, yes.”
Sighing, she picks up the card. “Phoebe said the Death card freaks people out when it gets flipped. But it’s not about a literal death, right? Like, you’re not gonna die. She said I can’t predict that someone will actually die.”
“All mortals die,” I intone.
Holding my gaze for a beat, she looks back at the card. “I see a skeleton wearing armor riding a white horse.”
“Yeah, you picked the Rider-Waite-Smith deck.”
“Is that a good one?”
“No deck is inherently good or bad. But that one is a classic in the tarot reading community. First published by Rider & Sons in 1909, it was designed by a man named A. E. Waite, illustrated by Pamela Colman Smith.”
Listening attentively, she nods before turning back to the card.
Phoebe said she’s a historian, right? It’s clear she likes knowing all the little details.
“Okay, so there’s a guy here who looks like a priest, a woman and child on their knees holding flowers, and .
. . I think a man is dead. Yeah, the horse is riding over him.
Oh, wait—” She pulls the card in closer as she narrows her eyes. “Is that a crown?”
“Now you’re just describing it.” Plucking the card from her hand, I place it back on the counter between us. “I want you to read the card, Birdie. What do you feel? What does your intuition say?”
She sighs, drumming her fingers on the counter. “Who’s haunting you? Well, it’s a big question. I’d probably switch the ‘who’ to a ‘what’ for a start.”
From the front of the shop, Pickles mews. But I don’t care that people are piling up outside. Sure, we were supposed to open fifteen minutes ago, but they can wait. This is actually getting interesting.
“I think something happened.” Birdie picks up the card again. “Something unexpected . . . unplanned and definitely unwanted.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because a king is dead.” She traces her fingertip over the figure of the king lying in the grass.
“That kind of chaos would send anyone reeling. Empires have risen and fallen off the death of a single person. That’s a tremendous weight to carry on your shoulders.
” Lowering the card, she glances across the counter at me. “You’re kind of like a king.”
I lean away, feeling entirely too seen by this total stranger. “What?”
She gestures around the shop. “Anyone who owns their own business is a kind of ruler in their own right. You have a territory. You’ve got resources, a staff that rely on you, trade with other kingdoms. You know well the burden of expectation, shouldering other people’s worries and needs.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well . . . just look at me.” She smiles weakly. “I came in here fresh off the street and begged you for a job, trying to make my problems yours. That wasn’t fair.”
Insightful. And true. Feeling defensive, I cross my arms. “So, now you’re turning my reading into another plea for a job?”
“No, I’m not doing that at all,” she says on a soft laugh.
“In fact, I think this made me realize I went about asking you all wrong. It was Phoebe’s idea to come in here, guns blazing, and just act like I already had the job.
And maybe that works for her. But that’s because she’s your niece, your blood. ”
“She’s a spoiled brat,” I mutter.
Birdie’s smile is indulgent. “Yes, but you love her. I imagine, like this king here, you’d die for her. But for all you know, I’m just some crazy enemy invader. And you have too much at risk here to just let me storm your castle.”
“Astute observation.”
Understatement. I feel like I’m getting awake open-heart surgery right now.
She’s poking every wounded part of me and asking if it hurts.
Of course, it fucking hurts. My mother was a monster who ran our coven with an iron fist. She died, leaving a mess.
Then Gracie got sick. Then Phoebe left. Now I’m alone, holding together the pieces of a life I didn’t ask for.
But kings never ask for the cards they’re dealt.
They’re born into a suit of armor not made for them and told they have to fit or die trying.
But it will never fit because it wasn’t made for you.
So, it chafes, and suffocates, and you dream of the day you can tear all the pieces off and just breathe a free breath.
Birdie’s smile turns a little sad. “It’s terrible, isn’t it?”
“What?”
“Feeling haunted by your own wants and expectations. Let alone having to shoulder those of all the people around you . . .”
Yeah, this is totally fucked. Is this woman a witch? A Seer?
From the front of the shop, Pickles mews again.
Blinking, Birdie looks up at me. “I’m rambling, aren’t I? This was nothing, right?”
My heart is racing as I try to recover. Gods, I feel like I was just kicked in the fucking head.
“I’m terrible at this.” She slips the Death card back onto the top of the deck. “Look, I really am sorry I called you a dick.”
“And an asshole,” I mutter. “And just an ass.”
She winces, returning the cards to the drawer. “What can I say? I skipped all the lessons on manners at my finishing school. Do you think it shows?”
I snort a laugh. The sound surprises her as much as me. I can’t remember the last time I laughed in this shop. It had to be when Gracie still lived.
Godsdamn it.
Birdie looks up at me, those sea glass eyes warm and open.
If nothing else, making her yell at me helped chip away a bit of her armor.
I can see her a little better now. I thought she was weak, but that was just a carefully constructed disguise she wore to lure me in.
She thought it would make me more likely to give her a job if I saw her as a needy charity case. In fact, it did the opposite.
Birdie Rhodes isn’t one strong wind away from being blown over.
She’s a pine, standing alone on a windswept hill, roots buried deep.
No shelter from the other trees, no mercy from the sea and the howling rains.
And yet she stands firm. Outsider or no, maybe she’s strong enough to brave the storms blowing this way.
She moves out from behind the counter. “I’m gonna go. Tell Phoebe I’ll be waiting by the ferry dock, okay?” With a last nod to me, she heads for the door.
Cursing under my breath I call after her. “You said you could start Monday?”
She stops, one hand on the door. The faces of the happy tourists press in at the glass behind her.
Slowly, she turns. “Monday afternoon. I have to leave my Monday and Wednesday mornings free for my fellowship.” Leaving the safety of the door, she crosses back over to me in a rush.
“But I’ll work any other hours. Nights, weekends.
Every weekend, I swear. And I won’t travel.
I never get sick. I won’t even take breaks—”
I hold up a hand. “I get it.”
She smiles and I want to reach out and touch the tilt of her lips. This girl will be trouble and the broom it flew in on. Her smile falls slightly, one hand now clutching the thin strap of her purse. “Phoebe said there was an apartment upstairs that comes with the job?”
What? Hell no. Having her in the shop is one thing. But having her live here?
“I’m not sure that’s such a good idea.”
Her expression shutters and her shoulders curl in like a wilted flower.
On instinct, I step forward. “What’s wrong?”
She smiles but it doesn’t meet her eyes. “It’s nothing. It’s not your problem.”
“Birdie, what?”
She clears her throat, struggling to give voice to whatever this is that has her looking seconds away from crying. “It’s just . . . with losing my teaching fellowship, I also lost my housing for the summer. So . . .”
The truth settles like a rock in my stomach. “You have nowhere to live?”
She nods. “I can’t work here if I can’t stay in the apartment. I’m sorry, but I just can’t afford it.”
Making a choice that will likely ruin both our lives, I hold out my hand. “Come on.”
She looks down at it like a rabbit wary of a trap. “What are you doing?”
“Showing you the apartment.”