Being a lady of diverse preoccupations, primarily preternatural, Madame Tarot turns her head from the street and tells me that anything is possible. We pass the pipe from hand to hand. The rain rallies against the window, softly blurring hillsides and trees. "Darjeeling or jasmine?" she asks, pouring from a single pot inlaid with gold symbols on black slate. Perhaps I have visited here more than once too often, watching the cards shift in the yellow lamplight. Down the stairs shambles her pet and familiar. Today its shaggy coat of chameleon fur is the pale rust of old blood stains. It shakes itself and curls up on the rug before the fire. Not for the first time I wonder what species and sex this creature could be, but I'll not be the one to investigate. It outweighs me by at least twenty pounds and I have seen rows of razor teeth glistening in its mercurial coat. Madame Tarot moves about the room, drawing shades against the daylight, switching on a lamp with a fringed shade to counter the sudden dimness. She lights the pomegranate incense, Her hands unfold the velvet cloth. At moments like this I am sure she is The Hierophant, Reversed. She shuffles and riffles the deck. A blast of wind shakes the window in its frame and the old house groans. Her pet stretches and yawns and gives me a hostile glance. Its coat darkens. I raise the cup to my lips carefully and watch the cards begin to turn. *appeared in New Myths