“Stronger than me.”

As they walked in silence, Lara mulled over her mother’s words. Why was she getting stronger? She knew that Audrey claimed to not practice her magic out of principle, but Lara didn’t believe it. Yet her mother was rattled by what she’d just seen.

They wandered out to the concessions area where T-shirts and mugs were sold and performers were posing for pictures. Lara noticed a fortune-teller’s booth. Madame Fonseca was nowhere to be found. Instead a young boy stood in front of the only empty booth in the circus alley. “Oh, look at him standing over there. I feel bad for him.”

“Then go get your fortune told,” said Audrey, fumbling with her purse. “We’ve got time until the crowd thins… getting out of here will be a nightmare. If anyone needs her fortune told, it’s you.”

Lara made a face and approached the boy, who couldn’t have been older than eighteen.

“You don’t look like a Madame Fonseca.” Lara pointed to the sign, which depicted an old woman looming over a crystal ball, her hair in a turban—so cliché it was comical.

“She died two days ago.” A hint of a deep Southern accent in the boy’s voice—Alabama or Mississippi, Lara couldn’t quite place it.

“Oh.” Lara hadn’t realized Madame Fonseca had been that old. “So I guess you’re Mr. Fonseca?”

“Hell no.” The boy bowed. “Shane Speer at your service, ma’am.” He was dressed in a blue robe with green piping that looked too big for him, like a choir robe.

“I like your robe,” said Lara, lying.

“I have a green one, too.” Shane’s expression was deadpan.

“I bet you do.”

She followed him behind the curtain into a small area lined with dark-blue velvet. It felt like they were in a closet, and the room smelled like SweeTarts. Shane sat down opposite her and turned on a table lamp. “Cards or hands?”

“Dunno. Which is better?”

“For me?” The boy considered this. “Hands.”

Lara flipped over her hands. He touched her palms and frowned.

“So how’d you get into this line of work?” She thought she’d start with small talk.

The boy kept studying her palms. From somewhere under the curtain came a small brown monkey dressed in a little green tuxedo. “Hello, Mr. Tisdale.” The boy leaned in. “I swear he likes to eavesdrop on my all sessions.” The boy picked up the monkey, lovingly placing him on his knee. “I guess you could say I have a gift.