Azar

When the flap of Nour's tent crinkles open, Azar groans in annoyance and sinks into her chair behind the tapestry of hanging beads and silken scarves. An array of colour dances before her, as the cold air causes the wooden balls to click and clack. She pulls a face at the sound of an incoming customer, and Nour glares at her from beneath the black niqab covering her features.

"Just sit here and be quiet," the fortune teller orders. "And don't giggle. I know you don't believe in what I do–" Azar parts her lips to object, but is silenced with a raise of Nour's palm. "And yes, no matter how much you respect it, I know you don't. But there are some who do, and isn't that the point of a circus? To bewitch, to bely? To enchant with tricks of subtle manipulation?" At Azar's obvious disinterest, she sighs. "Just stay quiet."

The fortune teller exits the secluded back section as quickly as the wind had slipped in. Walking into the front of her shop, Nour's heels sound across the wooden floorboards. There is a quiet muttering of words, but Azar doesn't make out any of it. Not until the fortune teller leads her customer to a seat close by.

"Would you like some tea?" Nour's question comes within her hearing, drifting in with the scent of honeysuckle perfume and mixed spices. There is a small pause, and Azar guesses the customer had nodded. "Mint?"

"Yes, thank you." The customer's velvety voice is strangely familiar, though she can't put her finger on why.

She stands up slowly, sure not to lean too much of her weight on the floorboards, and tip toes closer to the kaleidoscope of hanging scarves and delicate beads. Squinting, she makes a small parting and peers through.

Sitting opposite Nour, on the table covered in vibrant quilts, is a woman in a flowing red-muslin skirt. Her sunset curls are wrapped into a chignon at the side of her head and a black bonnet sits perched atop her head. The back of Nour's veil is placing the woman's features out of view, but the combination of fiery ginger hair and elaborate maroon gown creates knots of dread in Azar's stomach.

By hell, it can't be...

But, oh it is. Nour moves to grab the teacup with crushed fenugreek seeds and fresh mint. The very moment she shifts, the woman's identity is revealed and Samara can't hold back her gasp.

Mariam.

Azar narrows her eyes even further, gritting her teeth. She has to use every ounce of her strength to resist storming in and demanding the woman explain what it is she's doing back here. Every last shred of it.

Unfortunately, Nour is oblivious to her tension. Having joined the show only five months prior, several years after Mariam's last visit, the fortune teller hasn't had the pleasure of meeting the infamous baroness. The traitorous murderess seems more befitting, in fact. La'nata! Damm the urge to confront the woman.

"So, what does it say?" Mariam asks, as Nour brings the finished cup of bitter tea to her eyes.

Azar raises higher on her toes, trying to spot the dregs of the tea at the bottom of the brass cup. Unlike her Arab friend, who they'd found reading the coffee cups of the French and Turks at a bazaar in Cairo, Azar has never really taken to the art of fortune telling. She finds it all a pile of garbage, yet even so, her naturally raging curiosity can't be tamed. Not now, anyway.

Nour takes a little too long to answer, and the oppressive heat of the silken tapestry becomes too overbearing. Expelled breath and body heat cause rivulets of sweat to collect at the nape of Azar's neck. The musky scent of burnt cedar and incense is lovely, but does nothing to cool her down either. She can't imagine ever wearing that abaya Nour adores so much; she'd die of a heatstroke, no doubt.

For a moment, she considers ignoring Nour's previous lecture on client privacy, preferring to risk pacing in through the flap and out of the tent. However, saving her from making a grave mistake, only a few seconds of undulating heat pass before Nour's loud gasp brings her to attention.

"I'm afraid you've been hit with the evil eye, ma'am," the fortune teller says, shaking her head. "This is awful, so terribly awful."

Mariam thins her lips to a tight, crimson line. "The evil eye?"

Nour nods, and though she's out of sight, Azar has no doubt the fortune teller is currently feigning a look of pity. "Someone is envious of you."

Despite the obvious disbelief and disinterest washing over her features, Mariam doesn't roll her eyes. "I am the baroness of Northampton and one of the first female scholars in high society," she says with a chuckle. "I have no doubt that people are envious of me."

Nour readjusts her scarf, her feet tapping on the floor, fingers gaining at her lap. She's nervous. The poor girl has never had to deal with the likes of Mariam. The baroness has witnessed things far beyond the normal; she can see past Nour's act without much of an effort.

Though Mariam has proven a challenge for Nour, the fortune teller straightens her spine, raises her chin, and looks across the room. "I think you might enjoy a different kind of fortune-telling," she says, making her way to the collection of trinkets laid out atop a freestanding shelf. "The teacups never lie, but they are vague."

Mariam raises a curious eyebrow. "What do you recommend?"

Nour doesn't reply. Instead, she picks a deck of cards decorated in swirls of gold, silver, and terracotta from a locked cabinet. She then goes onto wraps a piece of black cloth around one of her hands, and sits back down again.

Amused, Mariam's lips tug into a smile and her azure eyes sparkle. "Tarot Reading?"

Nour replies with a shake of her head. "I am no Romani. This is more than that." With a swift, practiced hand, she spreads the playing cards in an arch across the table. "Pick one or don't waste my time any longer," she says, the confidence in her voice taking Azar by surprise. She's never seen the little fortune teller speak so bluntly to a customer before. Then again, she's never seen her be so frazzled by one either. She grins proudly. It seems their little dove has finally grown a backbone.

Mariam does as she's told. Eyes narrowed at Nour, her long, bony fingers hover over the cards for a few moments before she picks one with a tap on the cardboard surface of its glimmering back.

Nour swipes the card with the black cloth and holds it up for Mariam to see. She chants something in Arabic that Azar can't decipher. Raised on her native Farsi, she only knows a few words in the language, but the lilt of it was familiar. Her late mother had wanted her to adopt the tongue, but she never paid it much attention, especially not after joining the circus. She wishes she had.

As the chant grows, the winds howl louder, beating against the tent with more force than is natural. The flap of the tent falls open and the breeze carries inside, twirling and dancing across the room. It becomes akin to a small tornado and centres itself on the ceiling.

Books and trinkets fly off the shelves and the open cabinets. Cutting knives and dining utensils embed themselves on the wooden pillar at the centre of the tent. And the hanging scarves become a mesmerising illusion of a colourful waterfall.

A thousands fragrances from Nour's private apothecary hang in the cold air. It fills Azar's lungs until she has to place a hand on her mouth to muffle her coughs. Dirt and smoke follow in next, filling the entire tent with particles of silver and gold.

Mariam gapes, her once narrowed eyes widened into two pools. She fixes her stare on the miniature tornado, watching the particles as they change colour; first to a dark shade of blue, then to a violet, then to a deep green, and finally to a white light that blinds Azar where it hits the candlelight.

Despite nothing being very clear, Azar sees the reflection of various images–likely Nour's fabricated fortunes–on the glisten of Mariam's eyes. Flashes of the baroness' false future sweep across the blue of her iris, before they finally fade and the tornado dies.

Blinking away the light, Azar turns to the fortune teller. Though Nour's features are innocent, the way she watches the startled baroness with a small smile on her face, forces Azar to giggle into her palm. The quiet little angel of a girl also has her secrets, it seems.

Just as quickly as it had come, the storm seeps out of the tiny slivers and cracks all over the tent, until nothing but a quiet stillness remains. And amidst the raining bits of charred earth and fluttering parchment, Nour sits, her hands folded neatly on her lap.

Mariam stands. "How did you do that?" she exclaims, her words coming out in more of a horrified breath than anything else. "That is not how it works."

Nour shrugs. "You wanted your fortune told," she says, uncovering the card from the black cloth again. "It was told." She flips the card so that its shiny surface catches the light. "The reaper. You reap what you sow."

Mariam shakes her head, a hysterical laugh escaping her shuddering lips. "Perhaps so," she says, readjusting her bonnet. She leaves behind the appropriate amount of silver shillings on the table before making to exit. She steals one last look over her shoulder. "Tell Azar that it's rude to spy on someone else's business." And she leaves.