Page 14 of Breaking the Dark

At the sound of a woman’s voice outside her booth, Ophelia invites the visitor in.

A hand pulls back the grubby velvet curtain, and a very young woman peers uncertainly into the space.

Ophelia smiles at the girl. “Good afternoon. I am Madame Ophelia. And what can I do for you today?”

The girl pulls a handbag onto her lap as she sits down.

“Could you do me a reading, please? About my future?”

The girl is pretty but wearing too much makeup. Thick lip liner around sweet rosebud lips. Chalked-in eyebrows that don’t suit her face. Thick, clumpy eyelashes. Skin caked in gunk.

Ophelia narrows her eyes. “What are you hoping to discover?”

The girl breathes in hard. “I want to know when I’m getting out of here.”

“Out of…?”

“Here. Portsmouth. I just feel…” She inhales again. “There’s more than this. There has to be.”

Ophelia keeps a steady gaze on the girl, feeling almost maternal. “There is more than this. Believe me, there’s much more than this.”

“Then please. Tell me how to get out of here.”

Ophelia nods and holds out her hand. “Let’s see.”

She takes the girl’s hand in hers and runs her thumb down the lines on her palm. She gasps softly at what she sees. It’s very unusual.

“There,” she says, pointing. “You have a fate line. Not many people have one. And it’s attached, here, to your lifeline. This means that you are a self-made individual, that you are in charge of your destiny.”

“Yes,” says the girl, staring in awe at the line in the palm of her hand. “Yes. That’s what I want. I want to be self-made.”

“What do you see yourself doing?”

The girl scoffs gently. “I thought that’s what you were meant to tell me?”

“I can guide you. What are your interests?”

“Makeup,” she says, boldly. “I love makeup.”

Ophelia appraises her and nods. “I can see that. Pretty girl like you, you don’t really need all of that stuff on your face.”

“It’s not about being pretty.” Gone is the girl’s uncertainty. She’s almost haughty. “It’s an art form. And not only that, but it’s a multibillion-pound industry.”

“Feeding on women’s insecurities—”

“No,” says the girl. “No. It’s more than that. Makeup is powerful.”

Ophelia raises a skeptical eyebrow. “Powerful?”

“Yes. It can make you look perfect.”

“How is looking perfect powerful?”

“Because”—the girl draws in her breath—“when you look perfect, everything else falls into place. You can concentrate on other things instead.”

“I don’t agree,” says Ophelia. “I was once perfect, and my life didn’t fall into place. Before I found love, I was a victim of my own beauty.”

The girl narrows her eyes at her.