blossoms lingered about her. A quaint and eccentric lady with kind blue eyes, and a smile that could melt an iceberg.
“How did you…?” Ambrosia’s pulse began to race for the first time in weeks.
“Sit and have some tea, and we can have a nice chat, little one.” Ambrosia nodded, easing her way into the squeaky, wooden folding chair.
“My name is Madame Zovka.” She poured the tea from an old teapot.
“Hello, I’m Ambrosia.”
“Your parents were romantics, weren’t they dear, with a powerful draw to Greek and Roman times?”
“Yes.” The question evoked a flash of warm, childhood memories of her beloved parents, reading her fascinating stories of the Greek gods. “I suppose that explains my unusual name.”
“You still miss them so.” Madame Zovka put the teapot down and patted her hand. “You were twelve when they passed?”
Ambrosia’s stomach flipped. “Yes, in a car accident. Can you speak with them?” A tear started to form.
“My child, you speak to them all the time. They say you are such a sad person, but one of great strength and determination. Give me your hand, little one. Let me read your fortune.” She put the teacup beside Ambrosia’s left hand, collected her right one, and examined her palm.
“What do you see?” She was a little skeptical. Coming for a reading was probably pointless; she already knew her fate. It was undisputable.
“You have lost your faith; therefore you have lost your will, my dear.” Madame traced her finger along the telling lines.
“It would seem so.” The warmth of a tear spilled down her cheek. She didn’t have the strength to hold it back.
“You stopped taking your medicine?” Madame glanced up with alarm in her eyes.
“Yes.”
“They told you there is no hope. They gave you such a short time—six weeks?” She took in a sharp breath.
“Yes, I didn’t see a need for pills and needles if there is no hope. I don’t feel there’s any dignity or quality of life for me in that.”
“Your body has been through so much, it is understandable.” Her grip tightened and the compassion in her expression was compelling.
“Was I wrong to do so?” A hint of hope sparked for a brief moment.
Madame looked down again, analyzing the map of her life and shook her head with a furrowed brows and pressed lips.
“I am sorry, child. I do not see healing for your illness; at least, not in the conventional way.” She sat back, raised her teacup to her fuchsia stained lips, and sipped loudly.
Ambrosia’s heart sank with defeat as the words saturated her soul—then struck a chord. “Wait, what do you mean conventional?”
“Your body is fragile and getting weaker every day. Your blood, your immune system cannot fight off the cancer any longer.”
“That I knew.” The slight animation dissolved. Why did she put herself through it—another false hope?
“It involves the taste of copper.” The gypsy’s brows rose along with her voice.
“Copper? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I can’t see clearly, but there is an insatiable thirst.”
“I don’t get it.” A sigh of frustration slipped out; her shoulders dropped.
“You have questions about awaking every morning at three thirty-three, and in such an uncomfortable way.”
“Yes, why is that? Is it the leukemia? I can’t move, I’m cold, but I sweat anyway, I’m panicked and it’s always the exact same time when I wake up. Am I going crazy?”
“Not at all.” She chortled.
“What’s so funny?” Ambrosia’s annoyance was rising.
“You have been busy in your sleep, seeking your true love.”
“I have? I don’t understand.”
“Have you ever heard of astral projection?”
“Yes. It’s like an out-of-body experience, right?” Okay, where is she going with this ?
“Precisely. You have been traveling every night for months, seeking out your mate, your true love.”
“Madame, you must be mistaken. I’m not in love…not even seeing anyone. I have no
“How did you…?” Ambrosia’s pulse began to race for the first time in weeks.
“Sit and have some tea, and we can have a nice chat, little one.” Ambrosia nodded, easing her way into the squeaky, wooden folding chair.
“My name is Madame Zovka.” She poured the tea from an old teapot.
“Hello, I’m Ambrosia.”
“Your parents were romantics, weren’t they dear, with a powerful draw to Greek and Roman times?”
“Yes.” The question evoked a flash of warm, childhood memories of her beloved parents, reading her fascinating stories of the Greek gods. “I suppose that explains my unusual name.”
“You still miss them so.” Madame Zovka put the teapot down and patted her hand. “You were twelve when they passed?”
Ambrosia’s stomach flipped. “Yes, in a car accident. Can you speak with them?” A tear started to form.
“My child, you speak to them all the time. They say you are such a sad person, but one of great strength and determination. Give me your hand, little one. Let me read your fortune.” She put the teacup beside Ambrosia’s left hand, collected her right one, and examined her palm.
“What do you see?” She was a little skeptical. Coming for a reading was probably pointless; she already knew her fate. It was undisputable.
“You have lost your faith; therefore you have lost your will, my dear.” Madame traced her finger along the telling lines.
“It would seem so.” The warmth of a tear spilled down her cheek. She didn’t have the strength to hold it back.
“You stopped taking your medicine?” Madame glanced up with alarm in her eyes.
“Yes.”
“They told you there is no hope. They gave you such a short time—six weeks?” She took in a sharp breath.
“Yes, I didn’t see a need for pills and needles if there is no hope. I don’t feel there’s any dignity or quality of life for me in that.”
“Your body has been through so much, it is understandable.” Her grip tightened and the compassion in her expression was compelling.
“Was I wrong to do so?” A hint of hope sparked for a brief moment.
Madame looked down again, analyzing the map of her life and shook her head with a furrowed brows and pressed lips.
“I am sorry, child. I do not see healing for your illness; at least, not in the conventional way.” She sat back, raised her teacup to her fuchsia stained lips, and sipped loudly.
Ambrosia’s heart sank with defeat as the words saturated her soul—then struck a chord. “Wait, what do you mean conventional?”
“Your body is fragile and getting weaker every day. Your blood, your immune system cannot fight off the cancer any longer.”
“That I knew.” The slight animation dissolved. Why did she put herself through it—another false hope?
“It involves the taste of copper.” The gypsy’s brows rose along with her voice.
“Copper? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I can’t see clearly, but there is an insatiable thirst.”
“I don’t get it.” A sigh of frustration slipped out; her shoulders dropped.
“You have questions about awaking every morning at three thirty-three, and in such an uncomfortable way.”
“Yes, why is that? Is it the leukemia? I can’t move, I’m cold, but I sweat anyway, I’m panicked and it’s always the exact same time when I wake up. Am I going crazy?”
“Not at all.” She chortled.
“What’s so funny?” Ambrosia’s annoyance was rising.
“You have been busy in your sleep, seeking your true love.”
“I have? I don’t understand.”
“Have you ever heard of astral projection?”
“Yes. It’s like an out-of-body experience, right?” Okay, where is she going with this ?
“Precisely. You have been traveling every night for months, seeking out your mate, your true love.”
“Madame, you must be mistaken. I’m not in love…not even seeing anyone. I have no