“What is it?” Liz asked.
Madame Zena didn’t respond. Her face held a ghastly look, so real that
Amy was unnerved by it.
“No . . .” Madame Zena said.
To Liz, apparently, Madame Zena still seemed to be putting on an act.
Liz evidently didn’t see the uncontrived horror in the fortune-teller’s
face, which Amy was sure she saw there.
“I don’t . . .” Madame Zena began, then stopped and licked her lips.
“I never . . .” “What am I going to be?” Liz asked. “Rich or famous
or both?” Madame Zena closed her eyes for a moment, slowly shaking her
head, then looked again into the crystal. aMy God . . . I . . . I
.
. .”
We should get out of here, Amy thought uneasily. We should go before
this woman tells us some , ,_ thing we don’t want to hear. We should
get up and leave and run for our lives.
Madame Zena looked up from the crystal ball. All the blood had drained
from her face.
“What an actress!n Richie said softly.
“Bunch of mumbojumbo,” Buzz said sullenly.
Madame Zena ignored them and spoke to Liz. “I . . . I would rather
not . . .
tell your fortune . . . just yet. I need . . . time. Time to
interpret what I’ve just seen in the crystal. I’ll read your friend’s
future first, and then . . . I’ll come back to yours, if that’s all
right.” “Sure,” Liz said, enjoying what she thought was a con game of
some sort, a way to prime the customer for a joke or a request for
money to pay for a more detailed reading. “Take as long as you
want.”
Madame Zena turned to Amy. The fortuneteller’s eyes were not what they
had been a few minutes ago, now they were haunted.
Amy wanted to get up and leave the tent. She was experiencing the same
kind of psychic energy that had electrified her at Marco the
Magnificent’s show. A chill, clammy sensation swept through her, and
she saw stroboscopic images of graves and rotting corpses and grinning
skeletons, nightmare flashes as if clips of film were being projected
on a screen behind her eyes.
She tried to stand up. She couldn’t.
Her heart was hammering.
It was the drugs again. That was all. Just the drugs. The spice Liz
had added to the pot. She wished she hadn’t smoked any more of it, she
wished she’d stood up to Liz and refused.
“I’ll have to ask you some questions. . . about yourself . . .
and your family,” Madame Zena said haltingly, without any of the
theatrical pizazz that she had shown while plying Liz with her spiel.
“It is just as I told your friend here . . . I need the information in
order to focus my psychic perceptions.” She sounded as if she wanted to
jump up and run out of the tent every bit as much as Amy did.
aGo ahead,” Amy whispered. “I don’t want to know . . . but I’ve got
to.” “Hey, what’s going on here?” Richie asked, picking up on the new,
evil vibrations that now filled the tent.
Still blissfully unaware of the sudden seriousness in the
fortune-teller’s demeanor, Liz said, aSsshh, Richie! Don’t spoil the
show.” To Amy, Madame Zena said, “Your name?” “Amy Harper.” “Your age?”
“seventeen.” “Where do you live?” “Here in Royal City.” aDo you have
any sisters?” “NO.” “Brothers?” One .
“His name?” “Joey Harper.” “His age?” aTen.” I Ys your mother alive?”
aYes.” “What is her age?” “Forty-five, I think.”
Madame Zena blinked, licked her lips.
What color hair does your mother have?”
“Dark brown, almost black, like mine.” “What color are her eyes?” “Very
dark, like mine.” “What is . . .” Madame Zena cleared her throat. The
raven flapped its wings.
Finally Madame Zena spoke again. “What is your mother’s name?” “Ellen
Harper.” The name clearly jolted the fortune-teller. Fine beads of
sweat broke out along her hairline.
“Do you know your mother’s maiden name?” aGiavenetto,” Amy said.
Madame Zena’s face became even whiter, and she began to tremble