The World Spinning Round (Beatles/Paul McCartney)

21. The Age of Aquarius

January 1969
Alice

The street fair was a kaleidoscope of colorful canvas tents with makeshift wooden booths painted in psychedelic swirls. Fairy lights leftover from Christmas were strung from lampposts, adding an air of festivity to what would otherwise be a slightly dodgy neighborhood.

The street was crowded, and I felt slightly paranoid that someone would recognize me. Ever since Paul and I had returned from America as newlyweds, the media attention had intensified. Just that week, I'd been stopped on the street by someone who wanted to know if Paul preferred Early Grey or Darjeeling.

Just when I was about to give up, I spotted the tiny booth tucked discreetly between two stalls, almost like it wasn't meant to be found. Madame Zoya's Fortunes read the hand-painted sign, the lettering so diminutive I had to squint to decipher it.

Paul had called me crackers when I'd told him I was going to see a fortune teller. He didn't care that Teagan swore by the woman or that Jenny Boyd regularly made the trek to see her. He said it was all bollocks and we created our own future -- so what was the point in gazing into a crystal ball? Then he made me promise to wear a ridiculous blonde wig I'd gotten for a costume party, saying that the papers couldn't find out I was into 'voodoo mysticism.'

I rapped gently on the door, half-hoping no one would answer. The whiff of burning herbs wafted into the damp air -- sage mingling with something more pungent and primal. Before I could turn to leave, the door swung open smoothly, almost of its own volition. I hesitated only a moment before stepping inside.

The tiny room was lit by a single lantern and a smattering of candles, their flickering flames dancing across the purple velvet-lined walls. The effect was both cozy and claustrophobic, like being enveloped in a jewel-toned sarcophagus. At eye-level was a handwritten sign that proclaimed in all lowercase your future awaits. I almost turned around and left because it seemed unbearably clichéd and a bit eerie and something best left to Jenny Boyd.

"It is a bit clichéd," a voice said from my left, making me jump slightly. "But it works."

Out of nowhere came a slight, dark-haired woman with olive skin who appeared to be in her mid-40s. I'd expected her to be wearing something eccentric and slightly mysterious, like a turban or even a headscarf. Instead, she wore faded denim flares and a paisley shirt with the top two buttons undone. An enormous evil eye pendant dangled from her neck.

"Sorry," I said with an embarrassed laugh. "I didn't realize I said that aloud."

"You didn't," she said with a matter-of-fact shrug, pointing to one of the chairs. I sat down, watching as she sat across from me. She moved like a former dancer, all elegant lines and grace.

"So," she said, leaning toward me and resting her chin on her elbows. "Tell me while you're here, Alice."

I blinked because I hadn't introduced myself, I was wearing this daft blonde wig, and it was so dim in the room that I could barely see her. There was no bloody way she'd recognized me, so how did she know my name?

Madame Zoya tilted her head knowingly, a hint of a smile playing on her ruby lips. She leaned back, chair teetering on two legs until I feared it might topple to the floor. Then the front chair legs slammed down with a thud, and she leaned in, her gaze inscrutable.

"Tell me why you're here," she repeated in a slight accent that I couldn't place.

I paused, asking myself the same question. Why was I there? If I was honest with myself, I wasn't even sure. Except for the fact that it felt like I was losing myself and everything was moving too fast... and this seemed like the only sensible option.