Padraig sunk low into an overstuffed velvet couch, almost able to use the swell of cushion on either side of him as armrests. He glanced nervously around the room at the accoutrements that his host had gathered over the many years of running their small shop tucked away in a quiet alley near the Quarter. Dream catchers and wind chimes hung from nearly every available ledge, filling the air with their ethereal notes as drafts moved unchecked through the dated architecture.

Glass vials filled drawer after drawer, hand scrawled labels in an ornate, flowery script. Some were simple spices, others exotic ingredients he had never heard of. Still others seemed to indicate that they had, at one time, been a component of some animal or another, dried and powdered for very specific purposes, which he did not know, nor care to.

Bundles of herbs hanging from the rafters gave the room a pungent, earthy aroma, which was not so much counteracted by, but conspired with, the incense burning at regular intervals, sticks and cones creating a smoky haze which stung his eyes and seemed to soak into every pore of his being and fiber of his clothes, where he was certain they would remain for days.

Anxious and agitated and looking for anything to occupy his mind, he began to reach for a basket of crystals sitting on an end table near the couch to absently sort through.

“You can’t touch those.”

The woman seated at the circular black oak table did not look up from her work.

"Your energy is fucked, and I've just gotten those aligned this morning. Created enough work for me tonight, haven't you?"

Padraig sheepishly sunk back into the couch, trying to will her to work faster. Though her face was hidden behind a cascade of black, loosely curled hair, her air of concentration was unmistakable.

Hands, worn and calloused but possessed of fingers long and slender enough to give them a certain grace, meticulously traced along the symbols on the paper he had given her. Charms and bangles, Celtic crosses and triquetras, scraped in faint whispers along the surface of the table as her wrists moved, sliding in and out of sight behind the low-hanging, open sleeves of her dark green robe. Even in the dim candlelight, he could see the flames play off the silver filigree along each seam.

Suddenly, piercing green eyes were focused on him, framed by the black hair in a pale and ageless face. Her gaze was intent enough that he felt physically pushed further back into the couch, all-consuming irises threatening to swallow him whole. She did not speak for several minutes, looking him over as though searching for something.

"Where did you say you got these again?"

"I saw them written on a headstone in one of the cemeteries," he stated, without flinching, although he noticed the corner of one eye twitch ever so slightly as the lie rolled off his lips. "Over at the old Masonic one. I thought they looked neat, almost kind of Celtic, and someone said you'd be the person to talk to about that. I didn't have a proper rubbing kit, so I had to make do with the scribbles."

The gaze remained locked on him, even as she stood and paced around to the side of the table closest to him. Her robe hid her feet and she moved with sufficient grace that it almost seemed she had floated there.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

"You are a terrible liar, and if you try it again, I will ask you to leave without telling you a thing."

Padraig maintained defiant eye contact but felt as though he were in elementary school all over again, having been caught swiping an extra milk. And still those eyes bore into him. He wondered if she possessed some version of the Sight. It wasn't unheard of, in her line of work. Without any further admonition, he found himself compelled to tell her the truth.

"If you must know, I traced them off a person’s body."

He waited for the shock, but none came. Instead, placid eyes never leaving his own, she slowly nodded.

"That makes far more sense. And the nature of this poor soul's demise?

"Suicide."

At this, she scrunched her nose a bit, her brow furrowing.

"No, no, I don't think so. That makes less sense. It wouldn't have come to that."

"Well, I don't know what to tell you. She jumped off a parking garage in broad daylight."

The emerald green eyes finally closed, the woman muttering to herself, quietly, as one might when doing a complicated calculation. Leaning back, she slid the paper over and reviewed it once more, shaking her head, growing more and more disconcerted looking.

"Tell me, and truthfully, mind…who is it that told you I was who you should seek?"

"A friend? I mean…the symbols seemed Celtic in appearance. A practitioner of Celtic arts seemed the logical place to start, right?"

"That's all well and good," and now those eyes were back, "but no one around here but those closest to me know me as anything but a doula and peddler of materials obscure and arcane. I like it that way."

She flowed and floated closer to him now, gaze hardening. The platinum serpents in her medallion, twined around a fiery moonstone opal, began catching and reflecting the light at odd…no, impossible angles, considering where the candles were positioned.

"And yet, you bring these vile words into my house. In a city full of a hundred so-called palm readers and witches and circles and seers, you came to me first. Unless someone else has jumped off a parking garage today that word has not yet reached me about?"

Padraig squirmed, unable to look away, unable to do anything to but fill the dreadful silence with the only words that came to mind. And the only words that came were true.

Like a pressure cooker whose safety valve has failed, the contents of his day burst forth. He related the entire story to her, from the moment he set foot in the city to the second he had rung her up for an emergency consultation. He was unsure if he even paused to take a breath.

When it was over, he waited, out of force of habit, to be called a lunatic, tensing to make a hasty retreat. She closed the distance between them, hands clenched by her side, and…

Hugged him.

Hugged him?

Padraig sat motionless, her head on his shoulder, arms squeezing him reassuringly, unsure what to do. She smelled of pine needles and wisteria, which he had no sooner finished processing before he burst into unrelenting sobs. The emotions poured from him, were drawn from him, and with each racking outburst, he felt lighter and less burdened.

When the moment passed and he regained some semblance of composure, breath progressing from hitching half-gasps to something resembling a normal rhythm, she moved away. Her eyes were sad, and the opal in her pendant glowed gently, though it sat entirely in the shade of her body.

"It is good you came to me, child. You came into contact with a great evil, and it left a thorn within you, whether you knew it or not." She spun, rummaged through drawers, gathered various bits of twig and bark and leaf before putting water on for tea.

"So. They are here, then. In the city."

It was a statement, not a question, tossed over her shoulder from where she worked at the makeshift stove behind her beaded curtain, drawn to one side to reveal a small kitchen.

Padraig nodded, before remembering that she was, for once, not looking at him.

"Yes, although I don't know where. Or why. Or how my friend was involved."

"There is much to be gleaned from the paper you bear, and this we shall discuss. You must trust me on this one thing though. We're going to need some tea."