“Yes, preserves making is a hobby,” he replied. “Apparently, it’s common around here.”
I closed my eyes as he fed me the first flavor. The carrot and ginger jam was smooth with a hint of bitterness, which only helped balance the sweet notes. Delicious.
“You sure you don’t want to quit the day job to make artisanal jams instead?” I asked.
He laughed. “I have no plans to do that. This is something fun for myself.”
“I still think you should consider it as a backup. I can’t wait to try the next two.”
* * *
* * *
We took the RER to Versailles-Château Rive Gauche. A steady rain greeted our arrival at Versailles. We ducked inside before the downpour.
“The palace is incredible and the gardens, massive. If the weather were better, we could have walked along the Grand Canal to Grand Trianon and Petit Trianon. You can’t really get the scale of how big the estate is unless you walk it.” He ran his fingers through his hair to shake off any stray rain droplets.
The grandiosity and scale of the palace was matched only by the gilt. It inundated the senses until it became common—the irony of reducing its worth to the banal and the ensuing ennui that inevitably followed. The opulence didn’t intimidate; rather, it radiated the reason the population revolted. This was beauty at a price—viewed with equal parts caution and awe.
“This place has a ton of mythological references in the murals and names,” Marc leaned in and whispered over my shoulder. “You’ll be very busy writing everything down.”
I pulled out my pen and sketchbook as we trailed behind the tour guide. The ceilings gave my craned neck a workout—murals and panels, without an unpainted inch in sight.
“Why are you here in Paris?” he asked. “What made you pick this city?”
“My aunt kind of sprang the vacation on me.”
“Like a present?”
How could I explain the weird truth? I had to take lessons to control the prophecies I see, and my clairvoyant aunt abducted me to Paris because only she can teach me. A little too much information for a second day together. Better to be vague before I lost my guide.
“Yes, a last-minute one. I’m sure she’ll appreciate my company when her tea shop opens, but it’s also an opportunity to see the art in person. The textbooks can’t do it justice.”
“When I went to see The Night Watch at the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam, I stood there, staring at it for what seemed like hours. It’s huge and you feel as though you’re in the square with the men. No photo in any book could re-create that experience.” Marc tightened the strap of his messenger bag.
“I’m jealous. Most of the traveling I’ve done has been to all-inclusive resorts in the Caribbean with my cousins, or eating and shopping trips with my parents in Asia. I need to travel more with an art-food itinerary in mind.”
Our group moved into the War Salon. Murals covered the arched ceiling. The guide explained the planned art was mythological until King Louis XIV’s decision to depict his military prowess instead. The tourist experience wouldn’t be complete without being herded as human cattle from one attraction to another.
A British couple in front of us carried a small drinking thermos. “Is that allowed in here?” I asked in a low whisper.
“If it’s alcohol, I don’t think so,” Marc whispered back. “Security inspected our bags twice. They must think it’s okay.”
The brunette struggled with the cap. I didn’t need my aunt’s clairvoyance to know this wasn’t going to end well. She handed the bottle back to her partner, who strained to open it. The lid popped off, hitting Marc in the shoulder. The thermos gaped open for me to see the dark liquid inside.
My stomach clenched. A prophecy formed like a gumball in my mouth.
Please, not now.
Twelve
The taste of chewy caramels flooded my mouth—sweet and sticky. The pressure built against my teeth until the only way to relieve it was to allow the prediction to escape.
“He will propose with his grandmother’s ring. The one you’ve coveted since last year’s meeting.”
The brunette gasped. His shaky fingers tightened the lid into place.
“You’re proposing?” she asked.
“Yes.” He blushed. “It was supposed to be a surprise, Clara.”
She screeched, threw herself into his arms, and sprinkled his face with loud kisses. He dropped their pack and kissed her full on the lips. Clara’s name was inscribed on the canister. It was her future I foretold. The thread of joy