The cards lay on the table: Lovers entwined under the Reaper’s scythe.

Not again.

The long fingers with their black nails drummed on the table.

La Morte.

Next of course (what else) the rose blew from side to side in the window, summoning her to look out.

There was, below in the garden, a strange animal known only in tales. The body of a man it had, feet of a griffin, tail of a monkey, head of a lion, and very well-dressed.


She flicked back a strand of her black sheet of hair. When had she conjured this?

Deep in the house, a cello.

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