eyes, and looked about the room. So normal, so plain. The solid red plate, the pure water, the smell of incense. The shelves, the candles. Nothing here beyond the normal. But her face. The intensity of her expression.
“Wait. The tunnel is opening up. A large room. It’s here. It’s here.” Her voice was growing taut, fierce. Her lips began to pull back from her teeth as if she were a dog snarling. “Oh shit, it knows I’m here. It sees me.”
“Ms. Silestra?” Her grip was hurting her. Fingers buried into the back of her hands, digging down between her tendons. Twisting and crushing the joints of her fingers. “What? What is down there? Sofia?”
“No. No.” She was breathing hard now. Sweat had sprung out across her brow. “The thing that took your baby. Let go of my hands. Maribel, break the connection, let go of my hands. ”
“I can’t,” said Maribel, shaking them, trying to dislodge the psychic’s fingers. “I can’t! Let go!”
“Maribel,” said Ms. Silestra, her voice rippling with terror as she fought for control. “Please let go of my hands. Please let go.”
“I can’t!” Standing, Maribel began to smack her hands down against the table top, smashing the psychic’s wrists hard against the wood. Pain was lancing through her fingers where they twisted sideways against the joints, gnarling in Silestra’s iron grip. “Stop it! Let go!”
Then, as if a light switch had been hit, Ms. Silestra slumped over to one side, eyes rolling up just as they closed, hands turning nerveless and letting go. Maribel stepped back, knocking her chair over, panting in the sudden silence, the candle flames rising still and calm, the silence thick and cloying. “Ms. Silestra?” She massaged her hands, which were pale and clotted with red splotches where deep bruises were surely going to surface.
The psychic was still seated, but only arrested from falling by the table’s edge. Rounding it, Maribel approached her slowly. Crouched down next to her. Ms. Silestra was breathing in short hitches which smoothed out even as Maribel watched. Her eyes were fluttering behind the closed lids. Reaching out, Maribel pushed Ms. Silestra back into her seat. Placed her hands on the table. Should she call for help? Get her a glass of water? Standing, she began to stride around the table for the door.
“Holy shit,” said Ms. Silestra, her voice shaky, low. “My god.” Turning, Maribel saw her passing her hands over her face, and then stare at them, as if noticing them for the first time. She glanced up at Maribel, but then her gaze skittered away as if she were afraid of meeting her eyes. “My hands feel broken. Did you—or was that me..?”
“That was you,” said Maribel, drawing herself up. “You almost broke my hands.”
“Oh,” said the psychic softly, blinking again. “Dear god. Please, could you get me some… some tea? In the kitchen, second door to the left. I need… I need to gather myself.”
Maribel nodded, and stepped out and into the kitchen. It was small, painted a faded yellow with ornate porcelain plates set against the wall, each depicting scenes of woods and animals. The kitchen itself was old fashioned, and clearly much used; taking the kettle, she set it on the stove top. Turned on the burner, and then simply stood there, watching it, staring through it. Underground. Something calling her. What had the psychic seen? Being here, in Ms. Silestra’s shop, had caused all kinds of misgivings to arise despite her earlier certainty. But now, here in the kitchen, she felt her doubts fall away. Ms. Silestra had seen something. She believed that with a dull certainty. But what?
Two minutes later, she returned with two paper thin cups of green tea. Ms. Silestra was still in the same seat, and staring abstractedly at nothing as she entered. “Thank you,” she said as Maribel set the cup before her. Taking the tea in both hands, she raised it to her lips, and inhaled the steam, still staring at
“Wait. The tunnel is opening up. A large room. It’s here. It’s here.” Her voice was growing taut, fierce. Her lips began to pull back from her teeth as if she were a dog snarling. “Oh shit, it knows I’m here. It sees me.”
“Ms. Silestra?” Her grip was hurting her. Fingers buried into the back of her hands, digging down between her tendons. Twisting and crushing the joints of her fingers. “What? What is down there? Sofia?”
“No. No.” She was breathing hard now. Sweat had sprung out across her brow. “The thing that took your baby. Let go of my hands. Maribel, break the connection, let go of my hands. ”
“I can’t,” said Maribel, shaking them, trying to dislodge the psychic’s fingers. “I can’t! Let go!”
“Maribel,” said Ms. Silestra, her voice rippling with terror as she fought for control. “Please let go of my hands. Please let go.”
“I can’t!” Standing, Maribel began to smack her hands down against the table top, smashing the psychic’s wrists hard against the wood. Pain was lancing through her fingers where they twisted sideways against the joints, gnarling in Silestra’s iron grip. “Stop it! Let go!”
Then, as if a light switch had been hit, Ms. Silestra slumped over to one side, eyes rolling up just as they closed, hands turning nerveless and letting go. Maribel stepped back, knocking her chair over, panting in the sudden silence, the candle flames rising still and calm, the silence thick and cloying. “Ms. Silestra?” She massaged her hands, which were pale and clotted with red splotches where deep bruises were surely going to surface.
The psychic was still seated, but only arrested from falling by the table’s edge. Rounding it, Maribel approached her slowly. Crouched down next to her. Ms. Silestra was breathing in short hitches which smoothed out even as Maribel watched. Her eyes were fluttering behind the closed lids. Reaching out, Maribel pushed Ms. Silestra back into her seat. Placed her hands on the table. Should she call for help? Get her a glass of water? Standing, she began to stride around the table for the door.
“Holy shit,” said Ms. Silestra, her voice shaky, low. “My god.” Turning, Maribel saw her passing her hands over her face, and then stare at them, as if noticing them for the first time. She glanced up at Maribel, but then her gaze skittered away as if she were afraid of meeting her eyes. “My hands feel broken. Did you—or was that me..?”
“That was you,” said Maribel, drawing herself up. “You almost broke my hands.”
“Oh,” said the psychic softly, blinking again. “Dear god. Please, could you get me some… some tea? In the kitchen, second door to the left. I need… I need to gather myself.”
Maribel nodded, and stepped out and into the kitchen. It was small, painted a faded yellow with ornate porcelain plates set against the wall, each depicting scenes of woods and animals. The kitchen itself was old fashioned, and clearly much used; taking the kettle, she set it on the stove top. Turned on the burner, and then simply stood there, watching it, staring through it. Underground. Something calling her. What had the psychic seen? Being here, in Ms. Silestra’s shop, had caused all kinds of misgivings to arise despite her earlier certainty. But now, here in the kitchen, she felt her doubts fall away. Ms. Silestra had seen something. She believed that with a dull certainty. But what?
Two minutes later, she returned with two paper thin cups of green tea. Ms. Silestra was still in the same seat, and staring abstractedly at nothing as she entered. “Thank you,” she said as Maribel set the cup before her. Taking the tea in both hands, she raised it to her lips, and inhaled the steam, still staring at
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