“This,” she traces a dirty nail over the longest line in the centre of your palm, which sticks up oddly, “is the marking for riches. You will have a great quantity of your wealth, despite it feeling the opposite. Hopefully no sacrifices will be made, especially if you play your cards right. Cards… Yes, let’s see. That says that the Horoscopes will be turning soon. Saturn’s primal moon asks for you to see the signs and use your initiative when it comes to reading them.”
You nod, transfixed by words that mean nothing in your ears.
“And this star here,” (you look more closely and, indeed, can see a fair star of creases in your hand), “Means that you will be famous. But it doesn’t say what for. That, young one, is up to you.
“Take my words now to heart or not, but I ask you not to be too hasty with your life. There is much here where you can go wrong…”
Suddenly she brightens up, gripping your hand even tighter. Before you can pull away or ignore the pain that is growing, she continues:
“Now, here. This is a lovely line.”
You gaze down at the perfectly ordinary small smudge that separates your fingers from the centre of your square palm.
“This line represents the mind. And your mind is full of golden wisdom. You must listen to it, combined it with the right urge to do what is necessary. You will need this little line when the great time comes, that I have foreseen definitely. The rest is a blur of maybe. And don’t forget, people around you are as wise as you too. Trust them.”
Then she abruptly lets go of your hand with a violent flick of her wrist. You are propelled out of your chair, and it feels as though an electric shock has split through your body.
“Right… Okay, thanks…” you mutter, slightly doubtful, but mostly freaked out. Why should you have everything good when you’ve never had it that way before?
You creep backwards towards the exit, not even asking if you can go. The rooms seem to last for ages, and finally you turn and break into a run. You’re not scared, you assure yourself of that, but you don’t want to hear any more.
The door is there now, so close.
The old gypsy woman calls something as you are just about to stick your head back out into the cold night air. Your hand hovers over the silken flap, but you turn back anyway.
“What did you say?”
The gypsy comes out into the entrance, her eyes no longer dull but gleaming with something more than just mischievousness.
“Beware the price of greed, and the timbers over twelve bells.”