Page 5

My impromptu plan is simple, although that alone is enough of an invitation for something to go wrong, especially in Prior’s End.

I’ll go to Madame Aurora’s tent, get my fortune told.

Entrap the psychic into making a prediction so ludicrous that I can decry it immediately in front of the whole town.

It’s the only way to make Mom see that Aurora doesn’t know best.

“I should go,” I say. My voice sounds rough. “Austin and Caroline are waiting for me.”

They’re the reason I’m going tonight. My best friends are so obviously into each other, but since we’ve been a trio for so long, neither is making a move. I think it’s for my sake, but just because I’m hopelessly single doesn’t mean I want them to be.

“Wait.” Mom rummages in her purse, which hangs on the back of a kitchen chair. She presses two crumpled twenties and a grimy bunch of ones into my hand. “Do you want to go down together?”

I shake my head. Words are hard right now.

“Okay.” She squeezes my fingers. “Have fun, sweetheart. Enjoy cotton candy and carnival games.”

“Cotton candy and games, yup.” I don’t let my forced smile drop until I’m out the door.

I can breathe out here. I gulp cool air into my lungs.

My bike leans against the porch, same place I left it after school this afternoon before my hike.

It’s so noticeable that I never risk taking it with me.

I nudge back the kickstand of my bumblebee-yellow bike with the toe of my platform Oxfords.

The ride down to the carnival is bracing, wind nipping at my cheeks and whipping my hair into a spectacle.

For most locals, autumn started on the first of September, when Demeter’s Drinks switched to a new seasonal coffee menu.

But for me, it isn’t the cinnamon-maple latte or the white-chocolate pumpkin spice that heralds the season.

It’s the taste in the air, like the town has just taken its first bite out of a tart caramel apple. It tingles in the back of my throat, soft and sweet at first and then sharp and satisfying. Just how I like it.

I’ve never lived anywhere else, but I know that there’s nowhere quite like Prior’s End.

Tiny tornadoes of leaves scatter around me as I whiz past rain gutters. Everyone’s already at the carnival, the town’s beating heart, but the streets are far from empty. Sidewalk shadows flicker in the corners of my eyes, coming close enough to snatch at my ankles.

I steel myself and pedal faster. A trick of the light and wind, nothing more.

The shadows grow greedier when I pass the copse of trees where I found old Mrs. Honeywell’s best laying hen—well, what remained of her.

Mrs. Honeywell had been inconsolable. Overimaginative tourists had found the bloodied white feathers and leaped to satanic rituals in the woods, locals feeding outsiders to some eldritch creature in the pitch black.

Of course, the next morning’s newspaper headline identified the culprit as a particularly hungry fox, but that version of the story, however true, wasn’t the one that spread like wildfire.

Suspicion, superstition, and love of a good story are our otherwise charming town’s only flaws.

I slow my speed as I approach the carnival. The thrum of people and music surrounds me as I lock up my bike on the rack farthest away then sidle my way around the perimeter, keeping an eye out. Any other night, I would seek out my friends. But tonight I have a bone to pick.

Madame Aurora’s tent is easily spotted, as ostentatious as the psychic herself.

A purple so deep it could pass for black, shimmering with gold thread.

I expect a crowd waiting their turn in front, but to my disappointment, there’s nobody around.

Okay, that’s fine. I can just go in and wait for an audience.

I take a deep breath then leap inside.

The tent is empty.

I swallow my disappointment. Great, she must have already left to meet Mom at Chalice.

What do I do now? I’ve worked myself up for embarrassing and exposing Aurora, who has Mom wrapped around her manipulative little finger, and then cotton candy and carnival games with my friends, just like I’d said.

Caroline and Austin would never miss the first day of the Fall Festival.

They’re probably just a few tents away, Caroline pretending to pout while Austin steals little pieces of her cotton candy for himself, acquitting himself by winning her the biggest, cuddliest stuffed toy while they both ignore their feelings like the dumbasses they are.

I would rather be with them, smushing them together in my self-appointed wingwoman capacity, but nope. Instead, I’m here. The last place I want to be.

“Seriously?” I mutter, pushing aside the gauzy violet fabric that’s draped everyfuckingwhere and the glittering baubles suspended so low they could take someone’s eye out.

With a frown, I approach the table with two chairs and a crystal ball.

Crystals and a well-worn deck of tarot cards rest in velvet-lined boxes and, strangely, a silver trinket tray with a handful of buttons.

Nothing special, nothing vintage. They’re all different, only one of each, but nondescript and plain like a collection of extra buttons provided by shirt manufacturers.

Mom once told me that buttons are Aurora’s preferred divination method, but I have zero inkling of how that would even work.

Overlapping carpets in jewel tones are scattered over the floor, worn enough that no one would trip. Reflective beaded curtains shimmer like columns of tiny disco balls. The faintest whiff of rose incense tickles the air. I guess I can see why this mystical setup might appeal to people.

I shake my head, squashing whatever bit of unwilling awe stirs in my chest. The magical aesthetic is all part of the con, and I am absolutely not falling for it.

Everything here is strategically designed for one purpose and one purpose only—to trick people into believing in Aurora’s power enough that they’ll part with their cash.

Vulnerable people like my mother. Suckered into thinking Aurora had the answers they so desperately desired.

For years she kept Mom dangling with hope that Dad could still be alive, and now she decides to take it all away? No. No way.

Dim lamps cast patterns across the walls and ceiling—no, not patterns, constellations.

I can’t be sure, but the night sky looks accurate, at least what I remember from my dad’s backyard stargazing before he left, an activity he’d just started to share with me.

I can hear his voice so clearly. Look up, Nova.

Unbidden, Dad’s face flashes in front of me, aged up to match the seven years he’s been gone. The memories of his arms around me, the sharp and clean scent of his aftershave, the reverential timbre of his voice when he showed me something new in the telescope…it all brings a lump to my throat.

“Hello?” someone calls. “Your away sign has been up a long time. Are you okay to take—”

I barely hear the question. All I hear is “Are you okay?” and so, frantic, I yelp, “Er. Yes.” Crap, I sound nothing like Aurora. I try again, hoping whoever’s outside won’t know the difference. “Yes, fine!”

Then I realize, with dawning horror, that in my panicked hurry, my response might have sounded an awful lot like I was inviting them in. Even worse, the person outside sounds strangely familiar.

“Oh, awesome! We’ve been waiting for you!”

And then Kiara Mistry bursts in.