Free Disharmony by Leah Giarratano

series of concentric circles. A circular maze.
    The king watched her, seemed to breathe her in.
    ‘The Waiting Game,’ she said. ‘You have a decision to make.’
    ‘That is correct,’ he said.
    Samantha chewed her thumbnail. She worried about what to say next. Lala would tell her that these circles meant that there were numerous possibilities open for her client to take, but the card whispered the truth.
    ‘There are two options,’ she said. ‘You may select only one.’
    The king made a guttural sound deep in his throat. ‘Go on,’ he said.
    ‘You have been setting your plan in motion for a long time,’ she said. ‘And the journey has been painful and dangerous. You realise that you are very close now, and you are waiting, waiting for the results to come to fruition.’
    ‘Yes, yes,’ he said.
    Samantha tuned out Lala’s worry. Nothing she had spoken had been taught by her teacher. Her words came from the cards themselves. She wanted to hurry now, learn what else they had to say.
    She turned another card, placed it to the left of the first.
    ‘The past,’ she said. ‘This card tells where you’ve come from.’
    The caravan was motionless as its occupants stared at the card. A study in blue: a beautiful woman draped in adeep-indigo dress stood, head bowed, in an inky ravine. The only other colour in the card glowed at the woman’s chest: a blood-red fabric heart formed the bodice of her dress, stitched up through the middle by the fasteners for the garment – a heart endlessly destined to be torn apart and constantly re-stitched.
    An open wound.
    ‘Heartache and loss,’ she said. ‘Your history.’
    The king’s fishy lips twisted into a sour, venomous smile. ‘Touché,’ he said.
    What did that mean, she wondered. Does he think this is some kind of mental duel?
    The card called her back.
    ‘You have suffered greatly in your past,’ she said. ‘And although you live now in a completely different world, this sorrow and disappointment still greets you every new day when you open your eyes. The love that you gave her is still inside you, available to heal you, to be given to another –’
    This time the king made a hissing sound.
    Samantha continued. ‘But you have kept the pain inside, fed and watered it daily. You’ve encouraged the toxins, nurtured them, sought them out and loved them. This agony is now a part of you. It is your closest friend and your most powerful, poisonous weapon.’
    Suddenly, Lala heaved herself from her chair.
    ‘My King,’ Lala said, tottering over to stand between Samantha and her client, ‘I apologise. I tried to tell you that she is a mere baby. Sixty years I have been studying the tarot. I beg of you, please ignore this child and allow me to complete your reading. Or better yet, your Grace, let us leave this sweltering hotbox and find solace in some cold wine and fruit.’
    ‘Sit. Down,’ he said.
    ‘But, your Grace …’
    ‘You will sit down or I will make you,’ said the gypsy king.
    The heat and the sounds of the caravan jerked Sam back into focus. She pushed her chair away, jumping to her feet. She felt violently ill with the fear emanating from Lala, but her anger overpowered it.
    ‘Don’t you dare speak to her like that!’ she yelled at the king.
    A sizzle of filthy energy fizzed about the room. Samantha recognised it at once. Hate. It slicked her nostrils and tongue and she heaved and reached around for something to hang on to. The king laughed, a fractured, frightening sound, which opened in Samantha’s mind a sliver of a vision. Then, as suddenly as it had come, it was gone, and with it the foul energy. She could not understand what she had just glimpsed, but she sensed it slithering away – it felt like decay, dark magic, madness.
    The king now smiled at her, a chalky offering of warmth.
    ‘Wait a moment, please, please,’ he said. He spread his fat fleshy hands before him and smiled meekly up at Samantha. ‘I’m sorry. I apologise for