Page 64 of Maid of Dishonor
“Psh. There are no problems with it. It’s perfect. Foolproof, even. We get the sick woman, the one who can barely leave the house, to leave the house at exactly the right time. Then we turn on the radio station and non-suspiciously tell her to listen carefully to the lyrics of every song we hear.” He shrugs. “Nothing could go wrong.”
I just grin at him. He’s ridiculous, and I love it. “You know, I did have another idea,” I say. “I mean, it’s definitely not as good as your radio idea—”
“Of course,” he says, nodding.
“And it will never live up to your bribery idea—”
“Never.”
“But it could be a decent second place.”
“Great. I’m all ears.”
“The list,” I say flatly. “My idea is the list.”
“Fine,” he says dramatically. Then he looks at me. “The tarot cards?”
I nod. “The tarot cards. Which means…” I trail off, grabbing my phone and looking up directions. “Which means we need to head out to Manchester.”
* * *
Manchester Road is120 miles of what feels like any and every business you could think of. Grocery stores, sporting goods stores, clothing stores—and, tucked into the corner of one shopping plaza, a metaphysical store.
“Wow,” Carter says, looking around as we enter. “Look at all this.”
I nod as my eyes scan the place. “I know.” The faint scent of incense lingers in the air, although heck if I know what kind, and the lights are dimmed slightly.
The store is small and cluttered, but somehow that doesn’t bother me. Rather than feeling messy, it just feels lived-in. I actually kind of like it. There’s a wall of crystals to my left, displaying rocks of all shapes, sizes, and colors. There are candles and jewelry and books, and every so often there’s a dream catcher hung from the ceiling.
I’m completely out of my depth, but I’ll be able to recognize a pack of cards, so I just start wandering around. Carter turns around and heads toward the counter, though, leaving me standing next to an assortment of salt lamps. I follow him.
“Hi,” he says to the woman behind the counter. “I have a quick question about the tarot cards.”
The lady looks us over—Carter with his jersey and baseball hat, me with my Cardinals’ t-shirt and denim cutoffs—and I can admit that we probably don’t give off tarot vibes, if that’s even a thing. Although I’m surprised by how normal the woman looks, too—she’s maybe a little older than us, but she has a conservative blonde bob and crisp white button-up shirt, not a healing crystal in sight—so maybe I’m going off of some incorrect stereotypes here.
To be fair, though, the only person I know who would shop here is Maya, and she usually looks like she just got home after communing with nature or dancing with pixies or something.
“Yes?” the woman behind the counter says, sounding both wary and curious as she looks at us.
Carter hesitates for a second before taking a deep breath. This is so not his thing, and I’m suddenly worried he's going to find a way to offend this woman without even meaning to.
“Out of all the tarot cards, which one is the scary one?” he says, diving right in. He makes himself comfortable, leaning one elbow on the counter. “Like, is there one that’s a bad omen, or whatever?”
The woman blinks bemusedly at him. “Um” is all she says.
And yep, I was right. She looks like she’s well on her way to being offended by his ignorance, but Carter either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. My bet is that he just doesn’t notice. He leans in a little, his eyebrows raised, as though he’s just waiting for her to speak.
“Well,” she says, drawing the word out, “context is really what’s important when doing tarot readings. The meanings of the cards won’t always be exactly the same.”
“Right. Okay.” He nods, pushing one hand through his hair, and I can tell his patience for conversations about tarot is limited. “But aren’t there some cards that just don’t bode as well as others?” he says before I can cut in. “Like let’s say you wake up on the morning of your wedding. You do a reading or whatever. What cards might make you nervous?”
The woman bristles. “I woke up on the morning of my wedding to find my fiancé with my bridesmaid,” she says coolly, andwow, I’m suddenly very uncomfortable.
How are we supposed to respond to that? What do we even say?
Carter’s jaw has gone slack; he’s feeling as awkward as I am. Rubbing the back of his neck, he says, “I’m…sorry.” He winces and then says apologetically, “I…really just kind of need to know about the cards.”
I sigh, shaking my head. For all his wonderful qualities, tact is not up there.
