The High Priestess’ Game – Chapter 2
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Chapter 2
The scent of dragon’s blood and sandalwood threaded through my fingers as I arranged the small glass jars on the shelf. Each one clinked against the next, a sound that should have brought comfort—ritual, routine, the ordinary music of my little sanctuary. But not today. Today, my hands trembled.
“The Tower,” I whispered to no one. “It comes today.”
The cards had been clear three nights in a row. Lightning striking the stone spire, figures falling through darkness, everything crumbling. I’d shuffled and reshuffled, hoping to coax a different future from the worn deck, but the Tower persisted, its destruction unavoidable.
I placed a jar of myrrh on the top shelf, missing the mark slightly so that it teetered at the edge. My mind was elsewhere—wondering what form the catastrophe would take. Financial ruin? Illness? Death? The Tower never specified; it only promised change through necessary demolition.
“You’re being ridiculous, Rahel,” I scolded myself, adjusting the jar before it could fall. “Perhaps it simply means the shelf will collapse.”
But the hollow attempt at humor died in my throat. Fifteen years of reading fortunes had taught me to respect the cards’ messages. They didn’t waste warnings on trivial matters.
My gaze drifted to the front window where morning light cast fractured rainbows through the hanging crystals. The street outside was quiet for a Thursday. Perhaps disaster would arrive as absence—no customers, no income. I’d had slow weeks before, but something in my bones told me this was different.
I lifted another box of incense—frankincense from Oman, expensive but worth every penny for its purity. The sweet, resinous scent normally cleared my mind, but today it felt cloying, almost oppressive.
The bell above the door jingled, and I startled, nearly dropping the delicate glass container in my hands. I turned, expecting Mrs. Finch for her weekly reading, or perhaps one of the university students who came for meditation supplies.
Instead, Mr. Goldstein’s stooped figure filled the doorway, his shadow stretching across the worn floorboards like an omen.
“Mr. Goldstein,” I said, forcing brightness into my voice while my stomach twisted. My landlord rarely appeared unless something was wrong. “What a surprise.”
He removed his hat—an old-fashioned courtesy he never abandoned—revealing wisps of white hair that clung to his scalp like the last leaves of autumn. “Good morning, Rahel.”
“It’s been months,” I said, setting down the incense and wiping my hands on my skirt. “Is everything all right with the building?”
His eyes didn’t quite meet mine as he glanced around the shop, taking in the shelves of crystals, the wall of herbs in glass jars, the little reading nook with its velvet-draped table where I conducted my sessions. Something in his gaze felt like goodbye.
“The pipes are holding up?” I continued, filling the silence that stretched between us. “I noticed the water pressure’s been a bit low in the apartment.”
“Yes, yes, everything is fine with the building,” he said, but there was a heaviness to his words that belied their meaning.
The Tower card flashed in my mind—lightning, falling bodies, destruction. I swallowed hard.
“Would you like some coffee?” I offered, gesturing toward the back room where my small hot plate stood. “I just made a fresh pot. Or tea, if you prefer. I have a new jasmine blend that’s quite lovely.”
My hands wouldn’t stop trembling. I clasped them together, trying to still the tremor. Mr. Goldstein had always been kind to me—keeping my rent stable when the neighborhood began changing, ignoring complaints from other tenants about the “strange smells” from my incense and herbs, even attending my grandmother’s funeral seven years ago. She had been the one to sign the original lease, back when the neighborhood was considered undesirable.
He cleared his throat, looking at the worn floorboards rather than my face. “No coffee today, thank you.”
The bell jingled softly above the door as a breeze swept through the shop, stirring the hanging dried herbs and setting the wind chimes to a discordant melody. In that moment, I knew—this man was the harbinger of my Tower moment, and whatever he had come to say would change everything.
“I’m afraid I have some… difficult news, Rahel,” Mr. Goldstein said, tugging at his collar. His fingers left damp impressions on the crisp white fabric. “You know I’ve always valued you as a tenant. Fifteen years is a long time.”
The copper taste of fear flooded my mouth. “Has something happened?”
“The neighborhood is changing.” He gestured vaguely toward the window where, across the street, a boutique selling hundred-dollar candles had replaced the old hardware store just last month. “Property values have tripled. My accountant says I’ve been… well, charitable is the word he used.”
I clutched the edge of the counter, my knuckles whitening. “Mr. Goldstein—”
“I’ve leased the storefront and seminar room to a new business.” The words tumbled out in a rush. “An artisanal pizzeria. Wood-fired. They’re willing to pay four times what you’re paying now.”
The room tilted. Jars of herbs blurred before my eyes as if underwater.
“A pizzeria?” My voice sounded distant, as if belonging to someone else. “But… my shop. This is my life.”
He wouldn’t meet my gaze, his eyes darting to the crystal ball on the counter, the tarot cards arranged in their velvet-lined box, anywhere but my face.
“I’ve given them a firm move-in date. Sixty days.” He pulled an envelope from his jacket. “It’s all here, the formal notice.”
“No.” The word emerged as a whisper, then louder: “No. Mr. Goldstein, please. I’ve been here fifteen years. My grandmother before me. We’ve never been late with rent, not once.”
“I know, I know.” His discomfort was palpable, his shoulders hunched with shame or perhaps just the burden of delivering bad news. “That’s why I’m offering you options.”
“Options?” I repeated hollowly.
“You can stay in your apartment. I won’t evict you from your living space. Not until you find somewhere else.” He shuffled his feet. “Or…”
“Or?”
“You could match their offer. For the whole space.” He finally named a figure that made me physically recoil.
“That’s impossible,” I whispered. “It’s more than four times what I pay now.”
“The market determines the price, not me.” His voice hardened, retreating behind the shield of business logic. “I’ve been too generous for too long. My children keep telling me I’m throwing away their inheritance.”
I thought of my savings account, my meager retirement fund, the small inheritance from my grandmother that I’d been saving for emergencies. All of it together wouldn’t cover six months at the new rate.
“Please,” I said, hating the desperation in my voice. “This shop isn’t just a business. It’s a sanctuary for people. A place of healing.”
Mr. Goldstein’s eyes softened momentarily. “Your work has helped many people, I know. My wife still talks about how you helped her through her grief when her mother passed.” He sighed, his resolve visibly wavering, then hardening again. “But sentiment doesn’t pay property taxes, Rahel. I’ve made my decision.”
He placed the envelope on the counter between us. The paper seemed to radiate a cold energy, like a cursed object.
“Sixty days,” he repeated. “I truly am sorry.”
As he turned to leave, I felt something break inside me—not my heart, something deeper, more fundamental. The foundation upon which I’d built my entire existence.
The bell above the door jangled as Mr. Goldstein left, its cheerful tone now a mockery. I stood frozen among the half-unpacked boxes of incense, the familiar scents of sandalwood and myrrh suddenly cloying and oppressive.
This was it. The Tower moment I’d sensed in my morning cards. Not some metaphorical upheaval or spiritual awakening, but the literal crumbling of the foundation beneath my feet.
“Sixty days,” I whispered to the empty shop. The words hung in the air, heavy as a death sentence.
I sank onto my reading stool, legs suddenly unreliable. The envelope with its official notice lay on the counter, a white rectangle radiating destruction. In tarot readings, I’d explained the Tower card to countless clients—sudden change, painful revelation, necessary destruction. How easily I’d spoken of upheaval when it was happening to someone else.
“Well,” I said to the air, “aren’t you going to say something?”
The familiar shimmer began at the edges of my vision, like heat rising from summer pavement. First came the scent of pipe tobacco, then the faint outline of his weathered hands. Grandpa materialized in the chair across from me, his spectral form more solid than usual, concern etched into the lines of his transparent face.
“Oh, little Rahel,” he said, his voice like wind through dry leaves. “I’m so sorry.”
“You knew, didn’t you?” My voice cracked. “You all knew this was coming. The cards kept showing the Tower, but I thought—” I gestured helplessly at the shop around us. “This is everything I’ve worked for. Fifteen years.”
Other spirits materialized softly around us, their ethereal forms shimmering in the dim light—there was Ma, her presence warm and comforting, and Auntie, her figure exuding a gentle, familiar aura.
“After destruction comes renewal,” Auntie said gently. “After the Tower falls, the Star rises.”
I laughed bitterly. “What star? I’ll lose my livelihood and my home in one blow. Everything I care about is here.”
“Perhaps that’s precisely the problem,” Grandpa said, leaning forward. His pipe glowed though no smoke emerged. “You’ve created something beautiful here, Rahel, but beautiful things can become cages just as easily as sanctuaries.”
“This isn’t a cage,” I protested. “This is all I’ve ever wanted.”
“And that’s exactly why you need to lose it,” he replied, his eyes—still the same warm brown they’d been in life—fixed on mine. “You’ve been satisfied with what you have, content to stay within these walls. But life isn’t meant to be static. A journey doesn’t end because you’ve found a pleasant resting place.”
“So I’m being punished for being content?” The unfairness of it stung.
“Not punished, my child. Redirected.” Grandpa’s form shimmered more intensely. “Change is necessary, even when it’s painful. Especially when it’s painful. Would you tell your clients that their Tower moments were punishments, or opportunities disguised as disasters?”
“That’s different,” I argued. “This isn’t some relationship ending or job change. This is my home. My purpose.”
“Is it?” Grandpa gestured around the shop. “Or is it merely the vessel that has contained your purpose until now? Even paradise becomes a prison if you never leave its borders.”
I stared at him, tears welling in my eyes. The truth in his words hurt more than Mr. Goldstein’s notice. I had built my world so small, so comfortable, that I’d forgotten the vastness beyond it. Forgotten that the universe requires movement, growth, evolution.
“What am I supposed to do?” I whispered, suddenly feeling very small and lost.
“For now? Grieve,” Grandpa said, his expression gentle. “Then listen. The universe rarely closes a door without opening a window—though sometimes you need to look up to see it.”
I nodded, wiping away tears with the back of my hand, leaving traces of frankincense dust on my cheeks. The Tower had fallen. And somehow, I would need to find the Star that followed.
“I can’t see anything beyond this shop,” I admitted, voice cracking. “You don’t understand. This isn’t just where I work—it’s who I am.”
Grandpa’s translucent form shifted closer, his presence cooling the air around me. The scent of pipe tobacco briefly overwhelmed the shop’s incense.
“That,” he said softly, “is precisely your problem, Rahel. You’ve confused the vessel with the water it carries.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I snapped, surprising myself with the bitterness in my voice. “Riddles won’t pay my rent.”
His eyes—those familiar eyes that had always seen through me—softened. “You will understand, in time. Sometimes we must lose our way to find our path.”
“That’s not good enough!” I cried out, knocking over a jar of myrrh in my frustration. The dark resin scattered across the counter like tiny meteorites. “I needed you—all of you—to help me, not abandon me with vague promises!”
“We never abandon you,” Grandpa said, his form already beginning to fade. “But some journeys must be walked alone, at least for a time.”
“Don’t—” I reached out, but my fingers passed through his dissolving silhouette.
“Trust the process, my child,“ he whispered as he vanished entirely, leaving behind only a faint shimmer in the air where he had stood.
Then, nothing. The shop fell silent. The spirits-my companions, my guides, my family—were gone.
“Traitors,” I whispered to the empty air.
I leaned against the counter, feeling hollowed out. The half-sorted incense mocked me with its permanence. What was the point of organizing stock that would soon be packed away? How had everything collapsed so quickly?
The shrill ring of the telephone sliced through my despair, making me jump. For a moment, I considered ignoring it, but fifteen years of good business habits died hard. I swiped at my tears and reached for the receiver.
„Empowering Tarot,“ I answered, wincing at how broken my voice sounded.
“Rahel? It’s Diane.” One of my regulars—weekly tarot readings for the past three years. “I’m running about ten minutes late for our four o’clock. Is that all right?”
I closed my eyes, suddenly overwhelmed by the thought of sitting across from her, offering guidance when my own path had just been obliterated. The idea of touching my cards, of channeling wisdom I no longer trusted, made my stomach turn.
“Actually, Diane,” I heard myself saying, “I’m afraid I won’t be able to do your reading today. Or… or tomorrow. I’m experiencing a sort of… temporary spiritual burnout. Would it be possible to reschedule for sometime next week? Perhaps Monday?”
The silence on the other end stretched uncomfortably.
“Burnout?” Diane finally responded, her voice uncertain. “But you… I mean, I’ve never known you to… are you all right?”
“Fine, just—” I swallowed hard. “Just need a few days to realign my energies.”
“Oh! Well, I suppose… if Monday doesn’t… would Wednesday work? I have a meeting Monday afternoon.”
“Wednesday is fine,” I said mechanically, scribbling her name on a notepad though I knew it hardly mattered now. “I appreciate your understanding.”
After awkward goodbyes, I set the receiver down and stared at it. The shop felt impossibly quiet, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath, waiting to see what I would do next.
I had no answer for them. No answer for myself.
The burgundy “CLOSED” sign swung lightly against the glass door as I clicked the deadbolt into place. My fingers trembled with each twist. Fifteen years I’d unlocked this door every morning, locked it every night—sometimes it felt like the lock knew my touch better than any lover ever had.
Now it might as well have been an ancient mechanism I’d never encountered before.
I plucked my phone from beneath the counter and sat on my wooden stool, the one with the faded velvet cushion I’d reupholstered three times. The shop’s scents swirled around me—sandalwood, dragon’s blood, patchouli, mysteries and promises bottled in amber glass.
“Just get it over with,” I muttered to myself, opening a new text message.
*Dear valued client,* I began typing, *Due to sudden illness, I must cancel all readings through Tuesday. Please text back with availability for next week. Apologies for any inconvenience.*
I scrolled through my appointment book, methodically sending the message to everyone scheduled—twelve clients in all. Anya, who came every month to check on her dead mother. Metin, the businessman who pretended his visits were a joke among colleagues but whose hands always trembled when I turned over the cards. Elise, pregnant and terrified about becoming like her own mother.
Each name represented trust I’d built, connections I might never have again. The weight of it settled in my chest like stone.
Before the first reply could come through, I silenced my phone and slipped it into my pocket. I couldn’t bear their disappointment, their questions. Their concern would be worse—it would crack what little composure I had left.
“I suppose that’s that,” I said to the empty shop. The bottles of incense still lay scattered across the counter, half-sorted. I left them where they were.
What was the point?
In my tiny apartment in the basement behind the shop, I drew the curtains closed against the afternoon light. The darkness felt appropriate, as if the world should acknowledge this small death with shadows. I pulled my most treasured deck from my bag—the one with worn edges and cards that sometimes stuck together from years of handling. My fingers knew each card by the slightest nick or bend.
I sat cross-legged on my bed, closed my eyes, and shuffled. “Show me a way forward,” I whispered. “Show me how to survive this.”
The cards felt cold against my fingertips, unresponsive. I laid out a simple three-card spread: past, present, future.
The Tower appeared for my present—mocking me, as if I needed the reminder. The past showed the Queen of Pentacles, reversed. Me, losing my foundation. And the future… I stared at the Ten of Swords for long minutes. Defeat. Complete ruin.
“That can’t be right,” I murmured, gathering the cards. I shuffled again, more vigorously this time. “What should I do next? Where should I go?”
I laid out five cards in a cross formation. Confusion. Obstruction. More loss.
My hands grew clammy. This had never happened before—the cards had always spoken to me clearly, even when their message was difficult. But now they seemed to be speaking a language I couldn’t understand, or worse, refusing to speak at all.
“Please,” I whispered, shuffling once more. “Please, just give me something to hold onto.”
But the third reading was as muddled as the others. Cards contradicted each other, patterns made no sense. I couldn’t even feel the usual energy flowing through my fingertips.
“Fine,” I said bitterly, sweeping the cards together. “Abandon me too.”
As I gathered them into a stack, my gaze caught something on the floor near the foot of the bed. A single card lay face-down on the worn wooden planks.
With a small frown, I leaned down to retrieve it, turning it over slowly.
The Star. The naked figure pouring water onto land and sea. Renewal. Hope after destruction. The calm after the storm.
My breath caught. I hadn’t even taken this deck out until just now. The card must have fallen before I’d even begun reading for myself.
For the first time since Mr. Goldstein had uttered the word “pizzeria,” I felt something other than despair stirring inside me. Something tiny and fragile, but undeniably alive.
I shook my head, trying to quiet the flicker of hope. False signs were crueler than no signs at all. With trembling fingers, I slid the Star back into the deck, careful not to look at its imagery again. My spirits had made their position clear—this was a journey I needed to walk alone.
“Some guides you are,” I muttered, tucking the deck into its wooden box and placing it beside my bed.
The late afternoon sun still streamed through my thin curtains, bathing my tiny apartment in amber light. It wasn’t even four o’clock yet. But exhaustion weighed on me like wet wool, and my eyes stung from unshed tears.
I flicked off the lamp and pulled the quilt over my shoulders, curling into a fetal position. The shop at the front of the building—my shop, my sanctuary—felt like a phantom limb, already gone though I could still feel it.
“Grandpa?” I whispered into the empty room. “Ma? Auntie? Mister B? I could… I could really use some company right now.”
Silence. Not even the usual subtle shift in air pressure that signaled their presence.
“Fine,” I sighed. “I get it. You’ve all made your point.”
But had they? Grandpa’s words echoed in my mind: *Change is necessary, and going on a journey means to travel a long road, not to stand still at a certain point, even if that point is considered paradise.*
My paradise was being bulldozed for pepperoni and cheese.
As sleep began to pull me under, I found myself hoping that my spirits would visit my dreams instead. They often did when something important needed to be communicated. Maybe there, in the twilight of consciousness, they’d have more to say. Maybe they’d explain what I was supposed to do now, how I was supposed to survive this tower moment.
“Please,” I murmured, the word half-swallowed by my pillow. “Just tell me what happens next.”
My eyelids grew heavier. In that liminal space between waking and dreaming, I admitted something to myself I wouldn’t dare acknowledge in daylight: I wanted them to solve this for me. I wanted a miracle. A benefactor. A loophole in Mr. Goldstein’s contract. Anything to undo what had been done.
I didn’t want to journey. I wanted to stay.
The thought followed me down into darkness as sleep finally claimed me, and my last coherent thought was a prayer that wasn’t quite a prayer: that I’d wake to find this had all been nothing but a bad dream.
