“Follow me, my friend, to glory at the end…”
The gathered coven of witches looked around at each other as they finished singing the Ballad, exchanging nervous glances as they waited for something to happen in response to their invocation. Agatha Harkness gave the little bell she was holding a final cheeky ‘ding’, the sound ringing out loudly in the sudden silence, and tried not to laugh at the slowly mounting concern and confusion. The silence dragged on for a few more seconds before she let an easy frown come to her face and looked around critically at the young women that had joined her this time around.
Showtime!
“Huh,” she said, putting her hands on her hips sassily and eyeing the skinny teenager across from her suspiciously. “Some feedback for you: It did not take this long last time.” A little colour rose in the girl’s cheeks.
It was a young group. Summer was the youngest, at seventeen, with Tracy and Gwen both being nineteen, leaving Carla as the eldest in her early twenties. Agatha actually generally preferred covens like this—teenage girls packed full of hormones and daddy’s disappointment were much easier to goad into attacking her than older, wiser witches. They just always had so much to prove.
Carla looked at Agatha, her brow furrowed. “Are you sure we did it right? We got all the harmonies right, the lyrics, everything?”
“We did everything right,” the older witch confirmed. “I guess you guys just kinda sucked? I mean…” she grimaced, screwing up her nose like she’d caught a whiff of something foul.
Tracy shrugged and glared accusingly at Summer. “You were a bit all over the place.”
“Hey! No, I wasn’t.” Summer snapped, defensively.
Agatha grimaced and held up a hand to faux-whisper behind it. “Says the pitchy-ass soprano,” she said, rolling her eyes at Tracy.
The teen took the bait, rounding on her. “Pitchy?!”
“Bitch, you were sharp,” Agatha said, watching in barely-concealed glee as the jab hit home and Tracy’s face contorted angrily. Ugh, such an easy target. Sopranos were always so sensitive. Accusing any soprano—witch or otherwise—of being sharp would always make them want to murder you.
The girls started to respond all at once, flinging barbs in every direction and talking over each other. Agatha tried not to smirk. “Well, maybe Agatha just doesn’t know what the hell she’s talking about,” Gwen snapped, glaring at the older witch.
“It’s not my fault that only a true coven can open the Road,” Agatha clapped back instantly, pressing her tongue against the inside of her bottom lip in a childish, mocking gesture. “Either you all can’t hack it as witches, or maybe it’s the pitchy soprano diva who’s in love with the sound of her own voice.”
“She wasn’t that pitchy!” Gwen protested, coming to her friend’s defence.
“What do you mean ‘that’ pitchy?!” Tracy scowled at her.
“Oh, of course you would defend her, as if you were any better—your voice was flatter than a pancake,” Agatha said to Gwen with a derisive snort. She made a show of eyeing the slender girl’s figure, looking her up and down before gesturing with a hand for emphasis. “Matches the rest of you, I suppose.” The girl’s eyes widened with shock, face flushed red, and she started spluttering. “Buh-whu-whu-what?” Agatha mocked her.
“H-hey! Leave her alone!” Summer stammered a little as she spoke.
“Oh, don’t even get me started on you,” Agatha said, rounding on Summer, striking a mocking pose and pitching her voice higher, making herself sound as nasal and whiny as possible as she pretended to imitate the girl. “Boohoo, my boyfriend cheated on me and then dumped me to be with the girl he cheated on me with even though I followed him around like a pathetic little puppy.” She scoffed, shaking her head in disbelief. “Guess he just needed a real woman instead of a little girl. You probably should have just killed yourself—that might have at least gotten his attention.” She gestured to the marks on the teen’s wrists dismissively—she’d taken note of them earlier as a potential vector to provoke her. “But I guess you probably wouldn’t even be able to do that right.”
The teen flinched, reeling back like Agatha had slapped her across the face. Her eyes had reddened, her mouth open but unable to form words, her hands clenched into trembling fists.
“What the fuck, Agatha?!” Carla spat angrily. Her hands were held stiffly at her sides, but her fingers flexed and wisps of blue energy coalesced around the tips. “You better shut the fuck up, or—”
Agatha cut her off, laughing in her face. “Or what?” She gestured toward the witch’s hands. “You gonna blast me? With your pathetic amount of power? You couldn’t blast your way out of a wet paper bag, you dumb slut.”
Carla’s eyes widened. “The fuck did you just say?”
“I said ‘Are there any real witches in the house?’ What a group of pathetic, useless rejects.”
“Just shut up!” Gwen snapped at her. “This isn’t our fault!”
“No, you’re right, it’s my fault. I was an idiot to think any of you were worth my time,” Agatha continued, her voice dripping with venom and disdain. “You’ve barely enough power to light a candle between the four of you—might as well not even be witches at all. You can forget the Witches’ Road; I’d die before letting you befoul it with your noxious mediocrity.”
“Go to hell, Agatha,” Tracy said between clenched teeth. Her voice was low, with a dangerous edge to it. She was right on the precipice, now. Next to her, Carla was almost vibrating with rage. Almost, almost. Just a tiny bit more.
“Make me!” Agatha over-enunciated, her face twisted in the most condescending sneer she could muster up.
Carla broke first, lashing out with her hand and sending tendril of glowing blue spearing into Agatha’s chest. It was just a slap—a warning strike. Instead of hurting, however, the magic flowed into her and her own power latched on, sinking almost unnoticeable barbs into Carla’s spell. Agatha deliberately staggered back half a step, acting as though it had hit home properly, and let out a mocking laugh. There was an art to this—acting as though the younger witch’s power had stung her and that she was just pretending it didn’t, luring her to continue pouring power into the attack to stop her from realising she was no longer able to stop. Just like almost every other witch before her, Carla was oblivious to the danger, too focused on proving herself as she redoubled her effort, sending a pulse down the wispy beam of magic connecting them.
Tracy added her power to Carla’s a heartbeat later, and Summer a moment after that. Gwen, however, didn’t join her magic to theirs, instead taking a step back, tears running down her cheeks. “Pathetic little bitches!” Agatha screamed at Gwen, trying to goad her into joining the assault, as she staggered back another step, hunching her body as though she was in pain.
It was too little, too late, though. Tracy tried to pull back and Agatha’s magic flared, an aura of purple, edged in black, flickering around her and sending a pulse of purple back into each of the other witches through the magical conduits connecting them. Tracy staggered forward a step, trembling with effort as she tried and failed to force her arm down. “I can’t…” she gasped, a sharp edge of sudden fear entering her voice.
Once they realised that something was wrong, Carla and Summer tried to break the connection as well and found themselves similarly stuck, their power being wrenched out of them at an alarming rate. Their faces twisted in terror. “Agatha! Stop! Please,” Carla begged, tears welling up in her eyes even as her face started to shrivel and hollow, her life force draining away. Next to her, Summer shrieked, scrabbling and clawing at her upraised arm with her free hand as though trying to rip it off.
It was impossible for them to escape. They had a decent little chunk of power between them, but even the strongest magic-users Agatha had ever faced had been utterly helpless in the face of her ability. The Darkhold also held a ritual that would allow one to steal the power of another, of course, but it required setup and preparation; it couldn’t be done off the cuff like this. As far as Agatha was aware, the specific way in which her power latched onto someone who lashed out at her was unique to her.
As the other three screamed and pleaded with Agatha, Gwen stumbled backwards, falling on her ass. She froze, her eyes wide as saucers, seemingly unable or unwilling to do anything but watch as the rest of the coven shrivelled and collapsed around her. Agatha continued to hold on tightly to the girls’ magic, drawing it into her until every last drop had been drained. The last wisps of power fled the three fresh corpses as they lay unmoving on the floor and Agatha’s shoulders shuddered, a pleasurable shiver running through her body.
“What did you do?” Gwen gasped, a mixture of fear and horror in her voice and warring across her features.
Agatha sighed happily, flexing her fingers as she savoured the heady rush of power, then made a few quick gestures, her purple flaring up as threads of magic came together to weave knots around the last living coven member’s hands and feet. The girl shrieked, vainly struggling against the bindings as she was yanked roughly several feet into the air, hovering in front of Agatha.
This wasn’t that unusual. Over the centuries, Agatha had made a fine art out of goading people into lashing out at her, but every so often she’d run into a witch who couldn’t be provoked into even the smallest warning blast. There’d even be the occasional witch who’d rather swing a fist than attack with magic.
“You know,” she said conversationally. “You really should have just blasted me, too. It would have worked out better for the both of us. I would have gotten your magic and not had to waste more of my time, and you…”
“I what?” the terrified-looking girl managed to choke out, tears running down her cheeks. “You killed them… they were screaming…”
Agatha smirked, questing tendrils of purple crawling up the helpless teen’s body. “I mean, yeah, it wouldn’t have been fun for you. But now?” Purple magic flickered in her pupils. “Now I have to get creative.”
Half an hour later, Agatha walked down the worn stone steps to her underground lair, softly humming the Ballad to herself as she wiped the last of the teenager’s blood off her hands with a damp cloth. It really did feel great to be in control again—once again free to do whatever she pleased, as the mood took her. Now, what was next? Ah, yes. She looked over at the page of the Book of Cagliostro, still hanging suspended in a web of minor energies between two cracked and pitted stone pillars.
As she did, Señor Scratchy emerged from his hiding place, hopping over toward her feet before gently headbutting her ankle. Agatha tossed the bloody cloth away to one side and the rabbit started to move excitedly toward it, but she quickly reached down and scooped him up instead. Cradling him gently in her arms, she scratched under his chin with her long nails. He leaned into it, but she could tell he was still eyeing off the discarded cloth. “Alright, little man,” she murmured. “That’s enough playing around for now. Time for mommy to get to work.”
--
Once we reached the outskirts of Westview—just before heading into suburbia proper—I pointed out a gas station and insisted we stop so Natasha could fill up the tank. A lead weight had settled in my stomach when we’d crossed over into New Jersey. As we’d gotten closer and closer to Westview, this whole thing had stopped feeling like a fun road trip where I could tease Pietro and Yelena and more like a slow march to the executioner’s block. I’d hoped I could just ignore the anxiety gnawing at my insides, but part of me really didn’t want to do this and was looking for any reason to delay our arrival.
We all got out. Pietro and Yelena wandered inside on a quest for snacks while I just leaned against the side of the SUV, staring at nothing in particular. While the attendant worked the pump, Natasha came over to me and touched my arm to get my attention. “Hey,” she said gently, shooting me a sympathetic look. “Are you okay?”
“I’m really nervous,” I confessed, putting my arms around myself. “Westview is… scary, with everything that happened there in my visions. I just don’t know what to expect. If I really did get some memories from that version of myself… I have no idea what might happen. Should I even expect anything? What if nothing happens? Would nothing be worse or better than something?”
Nat stepped closer and carefully pulled me into a hug. I nestled my face comfortably into her shoulder, but didn’t otherwise react. “You’ll be fine,” she said firmly. “We’re all here for you. Whatever happens, you won’t have to deal with it by yourself. We’re doing this together.”
“I know,” I said quietly. “I just… so much has changed. My visions aren’t any help here. I’d gotten so used to knowing the future. Knowing what will happen—or what would happen, at least. We’re going so far off the map here and I just… I really miss knowing how things were going to turn out.”
“Well, you’ll just have to learn to take things as they come, like the rest of us ordinary humans do.” Pulling away from the embrace, Natasha let out a soft snort of amusement and lifted her chin to gesture behind me. “Then again, if you want to know the future…” she said, trailing off leadingly.
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I turned and looked. Across the road, wedged between a nail salon and a pool supply store, was a bright blue and yellow façade hung with colourful bunting and a neon sign in the window—lit, but weak in the clear morning sunlight—advertising ‘Madam Calderu’s Psychic Readings’, with ‘Tarot, Palm Readings, Crystal Ball’ under it in smaller lettering. A row of well cared for potted plants lined the edge of the sidewalk under the windows.
There was something about it that actually seemed kind of enticing, for some reason, even beyond the urge to do everything in my power to delay our arrival at Westview. Back in my other, non-Wanda life I’d had a friend who’d been super into Tarot cards, even if they hadn’t ever really sparked my own interest. My eyes searched the glass windows for a moment, taking in the stars and crystal balls and magical eye sigils covering them, then I grinned and glanced back at Nat. “Actually… I mean, it could be fun?”
She raised an eyebrow, an amused expression on her face. “Could be fun,” she echoed, then nodded. “Okay. I’ll just pay for the gas and we can take a peek, if you like?”
“Sounds good.”
Once everything had been sorted at the gas station, Nat parked the car and we headed over toward the shop. It was just the two of us—Pietro and Yelena had both begged off, neither of them particularly interested in the kitschy-looking fortune teller. There were a few other shops and bits around the place for them to investigate instead, and we agreed to meet back at the car in a little while.
The moment we stepped inside, heralded by the soft chiming of a bell attached to the door, the air changed—thick, sweet, and stifling with the mingled scents of incense, wax, and something faintly metallic, like old coins. Everywhere you looked, the space was filled with stuff. Diaphanous draperies and curtains of beads, small bells and coloured glass that softly tinkled in the breeze before the door closed, shelves packed with crystals, oddly-shaped jars and bottles, and other assorted trinkets. More potted plants. Another small neon sign attached to the wall—a cursive, flourished ‘Psychic’ with PAST, PRESENT, FUTURE in bold caps underneath it. The thing that drew my eye the most, of course, was the almost-disconcertingly-unsafe number of lit candles throughout the store, packed onto shelves or sitting in holders both free-standing and attached to the wall.
There was a quiet clicking noise as an older woman brushed aside a beaded curtain hanging across a doorway at the back of the store, stepping through to the main space. “Welcome to the curious,” she—Madam Calderu, I presumed—greeted us, a little grandiosely. She had a dark shawl, threaded with astrological patterns, over her shoulders and chunky, gaudy jewellery adorned her ears, fingers, and neck. Her permed hair was mostly brown, with a few lighter grey curls framing her face.
Her face.
“Hi,” Natasha replied, but I did a sudden double-take, my eyes wide, and just stared at the woman silently for a few seconds. Nat noticed my reaction, glancing at me curiously. “Wanda?”
“I…” I hesitated, trying to decide if I was seeing things. I squinted at Madam Calderu for a moment, tilting my head. Yeah, no. Definitely. There was no doubt about it.
Since I’d woken up in the HYDRA research base, I’d met a host of heroes, villains and other people… all essentially recognisable as the characters I’d seen in movies and TV shows in my memories from another life in another world. This, however, was the very first time I’d encountered someone who I was pretty sure I recognised as an actress from my memories that wasn’t an existing character I knew from the MCU.
Standing in front of us, a faintly curious expression on her face, was musical theatre legend, TV and film actress Patti LuPone. It was definitely her. I was sure it was her.
I shot her a strained smile. “Can you excuse us for just one quick second?” I asked, not waiting for a response as I grabbed Natasha by the arm and pulled her back to stand just in front of the door, turning to face away from Madam Calderu. “Nat, if I say ‘musical theatre legend, TV and film actress Patti LuPone’ to you, you know who I’m talking about, right?” I asked quietly, a note of urgency in my tone.
“Of course,” Nat said immediately, then frowned and gave me a confused look. “What’s going on?”
Okay. She knew the name, but she didn’t recognise the woman standing ten feet away from us. I fumbled in my pocket for a moment, pulling out my phone and bringing up the internet browser, tapping furiously. “Ugh. Stop showing me sex ads, Google. I know there are desperate sluts in my area; I have a mirror,” I muttered as I brought up an image search of Patti LuPone.
She looked different than I remembered. Like… not significantly different, I supposed—she still had the same general feel about her, still had similarly strong Italian features—but different enough that Madam Calderu and Patti LuPone were clearly different people.
“Wanda? What are you…?” Nat touched my shoulder and I looked back up at her.
Why had I never even thought to check something like this before? “What about Scarlett Johansson?” I asked, memories tickling the back of my mind. It felt weird, but I had two contradictory images in my head when I thought about Scarlett Johansson, the actress. One looked exactly like Natasha, standing right in front of me. The other…
“What about her? Why are you asking about actresses?”
I Googled Scarlett Johansson and inhaled sharply, eyes widening a little. There were definitely some similarities, but the Scarlett I was looking at on my phone had a distinctly Asian cast to her appearance. I tapped through—she was half-Japanese. “What the fuck?” I muttered to myself. Well, that at least made a certain casting choice less problematic in this world.
I kept tapping. Every actor I checked was the same. The exact level of difference varied significantly—with Asian-American Scarlett Johansson being the most notable outlier and Samuel L Jackson being probably the closest to what actual Nick Fury looked like—but none of the versions from this world looked exactly the same as the ones in my memories from another world. It made a certain kind of sense, I supposed, but something about it just felt… weird. I didn’t know what it meant.
Okay. I turned my head a little to look over at Madam Calderu, who was watching me with a curious crease to her brow. This could be a coincidence. Maybe everyone in the world from my memories had an equivalent visual doppelganger in this world. There could just happen to be someone in this world who looked exactly like my mental image of Patti LuPone. It might not mean anything at all.
Then again, narrative tropes and extreme coincidences, rhyming timelines… could I afford to assume something like this meant nothing? Was this going to be significant, somehow? I’d come in here intending on asking for a Tarot reading just for fun, and it suddenly didn’t feel like ‘just for fun’ anymore.
“Wanda? Talk to me,” Nat prompted me again. She sounded a little worried.
I’d originally been careful to avoid any hints as to how my ‘visions’ of this world had really worked, because they’d have sounded insane. Now, though, after everything? I could probably come clean to Natasha about it all. She’d believe me, and Nat—of all people—might be the most understanding about why I’d been lying to everyone about everything the entire time I’d been here. It’d change things, though. How she saw me. How she thought I saw her. I might tell her, but it couldn’t be right here, right now. I needed to think about it properly; not make a snap, on-the-spot decision.
“Not here. It’s not important right this instant,” I said, shaking my head. “I just thought of something relating to my other memories. I need to… process it a bit.”
“…Okay. Did you recognise her? Is that it?” she asked, tilting her head fractionally toward the psychic.
I shook my head. “No. Um. Maybe?”
Nat didn’t look completely convinced, but she knew me well enough not to try to press me on it.
I took a deep breath and turned back toward Madam Calderu, stepping forward and smiling brightly. “Good morning. Sorry about that. Uh, you do Tarot readings?”
She smiled back and inclined her head, thankfully choosing to ignore my vaguely bizarre behaviour. She probably got all sorts in here. “Please,” she said simply, gesturing to a table and chairs set to one side and moving to sit down. The tabletop was covered by a cloth printed with a complex, black-and-white design of interwoven spiritual and pagan symbology, the adjacent chairs narrow, with intricately twisted wicker frames, but comfortably padded. “What kind of reading are you looking for? If you want a reading from the cards, first you must have a question,” she said as we sat down across from her. “Specific but open-ended is best, rather than a simple yes or no.”
I hesitated for a moment. Should I ask about what to expect in Westview, or was that too narrow? I was suddenly very nervous about asking the wrong question. If this reading turned out to be important, somehow… but I mean, it was still just a Tarot reading. Tarot was just woo, like astrology and palm-reading and stuff; it wasn’t real, not even here… right? Oh, God. I licked my lips nervously, pausing for a moment to think it through. “I want to know how can I make things better, this time,” I said finally.
“This time?” Madam Calderu prompted me, tilting her head to one side, her eyes boring into mine.
I scratched at my forearm, feeling nervous. I really wasn’t intending on explaining my exact circumstances to a random stranger, but it might be worth noting how important the question was—and not just to me. “There are a lot of choices that I have to make,” I said after a moment’s consideration, looking over at Natasha. She looked a little taken off-guard by the way I was acting. “Um, I don’t know if you recognise us, but my girlfriend here is one of the Avengers. I work with them as well. The things I do can impact the entire world.”
There was a flicker of recognition in the psychic’s eyes as she glanced briefly at Nat again. “I see…” she said, pausing for a moment as if weighing options before speaking again. “The Safe Passage spread would be the best fit, then. I can offer a surface-level reading for fifty dollars, or a detailed one—up to an hour—for a hundred. How will you be paying?”
“We’ll do a detailed one, please.” I fumbled for a moment before taking out my card, looking over at Natasha. “Can you text Pietro and Yelena and let them know how long we’ll be?”
Nat nodded, still looking a bit concerned as she took out her phone and started tapping at the screen. Across the table, Madam Calderu produced a small card scanner from under the table, sliding it over. “Debit works,” she noted. I dutifully paid and passed the scanner back, and she smiled again. “Thank you. Your bank statement will say ‘Lilia’s Leggings’, but that’s just my side hustle. Now…”
Lilia Calderu, then, if the surname wasn’t just part of the stage name. I took note of it, though I didn’t recognise the name at all. The scanner disappeared back from whence it came and was quickly replaced with a deck of cards, wrapped in a gauzy red cloth. They were proper, large Tarot-sized ones, significantly bigger than playing cards. The psychic unwrapped them carefully, bundling the cloth off to the side before she placed the deck firmly in the centre of the table.
She gestured toward me. “As querent, you will shuffle and cut the cards. While you’re shuffling, concentrate on your question—feel the energy of it imbue the cards. You will feel a subtle moment, an instant when the energy changes and the cards are ready. Stop when you feel it.”
I reached over to pick up the deck but, as I lifted it, I almost lost my grip and had to grab it with both hands to stop the cards from spilling everywhere across the table. Two, however, practically leapt out of the deck—like they were fleeing from my hand—and landed face-up on the table between us, one on top of the other. Weirdly, it felt less like my fingers had slipped and more like the cards had actually moved.
“Ugh, sorry,” I said, a little embarrassed, and went to grab them. Madam Calderu’s hand darted across the table, fingers firmly touching the back of my hand to stop me from returning them to the deck. I hesitated, looking up at her.
The psychic was staring intently at the fallen cards. “When cards fall out while the deck is being shuffled there is always a significance to it,” she said slowly, a concerned frown creasing her brow. “Something important that is being communicated, relating to your question.”
“Oh.” I looked blankly down at the two cards. The World under The Tower. Madam Calderu was quiet for a few moments, staring thoughtfully at the two cards. “So… what do they mean?” I prompted her.
“…That’s not always a simple question,” the psychic said, looking back up at me and giving a small shrug. There was something hard to place in her expression. “Interpreting Tarot is an art, not a science. Many elements can influence a reading and all of the cards have both positive and negative associations. Symbolism, numerology, colour theory, even where they appear in the spread and what other cards they’re presented alongside. The artwork is very important as well; the cards don’t look the way they do for no reason. Finally—some would say even most importantly—there’s an element of personal intuition. Reading Tarot isn’t about following a guidebook.”
Next to me, Nat shifted in her chair, leaning back and folding her arms. I glanced at her and she raised a sceptical eyebrow.
Madam Calderu slid the two cards into the centre of the table, moving the topmost one until only the very edge of its corner still covered the one underneath—allowing us to see both cards properly while still maintaining their positioning, with one beneath the other.
“The World is… well, the world. The sum total of all things. It’s all-encompassing. It can mean completion, the end of a cycle and the beginning of another,” the psychic explained as I looked at the card she was describing. A nude woman, encircled by a ring or laurel wreath, with clouds and animal faces surrounding it.
“And The Tower?” I asked. The art on that one was significantly more ominous—a burning tower, struck by a bolt of red lightning, a pair of people falling to their deaths.
“Sudden change. Upheaval. Catastrophe sweeping away all you thought was strong and stable. The tower is destruction, but its fall can make way for something new.” Madam Calderu’s hands lingered above the cards for a moment before she placed them on the tablecloth, palms down. “For someone else, I might say that this contextualises their question into one with severe consequences. Something that could potentially be a complete upheaval of their entire life, massively destabilising, something… world-shattering. For someone in your position…” She hesitated.
“World-shattering,” I repeated quietly, feeling a tight knot of apprehension forming in my stomach. Under the table, my hands clenched into fists.
The psychic let out an uncomfortable sigh and looked away, fidgeting slightly with one of her oversized rings. It reminded me rather unpleasantly of the way Jessica had looked, the last time I’d seen her. “Perhaps,” she hedged, but she didn’t sound very convincing. “There are many possible interpretations.”
“Well, the reading’s off to a great start, and we haven’t even actually started yet,” I joked, a bitter note leaking into my tone.
Natasha glanced at me, a crease of concern marred her forehead. When we’d come in here, it had been for just a little bit of fun—she didn’t understand why I was suddenly taking it so seriously and it was worrying her. “Confirmation bias, cold reading, apophenia,” she said. “It’s not real. You don’t need to worry about this.”
“I’m not… I’m not sure, but there’s some stuff…” I stumbled over my words, feeling a little self-conscious and unsure what exactly I should say. After a moment, I let out a heavy sigh and shot her a pleading look. “Look, for now, can we please take this seriously?”
Nat stared at me a moment, then nodded and leaned forward again, reaching over to squeeze my arm reassuringly. “Okay, well.” She turned her attention back to the cards, frowning briefly, then gestured with a hand. “She said The World was the sum of everything, and also about cycles, right? And there’s a woman in the centre, with a ring around her.”
“Yeah?”
She reached over and pointed to the woman on the card, then traced the ring around her. “You. Your visions.” Her hand moved over to indicate The Tower. “Forget about destruction. This is about change, right? Followed by something new. You swept away the old, and it’s time for the new.”
“Huh,” I said, the knot in my belly loosening slightly. “You think this is just… what? Confirming what I meant when I asked the question?” It was a much nicer interpretation than Madam Calderu’s, but something about it just didn’t ring true to me. I really didn’t like the destructive connotations of The Tower being there—it made me think about the prophesied destiny of the Scarlet Witch. But it was still nice that Nat was willing to at least entertain this. I shot her a grateful smile, leaning over to nudge her with my shoulder.
Madam Calderu gave Natasha an appraising look before turning back to me. “That’s certainly possible. There are other interpretations, of course—we could more literally link the burning tower with the attack that happened in New York that levelled Avengers’ Tower, for instance. The reading proper will provide more context.” She paused. “You mentioned visions?” she asked, a note of naked curiosity in her tone.
I held up a hand. “Sorry, we can’t really talk about that. National security. Or, er, global security, rather.”
The psychic nodded slowly. “Alright. Well. Shall we move on? Leave those two aside and shuffle the rest.”
I nodded and shuffled the cards, as directed. I wasn’t the worst shuffler, but the larger size of the Tarot cards made it a little bit more awkward, and I fumbled them a little bit. Part of me was worried more cards would tumble out but, then again, what could I possibly pull out that was worse than something that might mean my choices could destroy the world?