Tai follows me down the steps, and we push inside the storefront—a bell jingles. The entry room is dark: patchy red velvet seating and finger-thick vines crawling everywhere. The smell of patchouli mixed with something heady and sweet, like cloves in hot wine. A stained, paisley curtain fringed in golden thread blocks our view into the back. A lone television on the wall plays a grainy video of spooky nature scenes on silent loop: a duck moving across a shadowy pond, wet red leaves falling from a tree, a lush forest that looks familiar.

“Hello?” Tai calls, scratching at her wig’s netting.

Wind chimes tinkle in the back. I pull Tai onto the lumpy love seat up front just as a black cat pushes through the curtain—a furry lump in its mouth—and bounds up onto its window seat in between two ferns. It drops its catch and paws at it.

“Ew,” Tai whispers, before rubbing at her bare legs. “What time is it?”

“It’s eight-oh-one,” I whisper back, just as she walks through the curtain, short and squat and dressed in black silk from head to toe: the imposing Madame Morency.

“Carmela!” She claps at the cat. “You promised your days hunting young and delicate creatures were over.”

The cat yowls, and Madame Morency notices the two of us, clutching hands on the love seat, our hearts beating too fast in the small room.

“You’re my eight o’clock, ladies?” she says in her deep rasp, head tipping to the side. “Sisters. You’re very young. What loss could you have possibly suffered?”

Tai’s purple nails dig into my skin.

“How old are you, exactly?”

“Aren’t you a psychic?” Tai says, before I even open my mouth. “We’re eighteen,” she adds, with that confidence of hers that springs up from nowhere.

Madame Morency’s lip quirks. “I will not begin any session without honesty and an open mind. It’s best you see yourselves out.”

“There’s no legal age requirement to visit a fortune-teller in New York State,” I reply, sweating hands squirrelling into my sweatshirt pocket. My lips snag on my braces. “Telling fortunes in general is a class B misdemeanor, anyway, though, and—”

“Fine,” Tai interrupts, just as Madame Morency crosses her arms at me. “We’re just kids. But we did lose someone important when we were really young. And we made this appointment because we need your help to reach her.” She holds out the envelope of money. “Won’t you help us?”

Madame Morency inhales and exhales, and as she does, something behind her eyes softens. I know it’s not just pity. Everyone softens when they look at Tai: Her daintiness, her toughness, and her beauty combine to make her special. Mireille Foix Hammick–special.

“Follow me,” Madame Morency says, taking the envelope and stuffing it into her waistband before shuffling back through the curtain.