The High Priestess (The Tarot Club 3)

And it did.

Yet none of that history seemed to matter as her gaze hardened while she took me in as if I were a stranger. And I supposed I was. Because she didn’t know me any longer, although I was certain that little about her had changed.

Some of the elders lined up next to her, their gazes mimicking hers, and I refused to reflect anything other than the same disdain back at them. A blonde child crouched down before them, playing in the dirt with a handful of rocks, rolling them in the way that they were taught from a young age. It always started as a game, until you were taught to read the stones themselves.

A few more people seemed to join the crowd, and I knew them all - each face held a memory of my youth - of my time growing up here, but I didn’t look upon them - only Marta, because in the absence of my grandmother, she would act as the head Witch here.

“Have you come back to take your place next to your husband?”

The very fact that she spoke English to me was an insult, as if I was no longer good enough for our little French dialect of a language - the one only those in our scare region spoke.

I brushed off the insult and responded in fluid French. “Je suis ici pour pleurer.”

I am here to mourn.

Because what else was there to say? My grandmother was dead - the last living relative of mine that was tied to this village was gone, and that was the only reason I was here - to offer the woman that raised me my respect. Even if we had parted on bad terms, it didn’t take away all the good she had done for me.

And so I stood before the village, weathering their scrutiny and disdain.

“Marta.” A low, masculine voice pushed its way through the crowd, “you assume she still has a place next to her husband.”

And just like every other time he had appeared, my heart clenched a little before my old childhood friend appeared before. Before I left, I had taught Julian some English, sharing with him pieces of my time from when I was in American Summer camp. It all seemed so Magickal - so goddamn whimsical, and he had seemed to revel in my tales, looking upon me as if I were the goddess herself.

Now, his anger radiating off of him caused my hackles to rise. Did he actually think I would miss my own grandmother’s funeral? That I would stay away simply because of him?

Of course, he did because Julian would never believe that my leaving wasn’t about just him.

“Hello, Julian.” I nodded once, politely, even. That in itself should have racked up some brownie points. “You assume I have a husband.”

The words were out of my mouth before I could fully think - strategize, and suddenly all the goodwill I may have accumulated by greeting him was eliminated in a cloud of hazy rage as his gaze hardened on mine.

Oh, well. It was the truth, and I wasn't about to soften my words to make his precious ego feel better.