You sip at the delicious nectar, warming you right through after the rain shower, droplets of which still pitter-patter on the material of the tent. There’s something about the tea, perhaps the hint of cinnamon in it, or the bitty sensation that comes from having pure leaves, instead of the common tea-bags, that gives a tang to your pallet. Not a bad flavour, mind; it’s something you want to savour, not spit out.

Finally, you place the ornate china teacup back onto the table with a light clang, and the gypsy woman leans forward, gleefully, on her elbows.

You stare down into the muck of your cup, doubtful. But the woman encourages well, and you seem to fall under that gypsy’s spell again. She takes it from your hands, and you briefly feel the cold, wrinkled skin once again. She gazes into the cup and gives a crooked-toothed smile at the coffee-coloured swirls. As you lift up your eyes to inquire, she slides the cup back to you.

It’s still a mess of smudges in the depth of the white vessel, but as you squint, you start to notice things that you would not have seen before.

“Tell me what you see…” she whispers, hot breath pouring into your ears.

The End

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