Guardian Angel
Trond E. Hildahl
The wizened fortune teller reaches for the final card. I stand behind Stacey, hands light on her back as she leans forward. Although her face isn’t visible, I can picture her warm brown eyes ablaze with curiosity, a small grin playing about her full lips. The reading has been standard fare so far: travel, a mysterious stranger (“a teacher, perhaps?”—in deference to my presence), and eternal true love is just around the corner.
It’s dim in the tent, even with several electric candles glowing. The old woman hooks a claw-like finger under the last card of the spread. Noises from the Renaissance Faire outside seem to be swallowed up as that card perches on end, and falls over to display—
Death.
One glance at that cloaked black figure, scythe clasped in skel
