Nick & Wren: Fortunes
She'd settled back into carnival life easily.
Without the late hours of men buying full evenings, Wren was well-rested as she waited in her tent for buyers to peer in curiously. The music store, her new duties there, weren't taxing, and she liked having something to do during the days. And while her apartment above the shop wasn't the familiarity of carnival outcasts, she'd made it comfortable and plush, and it was an unknowing echo of a life she didn't recall.
Her tent was pretty, and it was new for her and unpacked nightly by the clowns or crew. She'd gone from spending nights in her trailer, arms wrapped around bodies in prayer that had nothing to do with being spiritually uplifted. It had been bodies tangled and worship with limbs warm, and now she only danced. She danced, and she sang, and she came here after, to her tent, where she waited and waited. Tonight was no different, and she reclined on a chaise that was plush and comfortable. Still dressed for the performance, she looked like a thing belonging to the fairy tale world she'd created with lanterns and draped fabric. She liked this world, and it wasn't reality.
It was fate, she thought, the people who came to her and asked for truths. And she could tell, in her strange way, the ones who wanted life unadulterated and spread before them. Most people, they wanted a pretty story. They wanted to carry away a novel, and one where they were the protagonist, and those people were easy. It was easier than telling them what she really saw in their futures, and there was darkness everywhere, and Wren always saw that clearest. For her, clouds didn't part and show the sunshine moments. It was a curse, perhaps, and she saw harbingers. She knew everyone had moments of happiness, of rain gone and only the sun beaming bright, but those weren't the moments she saw. But she could read a body, and that was a thing learned between sheets, and she could spin a tale that was believable. Because people wanted to believe, oui? People yearned for their happy ending.
Edith sang quietly, and Wren moved when she felt approach. Not heard, because she didn't hear him coming, not until he was close enough for the crunch of twigs and grass to reach her as they were flattened by his wheels. Non, she heard him in the way she heard all things, and she was seated at the table by the time he entered the tent.
Inside, it smelled of roses and cream, vanilla and a hint of cinnamon, and she didn't have teacups or cards in front of here. There was no crystal ball to be gazed into. There was only the tablecloth, a thing made of lace and memories forgotten. She was pale, angelic with lush curves and a sinner's smile, her wings torn off, assuming she'd had them to begin with. "Oui, but they don't all say it with their words," she responded, and she motioned to the space beside the chair and across the table from her. She had no accent, despite her perfect French, and her voice was husky and too low for the pallor of her features.