Poison Priestess, Lana Popovic [romance novel chinese novels .txt] 📗

of her need calls to me. I sink my teeth into the inside of my lip, sweeping my thumb over the lines that lattice the lady’s palm. For a moment they remain no more than creases of the skin, meaningless and inert—then they begin to waver like shifting runes, to writhe and realign.

A buzzing starts to build low in my nape, the sense of swarming pressure that often accompanies the sight.

“You took a lover, madame. Betrothed to another, but under your thrall,” I intone, the words suddenly tumbling past my lips seemingly of their own accord. “Breath to breath, mouth to mouth, entwined beneath the darkened boughs. And when he said he loved you, that he only needed time—that he would withdraw his given ring and pledge it to you instead—you did not think to doubt him.”

Her story unfolds in flickering spurts and starts, inscribed in her palm but suddenly coming alive in my mind’s eye. I see her slipping out of a fete with her giddy lover in tow behind her, all flushed cheeks and swallowed laughter. I watch as they shed their clothes, sinking together into passion in the tangled space within a hedgerow. I hear their heated promises as though I am there myself, a silent ghost bearing witness to their ardor.

Then the lines swirl and coil again, melting into nothing before taking on another shape. When the roiling darkness finally clears behind my eyes, I can see the lady curled like a forlorn comma into a cushioned alcove, hand hovering above her belly.

“But instead of his ring, you bear his seed,” I murmur, looking up to meet her stricken eyes. “And now you stand at a crossroads, abandoned and alone. Save for the unborn child he left behind.”

This time her tears do spill over, glimmering on the darkened hollows under her eyes.

“I do not know what to do,” she whispers, pressing trembling fingers to her lips. “Should I tell him, in hopes that it will spur him into wedding me instead? Or will the knowledge only make him cast me away for good?”

I shake my head vaguely, swaying it from side to side. When I strive to see past her sitting at the window, the vision slithers away from me, clotting into a denser darkness. Yet I can feel something lurking just beyond, more secrets hidden in her palm.

But how do I coax them forth into the light?

A snippet from Agnesot’s grimoire surfaces, a maddening explanation of a rune that only ever vexed me before.

If you should find yourself well and truly stalled, remember that circles make for openings.

I had no notion of what this might mean before, but now I think of the spiral sigils inscribed into both the bar top and the grimoire. With my ring finger, I begin to draw slow, concentric circles into the lady’s palm. As though I am stirring away the obscuring darkness, wheedling the vision forth. Her lines shudder and dance under my touch before falling firmly into place, the truth of them like the breaking of a new dawn.

Dazzling and irrefutable, a certainty beyond reproach.

“If you tell him, he will ruin you,” I say bluntly. “He will paint you a harlot, a strumpet who flung herself at him with no care for decency. A siren calling to a sailor until he dashed himself against the rocks. He will leave you disgraced, madame, and thoroughly alone.”

He will, he will, he will.

She flinches every time I speak, each of my pronouncements striking her like a ruthless blow.

“But that is not fair,” she says, her shoulders slumping pitifully. My heart swells with sympathy for her, even as I wonder what sort of unduly sweet life she’s lived thus far, that has led her to expect fairness as her rightful lot. “What shall I do now?”

I shake my head, my body slackening with fatigue as the last whorls of the vision melt away. “I do not know, my lady. I’ve told you all that I can see.”

“S’il vous plaît,” the lady presses, gulping back tears. “Please, you must tell me what to do.”

Though I have all but forgotten that she is here, it is Marie who rescues me. She reaches for the lady’s other hand, folding it between her own.

“There is no need to weep, madame,” she says quietly. “If you do not want this child, there are ways to go about things. Remedies I can suggest, procedures to help you should the tinctures fail. And if you do want it, well …”

She fixes the lady with a gimlet gaze, but not without sympathy. “I would suggest finding yourself an amenable husband with a great deal of haste.”

CHAPTER THREE

The Moneylender and the Lord

I barely remember staggering home that night, drunk on elation and the haven’s robust wine.

“You did gorgeously, ma belle,” Marie whispered into my ear as she left me on my doorstep, the warm fan of her breath sending a spiraling tingle down my neck. “Just as I knew you would.”

“But why was it so much easier to scry for her?” I marveled, the words sluggish on my tongue. “When I can barely dredge up a vision for myself?”

Marie tipped me a sly wink over her shoulder as she turned away. “Perhaps you might take this lesson to heart, chérie. And trust that sometimes I do know best.”

The next morning, I break my fast with Antoine at a decadently late hour. We eat in companionable silence, both of us basking in the afterglow of a night well spent. I am idling over the gossip pages and spooning fromage and fruit compote into my mouth when Suzette cowers into the dining room in her diffident way.

“Pardonnez-moi, monsieur,” she breathes, wringing her hands in her starched apron. “There are some men downstairs to see you. I told them you could not come to the door just now, but they would not be turned away.”

“But who would be calling on us at noon?” I wonder, glancing over at Antoine, expecting to