All Our Hidden Gifts by Caroline O’donoghue (ink ebook reader txt) 📕

dagger in another. Gifts and curses. The man is just standing in front of them, a rabbit in the headlights of divine choice.

This card has come up a few times in readings before, and it’s usually about not being able to make a choice. I try to apply that to the situation, but it doesn’t quite add up. Surely, by doing the ritual at all, we’re making a definite choice. We’re acting; we’re not staring at a bunch of cups and waiting for the world to pass us by.

I look again, and try to think of the card differently. The dagger hovering above the cup draws me in, and I press my thumb over the blade.

Maybe it’s not about choices. Maybe it’s about wishful thinking, and pretending there are multiple options when really, there’s only one.

Life for a life. Give big to get big. It’s how black magic works, isn’t it?

I bite down on my lower lip and draw again. As soon as I see the card, I drop it on the floor, then immediately cover it with my foot.

“No,” I whisper, looking at my toenails. “No.”

I knock on Jo’s bedroom door. It’s early on Saturday morning but she’s awake and propped up on two pillows, reading a book. She’s not gone to college all week on Griffin’s advice. “But I feel fine,” Jo said. “It’s not that,” Griffin responded gruffly. “I mean … it would just be safer.”

“Hey,” I say, hovering by the door.

“Hey back,” she says, looking up. “You’re up early. What are you doing?”

“I just … wanted to check in on you.”

“Are you cold?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want to hop in?”

I don’t say anything, just make my way across the room and climb into her double bed. The bed is so cosy, the sheets perfectly white and clean. Jo never eats in bed, like I do. I’m always in a losing war with toast crumbs.

“I’ve no pillow,” I grumble.

“C’mon, share mine.”

She reaches over for me and tucks me under her arm. I rest my head on her chest, listening to the thump-thump-thump of her heart.

“We haven’t done this since you were small,” she says. “You used to beg to sleep in bed with me.”

“You’d never let me either. Cow.”

“Can you blame me? You had the sharpest toenails. And cabbage farts.”

“I did not.”

What would usually be a cat fight settles into a sleepy, dozy argument, both of us staring at the ceiling.

“Are you scared?” I whisper.

She’s quiet for a moment. “A little,” she answers.

“That you’re going to get attacked again?”

“Yes. And that Sarra is going to get it worse. And that –” her voice strains a little – “and that things are just going to get worse for everyone.”

“What do you mean?”

“I think a lot of us have just … assumed that things were getting so much better. So progressive, y’know? We’re in this liberal Ireland and all that. I think we all got a bit too proud of ourselves too soon.”

She gulps and rubs at the tender skin underneath her black eye.

“I think this is the backlash.”

I imagine my sister being screamed at, being followed, being attacked. And then Aaron on TV, distracting the host and talking about how there’s two sides to every story. I hold her tight, turning my face into her shoulder, trying not to think of the Seven of Cups or the card that I trapped with my foot. The Death card is still in my room, still lying face up on the floorboards.

I know enough about the Death card to know that it doesn’t mean death.

Or. Not usually.

“Hey, why are you snuffling?”

“I’m scared,” I say. And then: “I’m scared for you.”

“Ah, sure look it. There’s no point in being scared. I’m lucky. I’ve got a great family and a great girlfriend and I’m smart and I’m hot. I’ll be fine,” she chuckles.

“But not everyone will be.”

“No,” she reasons. “Not everyone else will be.”

“I love you.”

She stops and looks at me, surprised.

“Are you OK, Maeve?”

I give an unconvincing nod.

“I love you too. But don’t be worrying yourself about this. It has nothing to do with you. Just try your best to be there for people more vulnerable than you. Keep your eyes and ears open. Speak up if you see something messed up. OK?”

I hold her close and try to find a way to tell her that it has at least a little to do with me.

The day crawls on, sullen and heavy. The cold snap has well and truly passed, but there’s now a waspy humidity in the air, close and sticky. The three of us arrange to meet at the river at midnight. Lucky for me, Mum and Dad are going to a dinner party, and Jo is at Sarra’s house. The attack seems to have brought them even closer together. Sarra came over last night and they spent all evening in the living room, curled up around each other like foxes. I hope they move in together. Jo will like that.

I hug both of my parents when they leave, holding them tight. I breathe in the smell of my mother’s hair. Her perfume smells like liquid gold.

“Any plans for the night, Mae?”

“I’m going to watch a film at Fiona’s house,” I answer mechanically, wondering if this is the last lie I will ever tell her.

“Oh? Do you need money for a cab home? I’d offer to spin you home but we won’t be done till way late.”

“No, I won’t be coming home,” I say. Already wondering, Why did I say it like that. “I mean, I’m going to sleep at Fiona’s.”

It’s going to be so interesting. If you live.

“All right.” Mum is wrestling to put her phone in her tiny clutch bag.

“Why don’t you just leave your phone at home?” I say, encouragingly. “You don’t want to be disturbed anyway, do you?”

I won’t have to really do it, will I? Not when Lily isn’t even dead. The Housekeeper had made that clear. She’s just trapped. I won’t have to do