Hour after hour, Alba-as-Oracle fielded questions from visitors. All morning, she said what she saw on people’s faces. Or eyes. Or skin. Or clothes. She took in the downcast glance. The impeded step. The trembling hand. All morning, she ignored the sibilant hiss of the vapors, except when they agreed. Yes, this will bring you money, or, No, the journey is too far. Sometimes the oracle sighed or shook her head or afterward scolded her, but she would never interrupt her apprentice in the moment of prophecy.

It was late in the day, the chamber empty of visitors, when the oracle suddenly stiffened. The waters were whispering, though Alba could not make out what they were saying.

“The retinue is coming,” the oracle said, her voice unusually sharp. “Move, child. This prophecy is not for you.”

Alba, relieved to get away from the mist, retreated to the bench in the corner.

For a long while, there was only silence and darkness, and the oracle breathing in deeply the airs of the chamber. Then a whole clamor of voices and the jangle of coins, perhaps a whole bag, changing hands, then footsteps, too many, descending into the dark of the cave.

Retinue, thought Alba.

At the front, a man wearing a breastplate carried a lamp and a spear. Behind him walked a man whose eyes and forehead, vast and smooth and hairless, seemed to bulge with eagerness. Behind him, another breastplated man, and behind him, a woman whose cheeks and eyes had been hollowed with disappointment. Still more people waited beyond, but Alba could see none of these.

It was the bulging-forehead man who spoke first. “Oracle, we seek your advice.”

“What question may the oracle—” began the oracle, but the protruding forehead wrinkled and interrupted.

“Oracle, we understand you have an apprentice.”

“Yes.” Surprise crept into the oracle’s voice.

“Then you will permit us to determine who will provide the most accurate prophecy. Nothing is more important than the prophecy we seek.”

Alba looked from the oracle to the man with the bulging eyes. He licked his lips, and his lip twitched a little in response to the licking. It reminded Alba of a worm.

“That is not…”

“The priest has given us permission. You are to answer our question. Come here, girl.” He beckoned to Alba. “We will put the same question to both of you.”

The oracle nodded. What else could they do?

The man, forehead round with anticipation, leaned. “What is our king to have for dinner?”

Alba nearly laughed, but caught herself, so only something like a sneeze emerged. What is it with these men and the food questions?

Turning to Alba, the bulbous forehead wrinkled, but the oracle was preparing to speak.

“The king is to have…,” the old woman began.

Alba could feel the vapors rising. They were sliding up her back, along her neck, but they were whispering to the old woman and not to her.

“The king is to enjoy,” the oracle continued, as she was wont, in broad tones and broad words, “delicacies fit for a monarch. Luxurious comestibles. Epicurean delights. Airy cream from golden cows. Fragrant honey from golden hives. Sumptuous plums from golden boughs.”