The storm broke at dawn, leaving London cloaked in a pale and weary light. The streets gleamed with rain, and the gas lamps, long extinguished, dripped with moisture like candles burned to nothing. Within the shop, the fire had died to embers, but Esther had not slept.
She sat before the tarot table, the Magician card still lying where she had left it. The figure upon it—robed, commanding, tools of power spread before him—seemed to watch her with knowing eyes. No matter how often she shuffled the deck, the card rose again, unbidden, demanding her attention.
Horace dozed fitfully, tail twitching as if chasing shadows in dreams. But Morrigan… Morrigan was restless. The raven shifted along her beam, wings spreading, then folding, then spreading again. Her black eyes glimmered like drops of obsidian, fixed upon Esther with uncommon intensity.
At last, Morrigan gave a sharp cry—three harsh croaks, each one louder than the last. Esther's head snapped up.
"You have something to say, my dark one," she murmured, rising from her chair. "Speak, then."
The raven beat her wings, and in a rush of air, she dropped from the beam. Her claws scraped across the tarot table, scattering the cards, and with a violent sweep of her beak, she dragged one to the fore.
Esther froze.
It was The Betrayer.
A card not common in every deck, but one she had painted herself long ago, guided by visions that had unsettled even her. The Betrayer—a figure cloaked in shadow, dagger raised behind the back of another. It was not a card of chance. It was a card of warning.
"Betrayal," Esther whispered, her throat dry. "From within the circle. From a hand I trust."
Morrigan rapped her beak against the card once, sharply, then again, as though affirming what had already been spoken.
Esther's chest tightened. Her circle was small—so small. Who among them could betray her? Customers came and went, yes, but few she let close. Only a handful crossed the true threshold of her trust. The thought of treachery sank like ice through her veins.
The raven gave one last cry and leapt to the window, wings striking the glass with a hollow thud. The pane rattled violently, though there was no wind outside. Esther rose and pushed it open, and Morrigan flew into the pale morning, disappearing into the thinning fog.
Esther lingered at the window, her gaze chasing the black shape until it was gone. The Betrayer card still lay on the table behind her, its inked dagger gleaming as though freshly drawn.
Horace rose, padded across the floor, and leapt into her lap. His golden eyes stared up at her, solemn, knowing. Esther stroked his fur absently, though her mind was far away.
"Morrigan sees beyond," she murmured. "But she gives no names. Only shadows."
Still, the warning was enough.
That evening, when she lit the candles anew and opened her door for business, her eyes lingered on every customer, every face. She listened not only to their words, but to their silences. Each coin exchanged, each whisper of thanks, each hurried glance behind them as they left—she measured them all.
And yet, as the fog thickened once more along Gossamer Lane, Esther felt the truth gnawing within her.
The Betrayer was already near.