THE PSYCHIC SESSION with Madame Lily Spoker began promptly at two-thirty in the Theatre. Regan judged Madame Spoker to be about fifty years old, with large dark eyes, a generous Roman nose, a wide mouth, and brassy red hair that straggled out from an iridescent turban. She wore a v-necked rust-colored satin blouse which was not intended to conceal her swelling bosom, and a swirly multicolored skirt that swished in unison with the unmistakable sound of panty-hosed thighs vigorously chafing each other as she made her way to the lectern.

Regan had noticed Nora seated in the rear on the right and deliberately steered Veronica to the two vacant seats near Kenneth and Dale, who were settled in the first row on the left. Dale leaned over to them and raised his eyebrows. “We figured this was too good to pass up.”

“Isn’t this thrilling?” Veronica chirped. “Ssshhh. She’s about to start.”

Madame Spoker beamed at them. “I can tell this is going to be a most interesting and productive session. My vibrations are very strong. Many people come to psychic sessions to scoff. If some of you feel this way, I assure you when you leave you will not be scoffing.

“The heart has reasons of which reason knows nothing. I submit to you that the head also has reasons of which reason knows nothing. From eons ago, before time began, your fate was written in the stars. What you were, what you would be, was already decided.” She threw out her arms and closed her eyes. “I know the questions in your minds. Why then, am I here?”

That’s what I was wondering, Regan thought.

“I will tell you why—because to all of us is given, at defined points in our lives—a crossroads. If we do this, one scenario will follow. If we do something else, a far less favorable, perhaps even tragic, result will occur. I cannot believe that every one of you did not at some time have a premonition, a feeling, a warning that you ignored. That was your subconscious trying to point you toward the good path, to warn you of the perils of the other one.”

Her voice dropped dramatically, became a near whisper.

“In most of us that secret voice is too still, too small, a weak faint cry against the tide.” She threw out her fleshy arms in a sweeping gesture that embraced the room. “Today with my help you will hear the secret warnings of your subconscious.” As she let her arms flop to her sides, which was not a very great distance, she looked around the room and waited for applause. Veronica did not disappoint her.

“Let’s get started, Madame Spoker,” Veronica cried as she clapped and squirmed in her seat.