Page 6 of Holy Water
The locals were giving Midsommar meets Burning Man with a dash of Etsy.
I didn’t hate it.
Somewhere between a crystal emporium and an herbal apothecary-slash-smoothie bar, I saw the sandwich board sign:
MADAME STARLIGHT—PSYCHIC READINGS $40 / $50 WITH CRYSTAL ATTUNEMENT
Free biscotti with every session
“Of course there’s biscotti,” I muttered.
I should’ve kept walking.I wanted to keep walking.But the brief glint of nostalgia punched me square in the gut.My mom used to run a psychic reading table out of our living room when I was a kid.Clients came in for horoscopes and then left, minus their rent money and clutching a discount sage stick.
That was my origin story.The reason I became a journalist.The reason I made it my life’s mission to expose every fake psychic, miracle healer, and vibe-chasing charlatan from New York to New Orleans.
So, obviously, I walked inside.
Incense smoke drifted around a collection of velvet curtains, weird dolls, and what I can only describe as an aggressive number of frogs.Ceramic frogs, glass frogs, stuffed frogs—someone clearly had a Kermit kink.
“Come in, darling!”a voice trilled from behind a beaded curtain.“You’ve got a desperate aura!”
Great.
Madame Starlight emerged in a caftan printed with the entire zodiac, her hair piled high on her head in a croissant shape, and sprayed into submission.She wore glitter on her eyelids and something that might’ve been a parrot feather behind one ear.Her acrylic nails were so long they clicked like castanets.
“You look like someone who doesn’t believe in anything but needs to,” she said, looking me over.
“Ma’am, I haven’t believed in anything since 2016.”
She cackled.“Delicious!Sit down.We’ll begin with your energy.Would you like biscotti?”
“Only if it’s not metaphorical.”
She handed me a rock-hard cookie and waved her hands around my head like she was conducting a ghost symphony.Following that, there were tarot cards and a crystal pendulum.Then a brief interlude where she claimed to smell my ex’s emotional baggage.
“My spirit guides say you’re here to uncover a great truth,” she declared.“Also, your root chakra is constipated.”
I snorted.“I’ve been constipated since I got here.That’s not mystical.It’s a side effect of all the patchouli.”
Her reading lasted twenty chaotic minutes and involved references to a past life in Byzantium, an ex-boyfriend named “Trevor or maybe Kevin,” and a warning about a tall man with a beard who would “change everything.”
“Oh honey,” I said as she handed me a business card coated with purple glitter.“You don’t know how much I want that to happen.”
She gasped like I’d just told her I was the reincarnation of Dionysus.“Do you feel it?”Her glittery eyes met mine.
“I feel something,” I said, standing up.“Pretty sure it’s dehydration and a deep yearning for whiskey.”
She pressed both hands to her temples.“Yes!Alcohol!The spirits want you to open yourself with fermented grain, AND you’ll find who you’re looking for.”
I stared at her for a long moment as her entire body trembled.Then she opened her eyes and smiled.
Honestly, I couldn’t even be mad.She was a one-woman fringe festival and I kind of loved her for it.Despite not believing a word that came out of her mouth, the reading itself was highly entertaining.I gave her the money, took my biscotti, and walked out before she offered to realign my spleen.
Across the street stood a small, squat building with weathered wood siding and a rainbow flag fluttering in the window.A sign in curly script read:
THE CHALICE & CHERRY—Cocktails & Community Since 1998
Bingo.
