The rain fell in thin needles that evening, tracing rivulets down the shop's windowpanes, blurring the shapes of carriages and passersby beyond. Inside, the fire snapped and hissed, casting restless shadows across the shelves. Horace lay curled upon a cushion near the hearth, though his tail twitched in uneasy rhythm. Morrigan, high upon her perch, shuffled her talons against the beam, feathers bristling as though she too tasted unrest in the air.
Esther sat at her table, the black silk cloth drawn back to reveal her cards. She had not meant to divine again that night—her mind was heavy, her body weary—but her hands, unbidden, had reached for the deck. It seemed almost to pulse beneath her touch, as though the cards themselves hungered to speak.
One by one, she laid them in a spread: The Moon, The Hanged Man, The Devil.
She frowned, the firelight gleaming off the gilt edges. Each card was a mirror of shadow, a warning of illusions, sacrifices, temptations. Her throat tightened as she turned the final card.
It was Death again.
Her hand lingered upon it. This was no ordinary omen, no passing trick of chance. The card was stalking her, as persistent as the raven's caw, as constant as the whispers that trailed her through the streets.
A sound at the door broke her reverie—a hesitant knock, three times, faltering. Horace sprang to his feet, ears pricked, while Morrigan gave a deep croak that echoed like thunder through the shop.
Esther rose, gathering her cloak about her shoulders before opening the door.
A man stood there, drenched in rain, his eyes hollow with grief. He clutched his hat against his chest like a shield. "Mistress Harrow," he stammered. "They tell me… you speak with the dead."
Esther studied him in silence. The rain traced down his gaunt face, and behind him the gaslights guttered in the storm. "They tell you much," she said at last.
"My daughter," he whispered, his voice breaking. "Taken by fever not a fortnight ago. I… I hear her in the night. I hear her calling. Please. You must help me."
For a moment, Esther's gaze softened. She knew too well the grief that gnawed like a hungry wolf, leaving only shadows behind. Yet the cards on her table seemed to pulse still, whispering of danger.
"Step inside," she said at last.
The man obeyed, dripping upon the wooden floor. Esther led him to the table, where the cards still lay spread in their grim array. He looked upon them and paled.
"Death," he muttered. "It follows me too."
Esther did not answer. Instead, she drew her hands across the cards, gathering them into a single deck once more. She would give him a reading, though her spirit whispered against it. Some doors, once opened, did not close again.
She shuffled, the sound sharp as bones rattling in a grave.
The first card she drew was The Tower.
And somewhere above, Morrigan let out a shriek so piercing it rattled the glass.