Pandora's Box

4. Visions of the Past

Safely nestled in my sanctuary, surrounded by the bulging swaths of fabric and soft lights, I release some of the stress that's worked its way into my muscles. For once, I'm relieved that business is slow. I need the time to think.

Rummaging in my purse, I pull out a dog eared, warped notebook and a pen. The notebook I use to record my visions has seen better days; residing in the bottom of my bag has left it stained and worn. I flip to a clean page and start to write down all of the details that I can recall from the vision of Molly.

Dark, pool of light - spotlight? No signs of injury. Blue hair, definitely -

I start to write 'definitely Molly' but just can't bring myself to do it. It seems too personal to record, and isn't a detail I'm likely to forget anyway, so I skip it and continue.

Eyes open, looking up. Glassy.

Tapping the pen repeatedly on the table, I struggle to recall any other details. Tap. Taptap. Taptaptap. I throw the pen down in irritation. There are no more details. It was dark, there were no other people, no objects. Pinpricks start to ripple across my skin; intuition nudging me on. So there must be something else, I just haven't thought of it consciously yet. Why was this crystal clear vision so difficult? Normally I have to piece together flashes, interpret unclear symbols, but at least there are normally several of them to string together. The clarity of this vision bothers me. Does it mean that this fate is inescapable? I can't believe that - there are too many variables that can change the future. Is it some sort of false vision? I'd never had one of those before, but I guess it could be possible.

I pick up the pen and scribble: Too clear - odd. Unavoidable? Happening soon? Not real?

A soft rap on the door interrupts my thoughts. I stow the pen and notebook back in my purse, then nudge the bag into hiding beneath the table before calling out.

"Come in, come in!"

A young man opens the door, cautiously stepping inside. His dark hair falls in careless waves to his shoulders, brushing the top of an expensive looking black coat. Droplets bead on the fabric - it must have started raining. He peers at me in the dim light, his features sharp an angular, eyebrows tilted down in perfect parallels with his high cheekbones. From the way he hesitates in the doorway, I can tell he hasn't convinced himself this is a good idea. A flash of lightning and a bellow of thunder drive him all the way inside though, and I try to ignore the ominous weather, reminding myself that it rains five days out of seven here.

I gesture to the chair in front of the table. He glances at it for a brief moment before sitting on the edge of the seat; a familiar indication that he hasn't fully committed to his visit. I allow myself only a brief second to lament not showering or changing clothes this morning as I take in his impeccably tailored appearance. Smiling as my Sense reaches out to him, I give my usual greeting.

"Welcome, what is it that you seek today?" I ask.

I don't hear what he says in reply. I'm too focused on my Sense, which hasn't picked up on anything from him. No hesitation, no fear, no anger, glee, worry, anxiety. Nothing. Lacking a strong emotional print isn't unheard of, but it is rare. More puzzling still because he's physically displaying some clear feelings of uncertainty, hesitation, and doubt. Most people carry a faint aura of their emotions with them, but this man is a void. He's also a potential paying customer, so I file this revelation under 'more weird things in the psychic realm' and turn my full attention back to him.

"I'm sorry, I thought I... felt a vision coming on," I lie. It's lame, and I know he doesn't buy it, but he politely reintroduces himself.

"Miss - Madame - Cassandra, my name is Adrian Morrow. And I believe, well, I'd like to know..." he falters and looks down at his hands.

Without my Sense, I can't be certain, but his body language makes it clear he's embarrassed. Professional experience inclines me to assume trouble with a lover.

"You seek answers," I supply, "I can provide them if you are willing to listen."

He looks up, searching my face. I take a guess, hoping to settle his nerves.

"You don't know whether to believe yet, do you? You were given my name, heard about my abilities, and hope that they are real but because you are a man of the modern age you can't bring yourself to trust me," I venture. "After all, mystics and mediums and psychics are all fake, swindlers looking for easy money by preying on the weak-minded."

Adrian nods, his shoulders tensing slightly. This must be the 'friend' Leda had wanted to refer to me; it doesn't seem like she did a great job of convincing him I'm the 'real deal' as she put it, but at least she got him in the door.

"You, Mr. Morrow, are not weak-minded," I reassure him. "And I am no swindler. I admit visions are a messy business, often mired in unclear symbolism and misinterpretation in the wrong hands. I assure you, my interpretations are sound."

"And yet you still charge for this... business, don't you?" He asks.

My face carefully neutral, I fight to keep the snarl out of my voice. "Yes, well, even mediums and mystics need to pay rent."

At this he laughs, his shoulders relaxing slightly. "Yes, I suppose they do," he says. "Very well, I do seek your help, but not perhaps for the reason you might assume."

"I assume nothing, Mr. Morrow. What is it that you need?" I want to be curious, hoping he does indeed have some new challenge for me, but if he is the 'friend' Leda had referred, I'm almost positive this will be a standard relationship problem.

Which is why I'm surprised when he says, "Adrian, please. I've been looking into my past recently. You know, family history and all that. I've come across some... branches... of the family tree that I can't quite seem to trace."

Genealogy? I'll admit, this is the first time I've ever been asked to help trace a family tree. The majority of the people that seek me out are looking for answers about the future because they already know their past - they've lived it, or been told stories about it. The past doesn't interest me nearly as much as the future, and I've never understood people's fascination with learning about where they came from. What did it matter that your ancestors were Vikings that pillaged European shores when you're in middle management at a bank in Australia? It's all a big 'so what' to me. But I also don't know anything about my family - I don't know who my parents were, or are, and I don't care to know. Life is just easier that way.

"Are you certain this is a job for me? You might be better off with one of those online sites for tracing your genealogy. It's probably cheaper, maybe faster too." I hate the idea of passing up a paying client, but I have to be honest with him. After all, I am not a swindler.

Adrian looks surprised. "I could use an online site, yes, if I knew anything about the particular relative I was trying to trace. But I don't. I don't have a name to search for - I'm not even certain it's my relative I'm looking for. Which is why I thought, maybe, you could..."

He waves his hand in a vague 'hokery pokery' motion and I nod. Maybe this will be more interesting than I thought.

"I can try," I say, "Before we go any further though, we need to talk about my fee."

"Money is no object, as long as you deliver," Adrian says, cutting me off.

From inside his jacket, he pulls out a thin stack of crisp $20 bills and a small envelope, setting both on the table. I blink at the money; it's enough to pay my rent for both my apartment and this place for months. And it's still bound with the little paper strip from the bank. I wonder at the man sitting before me; without my Sense, I have no handle on who he is, or what his motivations are. Who carries around that kind of cash? More importantly, how badly does he want to trace this family tree, and why is it so important? Easy, Cass. You're just off because you can't Sense him. And you haven't seen that much money in your entire life.

I rip my gaze away from the cash and turn it on the envelope. It's only slightly larger than one of my tarot cards, and not much thicker. Glancing at Adrian, I ask silent permission to open it. He nods, and I lift the flap, tipping the contents onto the table.

Two items fall out. A black and white photograph of me and a tarot card that could only have come from my deck.