Page 27 of Emma & Edmund

"I suppose there is a first for everything."

"Watch yourself, Miss," he jammed a wobbly finger under her chin, "you have been gone for God knows how long, with God knows who-"

"I was momentarily resting on the advice of the doctor, Jonathan," she cut in dryly, everything within him to counter her. She hadn't been gone for very long, no longer than a half hour, and she knew it wasn't likely Jonathan had noted her absence for more than a few moments.

Glaring down at her, Jonathan's final means of wringing any obedience from Emma slipped away as quickly as his vexation.

"Ah," he threw an arm around her shoulder, weighing her down, nearly trampling through the dance floor, "I just missed you. When I came looking for you, how else was I to react when I couldn't find my precious baby sister anywhere?"

"Did you ask anyone?"

"Well, no."

"There you have it then, dearest brother. I was merely getting a breath of rest before seeing the fortune teller."

"You haven't been, yet?" Jonathan looked at her as if he had just heard she murdered someone in cold blood. "I went hours ago! The poor bat, she could barely get a grip on me. Was telling all these lies about my "inevitable future" as a pauper!" His lips turned up as incredulously as his words. "Charlatans, the lot of them."

Even while he spoke of the ills of the out-of-place woman, the sibling wove through the maze-like home.

"A trickster she may be," Emma said, "But one I would like to see, nonetheless. Do you know if Margaret consulted with the woman? I'm afraid I haven't seen her since earlier this evening."

"Now that you mention it, I haven't seen her or Danny in hours. Although, the poor lad did bet away quite a bit of money this afternoon; it wouldn't surprise me at all if he has retreated in defeat for the next week."

Emma had to keep herself from huffing, hoping Jonathan may have some idea of what had been told to others. It was entirely possible based on Jonathan's habits and their father's ongoing rants, her brother would end up on the streets one day, but she couldn't base the fortune teller's abilities on Jonathan alone. His future could be guessed by anyone with functioning eyes. The true test came if the woman could accurately guess which proposal Margaret's family would select.

Before she knew it, the pair were in front of the room housing her target. Even still, knowing she must, her hand couldn't reach for the knob, hesitating at her side.

"Jonathan," Emma whispered in a dry, faint voice, "I need some advice."

From her peripheral, she watched her brother look at her with disbelieving eyes.

"Fromme?"

"I'm afraid so."

Silence stretched between them, neither sibling knowing how to proceed, never having been in such a spot before. The closest Emma could remember was when she had fallen face-first into a mud puddle, no older than eight or nine. Through the tears of embarrassment streaking down her cheeks, she saw Jonathan shoo away the other laughing children, waving a wily fist at them.

"Well," Jonathan coughed uncomfortably, "go on then."

Gathering her thoughts, Emma took a deep breath.

"Entirely hypothetically, say you were a bit indebted to someone-"

"Say no more, I feel like I know where this is going."

"I truly don't think you do," Emma squeezed her eyes shut against the frustration. "Say you met somebody, someone who helped you when you needed it the most and who only has treated you with kindness. Yet, they are so painfully different than any other person you've ever met, in every conceivable way, so much so that society would never accept them. Would you help them if you could?"

"Well, that depends," Jonathan’s brows knitted together, "how much are they paying?"

Emma deserved accolades for not releasing the loud, endless scream that bubbled up her throat.

"I don't know why I even bother. Wait here for me, please."

"Your wish is my command, dear sister."

He didn't even have the decency to wait until Emma was in the room, his retreating footsteps sounding through the hall as soon as she grasped the doorknob. She couldn't even be surprised; her real focus belonged entirely to the room opening up before her.

The woman could not possibly look more out of place among the pale ivory cushions, cupping a pastel blue teacup with dirty nails. Her deeply lined forehead and red-tipped nose spoke of a life hard lived. Dark hair was matted into a lopsided pile on the very top of her head, secured with a long burgundy tie, the ends dripping over a pale gray shoulder.

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