It’s not the life I planned for, telling fortunes during the end of days, but clients are plentiful. They believe there’s magic in my rare divination deck. The cards are bigger than my hands, gilt-edged with an embossed pattern that emerges in the proper light, like a layer of snowflakes. The drawings beneath are lush, peacocks and queens and church windows, all glowing like trapped candle flame. On the back of each card, an ‘S’ extends into a wave of curls. ‘S’ for the Saturn Club, Philadelphia’s oldest social club and, more important, its most exclusive.
Tomorrow it will be three years since I quit – technically, the deck is stolen – and in all that time I’ve never read the cards for myself. But I woke up unsettled, and Max’s surprise invitation has unsettled me further. I don’t want to
