Page 7 of Raising the Sun

“It’s too late now. The party is in thirty minutes.” The woman sighed, still very visibly frustrated, but clearly trying to reel in her outburst. She just looked as gutted as I felt. “I’ll have to take them and hope my mother doesn’t notice.”

Any flicker of enthusiasm or confidence I had felt before melted away, leaving only indifference and self-doubt. “I’ll go ahead and refund you fifty percent, since the order did not meet your expectations.”

She scoffed. “I should bloody well hope so.”

There was no point arguing. She wasn’t willing to listen, or believe me—me, the fucking florist—and I just wanted thewhole exchange done with so I could go upstairs and wallow. Well, what Ireallywanted was to tell her where to shove the roses until they actually were dead, but it would serve no other purpose than a short-lived moment of satisfaction and giving her more ammo to use against me. One day, it would be worth it to lash out and tell a customer like her where to go, but today was not that day. Too much was at stake, so I’d suck it up and handle it with grace.

And a shite tonne of Ben & Jerry’s in bed, later.

Refunding her card was a blur. I spaced out, working on autopilot even while helping her cart the pieces to her boot. No more words were exchanged, but I could already imagine the crappy review she’d probably post in a day or two—if she waited that long.

I locked the door once she’d driven away, flipping the sign to Closed before meandering into the back room to take off my apron. There was a stool under one of the workbenches that I tugged out with my foot, a landing pad for my slumping body. My head dropped onto the counter, and I sat there for Christ knew how long, just taking a minute to breathe before heading upstairs.

What the fuck was I doing? It was like freewheeling down a hill with no brakes, knowing that what awaited me was absolute carnage but being unable to stop. At this point, it could almost be labelled self-sabotage. I had the option to jump out of the car, give up, and take a fraction of the damage,but no. I chose to hold on, to see it through to the bitter end,just in case, like the stubborn fucking idiot I was.

It was surprising I still had any faith left, all things considered. Or maybe I just knew I wouldn’t be content until everything had gone up in smoke, because at least I’d be certain it was over and nothing else could be done.

Rolling my head to the side, I clocked the spell supplies within arm’s reach, taunting me. They were where I’d left them, but it felt as though they’d moved to purposely catch my eye. I picked up the fiery-orange feather, twisting it between my fingers, wondering what type of bird it came from and what significance it possibly held.

I knew nothing about spells or Tarot, except what I’d picked up from whatever Wayne yapped on about, but even then, I rarely listened. No shade to the believers, but it wasn’t my jam, which was why I hadn’t bothered popping back to ask the shopkeeper what The Sun card actually meant. Plus, I’d wanted away from there, sharpish. I could research it. Not that it would make a difference to my opinion, but part of me was slightly intrigued. Like whenever I read my daily horoscope in the paper. As with everything else in this vein, I thought it was a sham, but I’d still flick to the back page and find myself nodding along to every word if they even slightly matched my circumstances.

“You’ll experience a major complication, but there’s a solution at your fingertips.”

Hm, perhaps they’d been onto something with that one.

Fuckit.I grabbed my keys and the items before rushing up to my flat. Let it be understood that eagerness wasn’t my guide, it was more that when curiosity had its claws in me, it was better for everyone involved to sate it quickly so I could move on. Left unchecked, it’d fester and grow, stick to me like a leech, and ensure I got nothing done.

There was no space for that kind of unproductivity.

My laptop was in my room, so I threw the card, feather, and ash pouch onto my bed, before flinging myself down with the device in my lap and opening my browser to click on the search bar. It took seconds, even with my bogus Wi-Fi, to bring up page after page of results for ‘sun card tarot meaning.’ Since I was no expert, I chose the first interpretation, then skimmed through the wall of text.

At first glance, it was obvious that the card was considered positive, which was good, I supposed. The grinning sunflower on the front probably should have clued me in to that, but it was also pretty creepy, so it was best to consult the specialists on such things. The theme of the page screamed warm energy and happiness, with the bold-lettered words ‘self-confidence,’ ‘contentment,’ and ‘success’ recurring throughout.

“Success,” I muttered aloud. “That wouldn’t go amiss.”

Another scan hailed much of the same: phrases repeated over and over, complete with little doodles of sunny things just to drive the point home. I’d gotten my answer. The card was everything I lacked in life, so the shopkeeper was obviously a psychic,among other things, and hadn’t been too far off with his analysis of my needs.

Or I was just that pathetic and wore my misery so obviously that he’d taken an educated guess.

I huffed a humourless laugh, ready to close down the site, get undressed, and find a show or movie to watch as a distraction. It was a day for repeats, I thought. But as my cursor hovered over the little red X, a pop-up appeared on screen, making me hesitate.

“He will guide you through your struggles, resurrect that which you have lost, and help you on the path to success.”

There it was again—success—the word that played on a loop in my head, but who the hell was ‘he?’ Did it mean the sun? A higher power? I had no fucking clue, but it was jarring enough to have me chewing my bottom lip and peering over my laptop at the ingredients strewn across the bed.

Was I seriously still dignifying this with attention?

It was a scam, that much was obvious, and I expected the only outcome to be me needing to hoover the carpet tomorrow—or in three days, when it was due to be done—but I had nothing better going on with my evening. Maybe it was the trials of the day, the pain from losing money still a raw wound in my chest, but for some reason, exploring this felt marginally more appealing than sitting with my face in a tub of Ben & Jerry’s, and making myself cry with sad movies. Well, the ice cream was getting scranned, regardless, but if the crying could be delayed, I was all in.

The ingredients were bound for the bin, anyway. May as well make use of them once, either for curiosity’s sake or for something to talk to Wayne about when I was ripping him a new arsehole for sending me on this fool’s errand to begin with.

Setting my laptop aside, I slid off the bed with the supplies and instructions gathered in my hands. A few piles of clothes had to be kicked out of the way to make enough room for the proceedings before I knelt on the floor. The directions were simple: place the card down flat (be sure the sunflower is facing the correct way up from where you are going to stand), set the feather on top, sprinkle the ash in a circle (roughly the circumference of a truck tyre), then clearly speak the incantation, word for word.

Easy-peasy.

I followed each step, the circle not as neat as the magic man had probably envisioned, but it would have to suffice. Or not, I didn’t care. This was already getting more energy from me than it deserved, and I wasn’t even finished yet. Thankfully, all there was left to do was stand at the edge,outsidethe circle—which I did, clumsily—and read the script. It wasn’t a complex spell. A weird one, sure, but after silently mouthing each line to familiarise myself just in case any stuttering ruined the supposed effects, I took a deep, steadying breath and repeated the poetic words aloud.

Nothing happened.

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