The reader spread out the cards amidst tinkles of laughter from behind the coolness of her shining veil. She would sometimes widen her eyes for effect, but she really did know things.
She could feel the whiteness of her grin as the golden women who came to her saw themselves laid out by her graceful brown fingers. Laid out on the table. The reader knew power.
But she was humble too. The gift that was to feel the skeins of the universe running through her vagus nerve—deep in organs and bone marrow, along all of her into ever fine filaments and out to the winds on her skin—she held lightly. When the message came in, the scar on her face burned clean, as sharp as the knife from this boyhood wounding.
The golden women, celebrities who sparked screens and speakers and made millions, could see the very tip of white blaze against her cheekbone above her face covering. But they knew not to ask. Or they were afraid, in awe of their prophet.
The day would come when she removed the veil and let them see the consequences of her youth on the streets, of bondage, of unchecked dominance in a crazed empire on the verge of collapse. It was then that she ceased telling them of love and wealth.
She spoke of garbage.
The divine feminine was turning her back on the Emperor, the Hierophant, and on all the kings, of fire and armor, of abundance and of blood.
It is time to go, she told them. And this is how.