Passion of Her Tarot by Jasmine Lawrence
I longed for the death card. Her hands danced and flew across the table, cards whipping and tilting around her long digits with a practised ease. Under the soft glow of the candlelight, shadows flickered upon our faces. I was sure mine betrayed the swirls of emotion lingering beneath my simmering skin, but hers remained stoic and painted, picturesque in its severity and determination.
“I believe you know what you want.”
Like a warmed blade sliding down shivering skin, her voice cut through the silence to make my spine tingle. With my nod, she placed her deck next to her gently before sliding her black nail along the fabric of the tablecloth.
“This first card will tell us what it is you desire.”
A flourish, and she flipped the first one over, my eyes darting down to its place. The material was frayed, discoloured with hints of sepia tones corrupting the naked bodies upon the card. The lovers. Even with the foreknowledge of my wants, the starkness of the card left my palms sweaty with mortification. Her scarlet lips, however, remained in a thin line.
“The next will tell us what you need to achieve this desire of yours.”
She shuffled a little closer to the table, crushed velvet brushing against the small section of skin beneath my shoe and the bottom of my skirt. Her fingers moved over to the next card, gently moving in a circle, as if caressing a silent promise into the supple skin of a paramour. She flipped it.
Dark eyes stared at me from the card, like the chains in his hands were shifting, ready to clasp around my wrists. The devil. Like chipped stone, my back went rigid, like any movement might mean I’d crumble onto the moth-bitten rug beneath my feet. A soft hum crawled its way out of her mouth, and her lipstick fell into the cracks as she allowed her lip to twitch upwards.
“To give in to temptation. To allow your innermost desires to fill the emptiness within your soul.”
I tried my best to nod a little at her smooth words, but her darkened nail was already travelling to the final card, the one most concealed by the shadows.
“Finally, the one which will show your fate.”
Her tone was more playful than I had ever heard it, however subtle. It was only when my eyesight really focused as she flicked her fingers over that my lungs emptied. The skeleton and the etched writing of ‘death’ weren’t what made my skin prickle, but the stain. On top of the brown signs of ageing was a deep blotch of vermilion red, sinking into the cardstock.
“Death. A change. Now that he is out of the way, you’re free to pursue your trembling heart.”
Her self-satisfaction was palpable as I quivered. But as her fingers danced unashamedly over to my arm, having braced upon the dark oak wood, I felt myself falling into the reading. Into her.
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