from the prediction sang within me as the residual physical reminder.
Beside me, Marc clapped his hands with the rest of the tour group. The applause prompted another set of kisses from the happy couple. I picked up the forgotten container, which had rolled near my feet. I handed it to them when the cheering died down.
Clara embraced me before skipping off with her beloved.
The thread of happiness bubbling inside was tempered by my rising embarrassment from the impromptu fortune-telling. I’d been so focused on the couple that I missed Marc’s reaction.
An acute piercing pain bore into my right temple. I stumbled back. Gripping the side of my head, I closed my eyes and sucked in my breath, trying to push down a rising nausea.
Marc reached out and helped steady me. “Are you all right?”
“I need to stay still for a bit,” I whispered. “Migraine.”
The pounding headache ebbed into a manageable dull throb. Marc offered me one of the bottles of water in his bag. I unscrewed the cap and took a healthy swig.
“Better?”
“I think I know how Zeus felt when Athena was in his head,” I replied with a wobbly smirk.
Marc laughed.
“I’ll be okay. Migraines have a trigger and I know I tripped mine.” I twisted the cap of the water bottle shut and handed it to him.
“My cousin gets really bad ones. His are caused by barometric pressure. There isn’t much he can do prevention-wise.” He took the bottle and tucked it back into his bag. “Is there anything I can do to help? Are you on any meds that you need to take?”
“Nothing I can do but avoid the trigger. I guess the situation is similar to your cousin’s.” I took his hand in mine. “I’m going to be okay.”
He squeezed my hand before leaning in to ask, “What happened before with the Brits? How did you do that?”
The question I’d been asking myself all my life without an answer. In the past, whenever pressed, I’d give a joke response and change the subject. Now, though, I felt a genuine friendship with Marc, which demanded honesty.
“It’s sort of like intuition dialed way up.”
“You remind me of one of my aunties, Tita MaryJo,” he said. “She knows everything. She has great detective skills.”
“That’s a polite way of saying she’s nosy. Are you saying that I am?”
Marc blushed and then coughed. “I said that wrong. I guess what I’m saying is that intuition is based on observation and empathy. You could have overheard or seen something.” He covered his eyes and shook his head. “I can’t believe I compared you to my aunt. That’s not what I was aiming for.”
His embarrassment was adorable. Marc had nosy aunts like I did. “All I heard is that you called me a great detective.”
“Thank you,” he sighed.
We entered the Hall of Mirrors. The corridor seemed to stretch to infinity. Mirrors flanked one side while tall windows faced the other, strengthening the illusion that the large corridor-like chamber was outside. Cloudy skies and the steady rain darkened the atmosphere. The forest of crystal chandeliers overhead, and those near the windows, reflected against the polished floors, creating a sensation of walking through an endless, sparkling sky. A symphony of soft thunder and rhythmic raindrops echoed from outside.
Very romantic.
Marc craned his neck and admired the murals on the ceiling. “Want to stay a little longer? The last time I was here, it was always onto the next spot.”
“Is this your favorite room in Versailles?” I asked.
“It is. You haven’t seen the rest of the palace though. I feel selfish asking you to stay.”
Our reflection glowed in one of the many large mirrors on the wall. I liked what I saw.
“Yes, this is where I want to be right now.”
Marc approached a staff member near the entrance and returned to my side. “She said it was fine to leave the tour group. We can stay here for a bit and rejoin them later if we want.”
He took off his leather jacket and laid it out on the floor. “There’re no chairs around here so we’ll have to make do.”
I sat down on his jacket, cross-legged on the floor. “If they had chairs, no one would leave the room.”
He lowered himself onto the floor next to me. “I checked the forecast. There is no rain tomorrow for our trip to Monet’s garden in Giverny.”
“Tell me, why is this your favorite place?”
He rifled through his messenger bag for his sketchbook and ink pens. “Because this room, to me, encapsulates