put it that way, it makes me sound like I have air between my ears.”
“No.” She began striding toward the weaver’s again. “’Twas no’ meant that way. You’re goin’ through a period of adjustment. Can no’ imagine how I would take the idea of learnin’ to live among humans.” She shuddered for effect. “All things considered, you’re doin’ just grand.”
When we arrived at the weaver’s, my eyes again landed lovingly, covetously, on the beautiful shawl before I followed Maggie in.
The shop was warm and had the tantalizing smell of new fibers. Cotton. Hemp. Wool. Silk. Suede. Several pieces were in process in looms that were both horizontal and vertical. It was a clothes horse’s paradise.
Hearing me inhale deeply, enjoying the scents, Maggie said, “Good, isn’t it? I like it, too.” She turned toward the rear and raised her voice. “Esme! The new judge’s come for tea.”
Esmerelda appeared in seconds, silent but smiling, wearing a long-sleeved, purple Henley, and a Batik wraparound skirt. Her dark hair was arranged in long dreads woven with beads. Her eyes were a pale ice-blue and as arresting as those never-in-nature contacts that extraverts wear. Her skin color was a couple of shades too rich to be British. It was smooth, shiny, and made the pallor of her eyes stand out all the more.
“This is Rita,” Maggie said.
Esmerelda’s smile never wavered as she said, “Rita,” rolling the r, and hitting the t hard, and elongating the a into ahhhhh. It sounded too much like I was what’s for dinner.
“Hello,” I said.
She studied me, cocking her head the way humans do, and yet, when she did it, it didn’t look entirely human. I was on the verge of fidgeting when Maggie said, “Do you have the kettle on?”
Without looking away from me, Esme’s smile grew even wider. “I have your favorite, Maggie. I was expecting you.”
As if it couldn’t get creepier. Maggie seemed unfazed.
“Come on then,” Maggie said to me and set off toward the back of the store like she was the host.
I followed, not feeling entirely comfortable with Esmerelda at my back.
Maggie plopped down in one of three chairs at a colorful round table that sat in the rear of the shop. It wasn’t that strange considering that the space was more workshop than traditional retail store. I felt like a kid going on a field trip and wanted to ask about the looms and the spindles.
“Do you do all this work yourself?”
Esmerelda offered a grin that revealed extraordinarily white teeth. “Sometimes. Sometimes I have helpers.”
I suppressed a shudder and tried not to form images of helpers from fairy tales.
Esmerelda disappeared from view, presumably to fetch tea.
I whispered to Maggie. “I don’t think she likes me.”
Maggie looked taken aback “What an odd thing to say. O’ course she likes you. Why would ye think no’?”
“She doesn’t, um, feel friendly.”
“Ohhhhh, well. You must pay no mind to odd ways.”
With a small sigh of resignation, I said, “So you’re going to ask her to tell my fortune?”
“Aye. Esme can put your doubts to rest once and for all.”
“How can you be so sure of that?” She opened her mouth, but I cut her off. “Don’t say the Powers That Be are never wrong.” She closed her mouth.
Esmerelda returned with a tray laden with pretty cups and saucers, silver demitasse spoons, raw sugar cubes, and sections of fresh lemon. She set the tray down on a side table and turned to leave just as we heard the distinctive sound of a well-tuned kettle whistle.
Minutes later she returned with three small silver pitchers with lids, each steeping tea in bags.
“Chamomile with wormswort,” she said as she set Maggie’s pitcher in front of her. When she set my little pitcher down with the announcement, “Earl Grey with extra lavender,” I was sold on her psychic gifts. The last pitcher went in front of the empty chair. She smiled. “And orange pekoe for me. Pass the lemon please.”
I dropped three sugar cubes in my cup, poured from the steamy pitcher, almost groaned at the heavenly (and much needed soothing) aroma, then began stirring.
“You think you’re at a crossroads, Rita.” Esmerelda said before taking a sip of her tea. “But it’s an illusion. Your course is already decided.”
“My course? Decided?” I didn’t like the sound of that. “By whom?”
Esmerelda didn’t react to the wariness that had crept into my tone.
She shrugged one shoulder. “It’s fate. Some things you decide. Some things are decided for us. You were born to be in this