Caught up to the proper day.  Will update with source when I find out.



Hugh’s limp had recently become worse, and he hated to say something to wreck his nieces’ and nephews’ fun, but he had to sit down.  Every bone in his body ached.  Everything felt slightly off-true.  He needed to see a chiropractor.  Something.

The fortune-teller’s tent gave him an excuse.

“You’ve never had your fortune told?” they asked, shocked.  Even the six-year-old.  She was probably just repeating what her older cousins said, for fun.  He was placed in front of the fortune teller, a woman of about thirty years of age with what was generally called “an old soul” peering out of her eyes.

She started the spread.  Hugh wasn’t an expert, but he knew the general sort of card one saw—cups, wands, swords, coins, and a run of trump cards.

Surely, the cards weren’t all supposed to be skeletons.

The fortune-teller didn’t seem to think so, either.  Her eyes widened and she held her breath while convulsively swallowing.

The last one she turned over was called The World.  And it showed a skeleton dancing across a field of stars.

“So what does it mean, doc?” Hugh joked.  “I’ve got like what, six months to live?”

She gave me a horrified look.  He looked back down at the cards.

Then at her hands.

One of the fingers was jumping, her right pinkie.  But just the middle bone.

It stretched the skin as it tried to escape.

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