Her right hand undulates in front of her like a rippling wave. She raises the other hand above her head and with fluttering fingers, circles her wrist down to her waist. Outside a gentle wind stirs and it begins to rain.
“People don’t want to know the future,” the tarot reader goes on. She pulls off her headscarf, grimaces, reties it over hair tacky with sweat. “They want to talk through their troubles. They want you to wrap their desires in archetypes.”
The water off the coast of Gid tasted funny.
At first it was just a faint tang in the back of the throat or the feathery farthest-out edges of the gills. The coastal patrols came back itchy and out of sorts, and everyone who ventured out there complained of the taste: bitter and sour at once, like something growing had twisted, or died.
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