too!" The older woman laughed, "What will you call yourself?"
"I thought we agreed that a minute ago, call me Sister," she smiled enigmatically.
" Sister Petulengro … Now that does have a good ring about it." Mrs Smith's eyes shone as she continued. "It's not too hard; they do half the work for ya. Okay, so this is how it we'll do it. You'll watch me for a few days, and if you're smart, you'll be up and running in no time. Remember, tell 'em what they want to hear. It's what they pay you for."
Vera nodded her head. She needed the money too much to spoil her chances of a job with an argument about morals and ethics.
Chapter 14
As word of the new 'teller spread, one after another they came, in through the shop and into the vardo. Her clients were almost exclusively women. Some girls came by just for fun, and she didn't object to engaging in what they wanted to hear. She saw no harm in holding their palms upwards in her gloved hands, and telling them . . . You'll meet the man of your dreams . . . They hailed from a variety of backgrounds, rich, poor, widowed, and divorced. It made no difference to her. All had one thing in common. They craved answers.
The Sister needed no props, no crystal ball, no cards, no tea leaves or hot sands. She needed only impressions, nothing more than that.
Not allowed to intervene directly, she could point the way. At times, she strayed a little off the path, away from the one recommended by Mrs Smith.
She saw that there were times when the truth would be more beneficial, although not without pain. It wasn't long before she was giving them a choice. Do you want the truth? Before you give me your answer, search your heart. It may be that deep down you already know. The truth, when it comes from someone else, has the power to hurt as well as heal.
In many cases, the answers were there, but unable to face them, they needed them spelling out. Others, just needed a clue. A few thought they might use the information to their advantage. One such woman had been carrying on an affair; her husband threatened to kill himself. She wanted to know if he'd really do it.
Sister held her gaze. "You want the truth?"
She nodded.
"I see a lot of blood, and you can't honestly blame him, can you? You, sleeping with another man in his bed . . ."
"Blood? Whose blood?"
"Yours," Sister said.
The woman's features stretched; her mouth gawped; her eyes widened as a mix of horror and disbelief took hold. She'd not told anyone of her situation . . . so, how could she know? Afraid to hear more, she grabbed her coat and left in a hurry.
Sister's thoughts turned to the last time she'd connected through the medium of skin. The experience had been too intense, even painful for her. The stone insulated her from that direct contact, yet still achieved almost the same results. Perfectly round, and of a similar composition to Obsidian, from the instant she'd picked it up, it appeared to have a life of its own. Struck with an immediate discourse, a transfer of impressions, she'd wanted to absorb them, follow them all, just like a bloodhound trailing a scent. Her senses were overwhelmed to such a degree; she was afraid she might fall over. She would learn to ignore the distractions that it threw up at her.
The night she'd found it; she put it in her pocket and then picked up other stones on her way home and held them for a moment. None of them behaved like the black one. She grasped the mysterious stone ball again, expecting a further transfer. Nothing happened, not a thing. Whatever was in it before had now gone.
When she arrived at her house, she let herself in and upstairs in her room, held it against the lamp. It was too dense to allow light to pass through.
The following day, she recalled putting it down on the kitchen table in front of Mick McMurphy. Although perfectly spherical, it rolled loopily across the top, almost coming to a stop before wobbling and changing direction, lolloping around in
"I thought we agreed that a minute ago, call me Sister," she smiled enigmatically.
" Sister Petulengro … Now that does have a good ring about it." Mrs Smith's eyes shone as she continued. "It's not too hard; they do half the work for ya. Okay, so this is how it we'll do it. You'll watch me for a few days, and if you're smart, you'll be up and running in no time. Remember, tell 'em what they want to hear. It's what they pay you for."
Vera nodded her head. She needed the money too much to spoil her chances of a job with an argument about morals and ethics.
Chapter 14
As word of the new 'teller spread, one after another they came, in through the shop and into the vardo. Her clients were almost exclusively women. Some girls came by just for fun, and she didn't object to engaging in what they wanted to hear. She saw no harm in holding their palms upwards in her gloved hands, and telling them . . . You'll meet the man of your dreams . . . They hailed from a variety of backgrounds, rich, poor, widowed, and divorced. It made no difference to her. All had one thing in common. They craved answers.
The Sister needed no props, no crystal ball, no cards, no tea leaves or hot sands. She needed only impressions, nothing more than that.
Not allowed to intervene directly, she could point the way. At times, she strayed a little off the path, away from the one recommended by Mrs Smith.
She saw that there were times when the truth would be more beneficial, although not without pain. It wasn't long before she was giving them a choice. Do you want the truth? Before you give me your answer, search your heart. It may be that deep down you already know. The truth, when it comes from someone else, has the power to hurt as well as heal.
In many cases, the answers were there, but unable to face them, they needed them spelling out. Others, just needed a clue. A few thought they might use the information to their advantage. One such woman had been carrying on an affair; her husband threatened to kill himself. She wanted to know if he'd really do it.
Sister held her gaze. "You want the truth?"
She nodded.
"I see a lot of blood, and you can't honestly blame him, can you? You, sleeping with another man in his bed . . ."
"Blood? Whose blood?"
"Yours," Sister said.
The woman's features stretched; her mouth gawped; her eyes widened as a mix of horror and disbelief took hold. She'd not told anyone of her situation . . . so, how could she know? Afraid to hear more, she grabbed her coat and left in a hurry.
Sister's thoughts turned to the last time she'd connected through the medium of skin. The experience had been too intense, even painful for her. The stone insulated her from that direct contact, yet still achieved almost the same results. Perfectly round, and of a similar composition to Obsidian, from the instant she'd picked it up, it appeared to have a life of its own. Struck with an immediate discourse, a transfer of impressions, she'd wanted to absorb them, follow them all, just like a bloodhound trailing a scent. Her senses were overwhelmed to such a degree; she was afraid she might fall over. She would learn to ignore the distractions that it threw up at her.
The night she'd found it; she put it in her pocket and then picked up other stones on her way home and held them for a moment. None of them behaved like the black one. She grasped the mysterious stone ball again, expecting a further transfer. Nothing happened, not a thing. Whatever was in it before had now gone.
When she arrived at her house, she let herself in and upstairs in her room, held it against the lamp. It was too dense to allow light to pass through.
The following day, she recalled putting it down on the kitchen table in front of Mick McMurphy. Although perfectly spherical, it rolled loopily across the top, almost coming to a stop before wobbling and changing direction, lolloping around in
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