Chapter Four
A bigail studied Mel’s hand around hers.
She didn’t know what to make of his reluctance to release her, or the fixed heat of his gaze, or the sudden potency of the atmosphere around them.
Though her attention was not on his face, she felt his eyes burning a hole in her head—a heat that matched the fire flaring to life inside her.
Was this—did he mean—could he be attracted to her?
People sometimes called her a witch, and she sometimes embraced the title, but sadly she had no supernatural talents.
If she did, she might have been able to truly read Mel’s mind and understand what he was thinking and feeling right now.
Alas, she could only use her powers of observation—perhaps a bit more acute than average, but still completely earthbound and mundane.
His hand was large and strong, the skin darkened by life and work outdoors. It was an earth hand, solid and square, the palm firm and the fingers substantial. An earth hand was perfectly consistent with Mel’s grounded personality.
That thought brought her a way to navigate this unexpected moment. She turned their hands over and held his palm up. With her free hand, she explored the topography of his fingers and palm, stroking lightly over the toughened flesh, tracing each mount and plain, each line.
“This here is your Mount of Jupiter,” she said, brushing a light circle over the skin just below his index finger. “This solid rise here suggests confidence and drive.”
He rolled his hand into a fist. “Don’t do that, Abigail.” He pulled away from her.
She looked up, feeling the sting of a different kind of heat in her cheeks. He’d withdrawn his hand all the way back, so it rested against his belly, like he was protecting it from further harm. His aura had taken on a flicker, light fighting shadow.
Never before had she tried to read him, or even suggested she might—and he hadn’t asked about it, either.
Abigail didn’t make a habit of pushing her practices on people; she made them available for those who were interested.
She’d only started reading Mel because when he’d clasped her hand, a whole grove of emotions had grown tall in her chest, dense and full of brambles, and she’d needed a redirection.
“I’m sorry,” she said at once. “I didn’t realize that would offend you.”
He shook his head. “I’m not offended. I just ... I don’t believe in all that.”
“All that?” Somewhere in the darkest reaches of her mind, her own offense began to flutter, but she shook it away. There was no reason at all to entertain bad feelings here.
“The magic stuff. I don’t believe in it.”
To her mind, the world would be a dull, bleak place without magic, but that was the wrong path to take now. Instead she told him, “Palmistry isn’t magic, Mel. It’s just a different way of understanding the physical world.”
He gave her a skeptical look, and again she set aside a flutter of hurt.
“Okay,” he said. “Then I don’t believe anybody can know anything about anybody by looking at their hands. And I’m sorry if that offends you.”
Not a well-phrased apology, but she knew he meant it sincerely.
She was a tad offended, but only because the detour in their dinner conversation had introduced some tension.
That zing of pleased, confused surprise she’d felt when he’d clutched her hand was forgotten, and they now stood on the precipice of conflict.
“I’ve got no stock in whether you believe what I believe. But I do have to say ...” She reached across the table and set her hand down, palm up, and waited. When, after a wary hesitation, he set his hand in hers again, she grasped it. “Look.”
He looked. The back of his hand was up now, and Abigail brushed her fingertips across his knuckles, feeling him flinch subtly as she did.
“The skin of your hands is darker than the skin of your arm. That’s because the sun is on your hands more—a lot, in fact.
I can look at that and know you spend a lot of time outdoors, wearing long sleeves.
Nothing magic about it, just an observation made with an understanding of what the sun does to and for human skin. ”
She tapped his first row of knuckles, one after another.
“Each of your knuckles here has some kind of scar, and that tells me you work with your hands in some way, doing something routinely in your life that causes minor injuries as a matter of course.” Unfurling his fingers, she displayed his nails.
“Your fingernails are blunt and flat, with some longitudinal ridging—another sign that you work with your hands, and have been doing so for years.”
When she looked up, she found him wearing a sideways smile. “I guess,” he said in a voice thick and smooth as fresh molasses, “your point’s that anybody can know something about somebody by looking at their hands.”
She answered with a pointed cock of her head, and he laughed.
“Okay. But that’s not personality. It’s not who I am, it’s just shit I do—and it’s not reading lines and bumps in my palm.” He eased his hand from hers, and she pulled her arm back and set her hands in her lap.
“I’m gonna take those separately. First, I’d say personality—who we are—is a major factor in how and why we do the things we do.
You sought out a particular kind of work because it interested you—that’s personality.
You ride a motorcycle and spend a lot of time on the road because that activity suits you.
Those things show in your hands. And second, I’ll say that palmistry is grounded in the same kinds of observations.
It’s not magic, it’s simply a different lens on the world.
It’s the same with tarot. I’m not doing anything mystical, hon. I just look .”
He blinked, and Abigail saw she’d shifted his lens a little.
Good. Normally she didn’t care if people thought she was a cartoon witch, sitting up here in a peaked hat making potions and hexes, but Mel was her first true friend since .
.. well, honestly, since Granny Kate passed on.
Abigail had many friendly acquaintances, but no one with any particular interest in her.
No one to spend leisure time with, or share dearly held thoughts with. Until, since this spring, she had Mel.
She would be fine if he stopped coming around, but she would be better if he didn’t.
But when he next said, “Then what’s with all the weird shit in your spice rack,” she understood that he wasn’t as accepting of her idiosyncrasies as she’d believed. That question dealt her a blow of hurt she couldn’t quite dismiss.
“What ‘weird’ stuff?” she asked, working to keep her voice light and unconcerned.
“Dried bugs and sh—stuff.”
Okay, yes. She could make space for anyone to be a little off-put by a jar of dried crickets or ants. Even someone she’d thought (hoped) was more accepting than most. She would take this chance to educate.
With a small bit of effort, she once again mastered her wary hurt feelings and answered his question as calmly and completely as she could.
“Dried crickets contain concentrated levels of proteins, fatty acids, and amino acids. They’re good for maladies ranging from toothache to edema—that’s swelling in the tissues, especially the extremities.
Dried ants treat autoimmune issues and arthritis.
Bee venom treats arthritis and skin ailments.
These are medicines, palliatives and curatives, that have been used for millennia, across the world.
And trust me, Mel. A pill a doctor gives you contains these things as well, either directly or by creating a twin in a lab.
They just hide it in a little dry tablet so you don’t see what it once was. ”
That last bit was admittedly a little defensive, but it was also true.
As a whole, people preferred ignorance. They didn’t care what was in their pill, they only cared that it worked.
They didn’t like traditional medicine not because they didn’t ‘believe’ in it but because it was too naked, all its awkward parts still in view.
For traditional practitioners, however, the nakedness was an asset.
“I’m not saying conventional medicine is bad,” she continued.
“I go to the doctor when I need to. I stay current on my vaccinations. But I am saying it’s dangerous to assume one is infallible and the other is quackery.
Conventional medicine derived from traditional medicine.
They are not two opposing practices, but two ways of doing the same thing—each has limits, and each can fill some gaps in the other. More tools in the toolbox.”
Mel was staring at her now, a slight crease between his brows. He was a good-natured man who smiled readily and often; to see him looking so serious made Abigail’s nape tighten.
But then he smiled and leaned in. “I’m sorry, Abs. I think I’m being a dick here, and I don’t mean to. Not even sure why I got my back up over you reading my palm.”
Abigail thought she knew, and she found herself disappointed.
He was embarrassed that he’d held her hand.
He hadn’t meant anything by it, or he hadn’t meant to mean anything by it; either way, he’d pulled back from that moment of unexpected tenderness, and he’d found a way to defuse its significance.
That single moment had been a catalyst for something new between them, and Mel didn’t want it. Abigail felt a hot throb in her chest and realized that yes, she had grown rather sweet on him. He was becoming more than a friend to her, but the feeling wasn’t returned.
Of course he didn’t owe her that, or anything at all. But Abigail hadn’t felt these feelings since she was a young woman, and she didn’t know where the balance was.
Maybe it was time for this odd relationship they’d forged lately to come to an end.
“That’s alright,” she said quietly. “No harm done.” Pushing her chair back, she stood and began collecting dishes. “You in the mood for dessert? I got a lemon blueberry crumble.”