high-tech toys that places like the Sharper Image used to sell. When I was five, my grandfather gave me his old planetarium projector. Actually, it was nothing more than a plastic globe covered with pinpoint holes, so that dots of light were thrown on the ceiling and walls, but I loved it. This was similar, in the way an Indy car is similar to a Model T. Technology has come a ways.
It was quite impressive, and had I been five again, I’d have been awestruck. But it also reeked of a carny scam—setting up the mark with a pretty display to distract them so they wouldn’t notice the wires behind the scenes. Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain. Cassandra sat down at the table and took Sherwood’s hands in hers.
“So,” she said. “Your boyfriend. You want to know if you two really belong together, yes?”
Sherwood nodded.
“Concentrate on him. What he looks like. How he holds you. What you love about him. Then, what you don’t like so much—the things that make you wonder.”
Sherwood concentrated; then she relaxed and a faraway look appeared on her face. She closed her eyes and sat motionless. At one point a small sigh escaped. She was really playing it up, living in the moment.
But if it was method acting, it was also real. Sherwood believed in being fair, and was giving Cassandra every chance to show her stuff. Maybe there wasn’t any boyfriend at the moment, but whoever Sherwood was envisioning had meant something to her at one time. It might have even been me—though that had been ages ago.
I took the opportunity to cast around, looking for evidence of true talent. It was there, faint but unmistakable, lurking in the corners. I focused in on Cassandra, and again I felt something. So she had talent, no doubt about it, but it was so faint as to be essentially useless to her. But maybe that was what had drawn Jackie to her, apart from the eco agenda they seemed to share. Maybe it flared up at random moments, giving her some real insight and a flash of power. That might explain why she was attracted to her psychic profession, and would also explain why her clients sometimes got real results.
Cassandra had closed her eyes as well, and she sat quietly, as motionless as Sherwood. Then she gave a start, as if waking up suddenly, and disengaged her hands.
“I have enough,” she said. “Now we shall see what we shall see.”
She picked up one of the bottles, uncorked it, and carefully tipped it sideways. I moved in closer to see what she was doing. A thin stream of black ink splashed into the pan of water and curled around like smoke from a fire. She replaced the stopper, picked up another bottle, and repeated the process. This time the ink was red. Next, she stirred the water ever so gently with a narrow wooden paddle. The two ink streams intersected, forming swirling patterns in the liquid.
“Ahh,” I said. “Inkromancy.”
Cassandra turned her head and fixed me with a glare. Not a trace of that previous good humor I’d seen remained on her face. This was clearly not a joking matter to her.
“Sorry,” I said, retreating away from the table. “My bad.” She turned back and bowed her head over the pan, examining the patterns in the water.
“I see a face,” she said. “A man, strong, handsome.” Sherwood nodded slightly. “But he seems troubled.”
No indication of power or talent was in evidence. She was doing a cold reading, speaking in generalities, using logic, and taking cues from Sherwood’s body language.
A “handsome man” was a fairly safe bet. Sherwood is a very attractive woman; slim, strong-featured but not harsh, with dark shoulder-length hair shot through with purple highlights. Sure, she might have hooked up with some poor schlub, but the odds were against it. Attractive people usually end up with other attractive people. Maybe that’s not fair, but it’s a fact of life.
And “troubled” was another good bet. If relationship problems had arisen, he surely
It was quite impressive, and had I been five again, I’d have been awestruck. But it also reeked of a carny scam—setting up the mark with a pretty display to distract them so they wouldn’t notice the wires behind the scenes. Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain. Cassandra sat down at the table and took Sherwood’s hands in hers.
“So,” she said. “Your boyfriend. You want to know if you two really belong together, yes?”
Sherwood nodded.
“Concentrate on him. What he looks like. How he holds you. What you love about him. Then, what you don’t like so much—the things that make you wonder.”
Sherwood concentrated; then she relaxed and a faraway look appeared on her face. She closed her eyes and sat motionless. At one point a small sigh escaped. She was really playing it up, living in the moment.
But if it was method acting, it was also real. Sherwood believed in being fair, and was giving Cassandra every chance to show her stuff. Maybe there wasn’t any boyfriend at the moment, but whoever Sherwood was envisioning had meant something to her at one time. It might have even been me—though that had been ages ago.
I took the opportunity to cast around, looking for evidence of true talent. It was there, faint but unmistakable, lurking in the corners. I focused in on Cassandra, and again I felt something. So she had talent, no doubt about it, but it was so faint as to be essentially useless to her. But maybe that was what had drawn Jackie to her, apart from the eco agenda they seemed to share. Maybe it flared up at random moments, giving her some real insight and a flash of power. That might explain why she was attracted to her psychic profession, and would also explain why her clients sometimes got real results.
Cassandra had closed her eyes as well, and she sat quietly, as motionless as Sherwood. Then she gave a start, as if waking up suddenly, and disengaged her hands.
“I have enough,” she said. “Now we shall see what we shall see.”
She picked up one of the bottles, uncorked it, and carefully tipped it sideways. I moved in closer to see what she was doing. A thin stream of black ink splashed into the pan of water and curled around like smoke from a fire. She replaced the stopper, picked up another bottle, and repeated the process. This time the ink was red. Next, she stirred the water ever so gently with a narrow wooden paddle. The two ink streams intersected, forming swirling patterns in the liquid.
“Ahh,” I said. “Inkromancy.”
Cassandra turned her head and fixed me with a glare. Not a trace of that previous good humor I’d seen remained on her face. This was clearly not a joking matter to her.
“Sorry,” I said, retreating away from the table. “My bad.” She turned back and bowed her head over the pan, examining the patterns in the water.
“I see a face,” she said. “A man, strong, handsome.” Sherwood nodded slightly. “But he seems troubled.”
No indication of power or talent was in evidence. She was doing a cold reading, speaking in generalities, using logic, and taking cues from Sherwood’s body language.
A “handsome man” was a fairly safe bet. Sherwood is a very attractive woman; slim, strong-featured but not harsh, with dark shoulder-length hair shot through with purple highlights. Sure, she might have hooked up with some poor schlub, but the odds were against it. Attractive people usually end up with other attractive people. Maybe that’s not fair, but it’s a fact of life.
And “troubled” was another good bet. If relationship problems had arisen, he surely
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