from my right temple. For a brief instant, the lights in the tea shop shimmered blue before dimming. A network of frost spider-webbed the picture windows, then melted into droplets clinging to the glass.
“Are you all right?” Aunt Evelyn asked.
I placed the empty teacup in the sink behind the counter. The ceramic clinked against the metal sink, betraying my shaking fingers. “I got a headache from the prediction. They started before Cynthia’s wedding. The worst was after I predicted Dad’s best friend was going to die, and yesterday with Marc.”
“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” Aunt Evelyn asked. “This is important.”
“I wasn’t sure they were connected. I am certain now.” I rubbed my temples. “I’m thankful this one isn’t as intense, but as bad as I feel, I can only imagine how much worse it is for him. I just told him his father will die.”
Aunt Evelyn moved to my side and placed her hands on my shoulders. “You warned him. You did good.”
“How is this good?” I asked. “He didn’t come in here this morning expecting a tragedy. How many people do we have to foresee die? Should I be keeping count of how many lives I’ve ruined? Is there a quota you’re aiming for?”
Aunt Evelyn tapped my shoulder. “Remember, you are not the message, you’re only the messenger. Whatever you say, they can easily dismiss. No one is forcing them to listen.”
“But,” I protested.
“You’re a stranger to them. Put it this way: How would you react if someone you didn’t know told you about your future?”
“I would ignore them.”
“No one has to listen to us, Vanessa. It’s their choice. People can ignore what they’ve heard. Believe it or not, most people are like you—they refuse to listen to anyone who tries to tell them how to live their lives.”
The grips of sorrow eased as I laughed at her pointed jab.
“Plus,” she continued, “I think you’ve missed the point of this exercise.”
“Which is?”
“You’ve given a prophecy and survived. You were worried about compelling them. This should ease your mind.” She smiled. “You’re doing fine. As for the headaches, I have a theory. I believe they’re due to the surplus of predictions stored inside you. You’ve been fighting them all your life. This was the prophecy’s way of fighting back.”
I grimaced.
“The more predictions you have, the less pressure there will be. Death was the catalyst. Trust me.”
I resumed my position behind the counter.
A perky twentysomething brunette and her two girlfriends swept in. Their energetic chatter and giggles were infectious. They carried tiny pastel-colored paper bags stamped with a nearby patisserie’s insignia. Seeing them brought wonderful memories of going out for Hawaiian shaved ice with Cynthia.
The leader chatted with my aunt while her two friends approached. One had a blunt, blond bob while the other had swept her wavy, auburn curls into a loose bun. They both pointed to the teapot and the card.
I smiled, pouring them both a cup. The comforting scent of honey and chrysanthemums escaped from the spout. The sweetness in the air reminded me of a warm cup of milk Ma used to give me on those rare cool nights.
My aunt winked at me. The two ladies exchanged a set of giggles before tasting. I’d never had two prophecies occur in the same day.
I rolled my shoulders and willed the tension in my muscles to dissolve. The young women finished at the same time, returning their cups to the tray.
A sensation swelled in my abdomen. Instead of fighting, I succumbed as two flavors emerged, one after the other: the juiciness of medium-rare kalbi ribs on a blackened grill followed by the creamy center of a steamed egg tart. I turned to the blonde with the olive skin. “You will be accepted into the prestigious fellowship in London. Your path to artistic success is clear.”
She raised a perfectly sculpted brow. The redhead narrowed her eyes at me. Staring into her green eyes, I delivered her prediction: “She will reciprocate the words you long to speak. The channel will not separate you, for the heart never lies.”
The redhead blushed and mouthed the words, “How did you know?”
I smiled. The joy from their two prophecies filled me to the brim. If all predictions were as benign or as welcome, I wouldn’t mind having this ability. Learning to trust in the unknown, with the knowledge that its results could be both catastrophic and beneficial, was difficult.
The resulting dull ache in my head was less than the prior one.