Candles flicker in glass holders on every available surface, and the walls are painted a rich, bold red. There are only a few patrons scattered about the intimate space and plenty of empty tables. They sit at a small table near the window. Marco waves at the woman behind the bar, who then brings them two glasses of Bordeaux, leaving the bottle on the table next to a small vase holding a yellow rose.
As the rain patters gently against the windows, they converse politely about insubstantial things. Marco volunteers very little information about himself, and Isobel responds in kind.
When he asks if she is hungry she gives a polite non-answer that betrays that she is famished. He catches the attention of the woman behind the bar again, who returns a few minutes later with a platter of cheese and fruit and slices of baguette.
“However did you find a place like this?” Isobel asks.
“Trial and error,” he says. “And a great many glasses of horrible wine.”
Isobel laughs.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “Though at least it worked out well in the end. This place is lovely. It’s like an oasis.”
“An oasis with very good wine,” Marco agrees, tipping his glass toward her.
“It reminds me of France,” Isobel says.
“Are you from France?” he asks.
“No,” Isobel says. “But I lived there for a while.”
“As did I,” Marco says. “Though that was some time ago. And you are correct, this place is very French, I think that’s part of the charm. So many places here don’t bother to be charming.”
“You’re charming,” Isobel says, and immediately blushes, looking like she would pull the words back into her mouth if she could.
“Thank you,” Marco replies, unsure what else to say.
“I’m sorry,” Isobel says, clearly flustered. “I didn’t mean to … ” She begins to trail off, but perhaps emboldened by a glass and a half of wine, she continues. “There are charms in your book,” she says. She looks to him for a reaction but he says nothing and she looks away. “Charms,” she continues to fill the silence. “Talismans, symbols … I don’t know what all of them mean but they are charms, are they not?”
She takes a nervous sip of her wine before daring to look back at him.
Marco chooses his words carefully, wary about the direction the conversation is taking.
“And what does a young lady who once lived in France know of charms and talismans?” he asks.
“Only things I’ve read in books,” she says. “I don’t remember what all of them mean. I only know the astrological symbols and some of the alchemical ones, and I don’t know them particularly well, either.” She pauses, as though she cannot decide whether or not she wants to elaborate, but then she adds, “La Roue de Fortune, the Wheel of Fortune. The card in your book. I know that card. I have a deck, myself.”
While earlier Marco had determined her to be little more than mildly intriguing and fairly pretty, this revelation is something more. He leans into the table, regarding her with considerably increased interest than he had moments before.
“Do you mean you read the tarot, Miss Martin?” he asks.
Isobel nods.
“I do, at least, I try,” she says. “Only for myself, though, which I suppose is not really reading. It’s … it’s just something I picked up a few years ago.”
“Do you have your deck with you?” Marco asks. Isobel nods again. “I would very much like to see it, if you don’t mind,” he adds, when she makes no move to take it from her bag. Isobel glances around the café at the other patrons. Marco gives a dismissive wave. “Don’t worry yourself about them,” he says, “it takes a great deal more than a deck of cards to frighten this lot. But if you would rather not, I understand.”
“No, no, I don’t mind,” Isobel says, picking up her bag and carefully pulling out a deck of cards wrapped in a scrap of black silk. She removes the cards from their covering and places them atop the table.
“May I?” Marco asks as he moves to pick them up.
“By all means,” Isobel answers, surprised.
“Some readers do not like other people touching their cards,” Marco explains, recalling details from his divination lessons as he gently lifts the deck. “And I would not want to be presumptuous.” He turns over the top card, Le Bateleur. The Magician. Marco cannot help but smile at the card before replacing it in the pile.
“Do you read?” Isobel asks him.
“Oh no,” he says. “I am familiar with the cards, but they do not speak to me, not in ways enough to properly read.” He looks up from the cards at Isobel, still not certain what to make of her. “They speak to you, though, do they not?”