Page 20 of The Sun and the Moon

Sydney

The Reading Room at Kismet is designed as a sacred space.

Moira left me alone inside while she went to the kitchen, claiming a cup of tea and some biscuits were just what we needed to connect with our guides.

I think her blood sugar was just taking a midday dip and she needed a caffeine-and-cookie boost. Which is totally fair. I can’t blame her, and also, same .

The room is rectangular. The long wall directly across from the doorway is lined with built-in bookshelves that frame a window with a shallow window seat.

There’s a plush carpet in a swirl of deep jewel tones, another wall lined with bookshelves, only this one holds tarot decks and other occult artifacts.

At the center of the room sits a round wooden table covered in velvet and lace, with tall-backed chairs on either side.

Overhead is a stained-glass light fixture like nothing I’ve ever seen before.

A pendant in cerulean and iridescent glass etched with a dandelion flower design that winds around the fixture as the dandelion seeds shoot out as if blown in a wish.

At the far edge of the room is a heavy wooden desk in front of more shelves. On those shelves are some colorful wooden boxes and trunks, small enough that they can fit in a bookshelf and a little out of place in how organized they appear.

They must be more function than form. They very likely contain secrets she doesn’t want on full display. Probably private business-related docs.

Cadence texted me that Moira was discussing something financially related to the Kismet property, and this was a red flag to her since the property has been paid off for years.

I want to make a swift and certain beeline for the desk, but I’m aware that Moira could come back any second.

I will have to find a way to sneak back in here when she isn’t paying attention.

I walk toward the bookshelf nearest me, scanning the shelves with interest. Moira sells tarot decks in her shop outside, some I see here neatly organized.

These must be her personal decks, ones she uses for clients or for her personal readings.

There are candles, dried herb bundles, and some beautiful crystals she has set up in clusters around the shelves.

But most notable to me is the framed photo of Cadence.

It has to be her—the rambling dark curls and haunting hazel eyes are unmistakable.

She’s sitting on a tree branch that hangs over the roof of Kismet, her long legs, knees knobby, dangling on either side of the branch.

She’s holding on with one hand, but in the other she holds something.

My fingers twitch, moving of their own accord toward the frame to pick it up, draw it closer for a better look.

A bird. Cadence is holding a bird in her open palm.

The sight causes a strange lifting sensation in my stomach.

The hand holding the bird is open, palm up to the sky.

The bird sits inside the palm, and Cadence’s smile is calm, a settled, soft fix to her round features.

The bird isn’t a parakeet or budgie. It’s not the kind of clipped-winged creature you might expect to see sitting in the palm of a young girl’s hand.

It’s a tiny jewel-headed hummingbird. Not easy to catch, harder to hold on to.

“It flew right to her.” Moira’s voice startles me, and I nearly drop the frame. I turn to see she’s holding a tray of teacups sitting on saucers and a plate of cookies. The cups are a delicate china, mismatched. My stomach growls at the sight of the cookies.

“A hummingbird?” I ask, setting the frame carefully back in place on the shelf.

“That’s right,” she says, walking to the table with the tray. She pulls a leaf from the left side and situates the tray on top all in one fluid motion.

I don’t know if I’m supposed to move from my spot yet, but my gut says she’s coming over here. She’s not done taking this opportunity to talk about Cadence.

My instinct is confirmed when she crosses to where I stand and picks up the framed photo.

Her eyes are gentle as they take in the image of her daughter.

Sadness etches her features, and I imagine it’s likely she’s thinking of that time.

A time before Cadence left home, left her behind, stopped trusting her and her premonitions, stopped letting her dictate her story.

“A wild thing,” she almost hums. “She always had this way of making nature feel comfortable.” She brushes her thumb over Cadence’s face in the picture.

“Something in her understood the same something in nature. Kindred, connected.” She looks up, as if driving the point of her words toward me.

She seems to be implying that I am a wild thing and Cadence and I should understand each other.

The annoying thing is, she isn’t wrong.

I couldn’t say it out loud, not with how wound-up Cadence is over the circumstances of our meeting, but she has this way of making me feel like my feet are on the ground. Like I could land and stay for a while.

Probably the same way the hummingbird felt in her hand.

I can’t follow this train of thought. Not just because I don’t think there is anything about me interesting or intriguing enough to usurp the permanent distaste Cadence has for her mother’s soulmate premonition, but because this close to Madame Moira I feel exposed.

I don’t believe in supernatural forces any more than I believe in Santa Claus or God, but I am starting to believe in the power belief can wield.

And Moira is a person who has been imbued with presence thanks to the many people (including herself and her skeptical daughter) who do believe in her ability to see the future.

Or, at the very least, the answer about the future they seek from her.

I don’t want to follow a train of thought about how grounded her daughter makes me feel, because I’m afraid that she’ll somehow know—read my mind, feel my feelings, whatever.

“It’s crazy that it let her catch it,” I say, trying not to sound too invested.

“Her,” Moira says, and I realize she is correcting me. “The hummingbird was a her.”

At that, I decide to move this whole thing along. At least away from the topic of her daughter capturing in hand the fastest-moving bird in nature.

Birdie.

Stop seeing coincidences and reading them as signs.

“Those cookies look delicious,” I say, walking to the table in a few fast strides and grabbing one up. “Snickerdoodles.”

“Lola is in a baking phase,” Moira replies, following me to the table.

I turn the cookie over between my fingers.

“She’s the one who got me on the dating site that led me to meeting Rick.” I nod, acknowledging recognition of the name and why I would know who she is.

“The wild card,” I reply. Her lips quirk. Referencing a direct quote from her daughter was probably not my most genius move. “Or something like that.”

“Exactly that,” she says, but thankfully doesn’t dwell on it. “And she is. Cadence isn’t wrong there. But Lola’s been loyal, sticking around even though she could leave if she wanted. Nothing’s stopping her.”

“She likely appreciates that you let her…” I look to the cookie, searching for the right words. “Follow her interests while on the clock.”

“I don’t own her time, not even when I’m paying her.

People do what they want no matter how tightly you hold on.

” This is an audacious statement coming from her considering everything Cadence has said.

“Last month it was painting. Before that, learning French on Duolingo, merci ,” she says in a flawless accent.

“Lola is like a daughter to me. I don’t mind her searching, especially here, where I can keep an eye on her.

” There’s some undercurrent to her words, as if there’s more she wants to say on the topic but not more she wants to reveal. “She could so easily get off track.”

Whoa, the puppet strings are showing.

I bite down on the cookie, reaching for the chair to tug it out from under the table. Can’t say anything that might put Moira on the defensive.

“Tasty,” I say, sliding into the seat. “Your instinct to let her do her thing is paying off.”

Moira chuckles, tugging her chair out as well.

“My taste buds don’t complain. Just my waistline.

” She motions to her svelte figure. I can’t figure out what the fuck I’m supposed to believe is suffering there.

She drifts into her seat and picks up her teacup.

She rests against the pintucked velvet cushion covering her high-backed chair.

I give her a tight smile and keep my backbone stiff as I reach for my own cup. The tea has a rich nutty color, the smell reminding me of fall. Crunchy leaves underfoot, spice in the air from all the baked goods. We sip our tea, and her eyes never leave my face.

“I see a lot of your father in you,” she says thoughtfully.

“I get that a lot, especially from people who didn’t know my mother.”

“Diana.” She says my mother’s name in the same thoughtful tone. “I saw her—Rick keeps family photos around of the three of you.” She sets her teacup down and picks up the deck of cards sitting out on the table. In all the conversation and preliminary snooping, I didn’t notice she had set them out.

The backs of the cards are a pale green with a cream border that looks like vines. In the center of that is a tree with a thick woven trunk, deep roots that connect to the vine border below, and a lush crown that spills into the border at the top and sides.

“That’s not the same thing as knowing her.”

Moira’s hands flick, sending a cascade of cards up in a controlled arc. Her long fingers work the deck into a rhythmic shuffle, and my eyes drop to the movement, sticking like glue as the cards sift into and through the spaces between one another.

“So how does this work?” I ask. I wish I could get the focus off me and onto her but that doesn’t seem likely as long as I’m supposed to be the subject of this tarot reading.