Page 35 of Vengefully Matched

“You’ve never tried it since?” Agatha frowned.

“It was my passion, pretending to scry. I could put on a show so good, weave a tale so strong, that I myself believed it sometimes. At times, I felt I really could see, you know.”

Hart leaned forward. “It’s likely, for your powers to have manifested this way, that there was some small kernel of magic in you to begin with, perhaps generations lost. It’s quite possible that you could actually see, sometimes.”

Connie stared, hands shaking.

“Well,” she said. “Well then.”

“Would you like to stop here?” Agatha asked, worried, suddenly, about unlicensed and untested magic, and the prospect that Hart was advising this woman to continue on—no, to do more of it.

“Better to do it with help,” said Connie, looking determined.

Hart nodded. “Do you need our help for this?”

“Just clear your mind and focus on what you need to know.”

Agatha had the strangest urge to reach for Hart’s hand, but there was no one here except Connie, and it wouldn’t make sense.

Connie sat quietly, breathing deeply, and then held her hands over the ball.

Whatever was in it swirled frantically, buzzing, rushing in the direction of the woman’s hands, and then moving furiously around the ball, forming a dense cluster so that whatever Connie saw was hidden from them.

She frowned. “Your Council faces upheaval,” she said.

Agatha knew that. Someone, possibly even the woman next to her, she reminded herself, was trying to kill her.

Though if Priscilla Hart’s death wish was to kiss Agatha while also trying to kill her, well, that was pretty fucked up. But then again, Harts were known to be strange and dramatic.

“We had a recent election. I won.” Agatha heard the pride in her voice, but she felt the way Prissy tensed next to her.

Connie shook her head slowly. “No,” she mused. “Not that. It’s a person—I can’t quite see them—they’re attempting to take something. Something powerful. Something that isn’t theirs.”

Connie’s face went sheet white.

“What is it? What is the person taking? Who is it?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered.

“Then what’s the matter?” Hart’s insistence was borderline rude, but the older woman didn’t notice, she just stared into the ball, eyes wide, jaw clenched.

“They’ve already taken it. I don’t know what, or whom, but they’ve already taken it.” Her voice sounded oddly wooden, and when Agatha looked again, Connie Witherspoon’s eyes had gone entirely smoky, filled with the same swirling mist as the crystal ball.

“THEY HAVE ALREADY TAKEN THAT WHICH ALWAYS WAS AND ALWAYS WILL BE,” she rasped, voice projecting too loud, grating against Agatha’s ears.

“THEY HAVE TAKEN THAT WHICH ISN’T THEIR OWN, AND FOR IT MANY WILL BLEED TO THE BONE.”

“Devil damn me,” whispered Hart, and Connie slumped to the side for a moment. Agatha reached for her, but her eyes were already opening. The psychic sat up and shook her head.

She did not look at all surprised by the sudden outburst of prognosticated doom.

“That was quite a lot for the day,” said Connie, face serious. “I’ll try again tomorrow, and be sure to try the thirty minutes of real readings, but I can’t promise it won’t have consequences.”

Agatha swallowed. It was terrifying, to be honest. The prophecy, if that’s what she could call it. The risk of Connie practicing real magic on real people.

They said their goodbyes, and made their way to the car, driving back in silence.

When they reached Agatha’s house, she turned to Hart.