Chapter Seventeen
The thumping of the bed against the wall took on a telegraph tattoo, four long, six short, then a change-up, and the girl's voices sounding in concert. At this rate Marie-Rose herself was going to start getting restless. She thought on Sam. Strange boy. Both of them. Must have been a peculiar upbringing, one so sweet-simon pure, the other an ace-high curly wolf with women.
Her principles told her she was leaving a young fellow all alone, upset and rabbity, which was a cruel thing indeed. Her conscience told her he was right clear about his propriety, and it would be discourteous to intrude. She drew out the silk bag containing her cards from the box on her dresser, set them on the table. She set to unlacing her dress before starting her consultation.
The cards had been in a strange temper for a month, but tonight they were orderly as a marching band. The wicked boy responsible for the inspired rollicking next door was all Coins and Wands, solid, resolute earth and creative, stimulating fire. Power and resisting power. Earth of the material world, desiring and finding and holding dear, security and safety. Fire energy, forever moving and joyfully doing, rapture and wrath.
The younger down the hall was Cups and Swords, mutable, unfathomable water, and powerful and sky-soaring wind. Transcendental empyrean ideas and fathomless deep sea dreaming. Emotions and intuition. The serene pond rippling with contemplative rain or ocean depths of devotion churned and foaming from the lashing winds of thought and lightning strikes of fearsome intellect.
One generous and passionate with an expansive and fragile ego, the other a perceptive philosopher who can't leave well enough alone. One vital, violent, and joyously carnal, the other, well, Lord save him for being a romantic. All traits so unalike and should be in conflict, but those traits taken entire make the world.
In her shift, she sat at the table. And what did the cards recommend? Fuck-all, as usual. Just like that Pawnee bone-rattler would always tell her: "I take your payment to tell you answers you already know. A good living." Cockeyed old buzzard.
Lisabet hit a note that caused Marie-Rose to fear for the glassware in the saloon. Fortunate that Tully was off resting at Doc Abernathy's. Poor little lamb would be all up a knot by now. Sleep, what with the excitement of the day, her wound-up nerves, the storm, and as she'd had a nice nap, was out of the question. She contemplated the rabbit's foot on her dressing table, but decided rouge was not what was called for. She changed hair pins for a ribbon, took a new bottle of whiskey, and took herself down the passage to the room at the end of the hall occupied by Sam Winchester.
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