To the human eye, I appear alone, and nothing like a thief.
I present myself as feeble and ancient, wizened on my wagon bench, a constellation of wrinkles creasing my brow. My arthritic knuckles ache as I clasp the reins and guide my great, white Clydesdale through the drowsy, pot-holed streets of Lake Linden on this holy, summer night. Beneath me, the gypsy wagon ambles and creaks, jostling the contents within the maroon cabin, which sends up soft, muffled groans. I hum to soften the sound.
The town is quiet and warm, even though the late summer sun has abandoned the landscape. Sunday dinners were finished hours and hours ago. Surprisingly, the town's children aren't pressed against the house windows, hoping to spot the first glimpse of the coming carnival.
If they were, and if I allowed them to detect me, and if they could read, they would see my name and title, splashed across the sides of my wagon in garish, gold lettering that glitters with the glow of the streetlights. I despise the announcement. It reads: Edeva The Fortune Teller, which is not only incorrect, but also, most often, mispronounced. People most often say Ed-Eva or Ed-Diva and I bite my lip rather than correct them. It is difficult, since my true name, given to me by my great grandmother, sparkles off the lips like starlight when spoken correctly.
However, my name is, for now, ED-eh-vah. Like a belch or a curse, a name most often spit out with a lip pinned over a canine.
As for the label of fortune teller, nothing could be further from the truth. I'm a fortune maker, or even a fortune taker, but teller? It's a ridiculous accusation, considering the number of secrets I keep.
Not that I care about any of this. It's all the better for me if no one can recall me with any accuracy. It is treacherous. I am a woman who wishes to be forgotten.
Mulani's massive hooves clomp along and the wagon wheels grind under another street light on Calumet Avenue. The wagon is risky enough, considering my gypsy roots, but traveling with a carnival seemed like a stroke of genius. Except that the carnival master hasn't a care for my safety. He insisted upon the five foot swirl of letters, and commissioned the hideous defacing of my home. I agreed to it only because I need to keep moving, need to remain hidden just a bit longer.
Barely anyone notices the protective sigil beneath the abused moniker, the design painted as intricately as a tapestry in beautiful mustard yellows, violets, and evergreens. I cannot reveal how I acquired the sigil, but the symbols come from a nationality every being once knew, though it has long been forgotten. It cloaks me as much as is possible, considering the name plastered on both sides of the wagon.
The rest is up to me. And I can't take another streetlight.
I reach up a hand and turn it precisely in the air, as if I'm twisting the metal pin on a sardine can. The street lights ahead of Mulani blink off. Dark, sheer veils unfurl from shadows, pouring down toward the sidewalk, covering the windows.
But one pair of human eyes, which I could never prepare myself to see, appears behind the glass of a particular shop window.
The sight of them steals my breath. They belong to the young man I came to find.
I never expected him to be in plain view, or to find him so quickly.
Maybe that's why he is the only one in all of Lake Linden who is aware of Mulani and I moving through the town streets. Even if the awareness is little more than the itchy rise of tiny hairs at the back of his neck.
However, it would do no good for him to see me like this, in the body of an old woman. My cloak of shadows must remain thick.
The young man looks up from a bucket of dish suds when the blazing street light outside Lindell's Chocolate Shoppe blinks off abruptly. All alone and closing up the store for the night, the extinguished light attracts his attention. I assume this particular streetlight, more decorative and brighter than any of the others, is as consistent as Christmas. A beacon of sorts in this cozy town, I would wager no one has ever once known it to flicker, let alone burn out.
Soap bubbles slide down the young man's arms as he walks toward the front door. His name tag says Gavin in thick, black letters. My breath sticks in my lungs. I knew it was him, but seeing his name emblazoned on his chest is like finding a gift with my own name written on it.
Halfway to the entrance, he stops dead. My rig's mammoth shadow, darker than even the darkness outside, sweeps along Lindell's front windows. It leaks across the tiled floor and dusts over the toes of Gavin's shoes. The blackness is so deep, he blinks at it before lifting his head to squint at what I've made sure he can't see: me.
Though I'm undetectable, the hotel across the avenue could still give me away. Wildly distorted by the shadow-veil I placed over the shop window, the image of the familiar building is probably rippling in his vision like a picture painted on a gust of wind.
I tap the floor board with the toe of my shoe. The soft sound of suds dripping off Gavin's fingers flood my ears, splashing down in small, foamy puddles on the tiled floor.
"That's crazy," he whispers to himself.
Mulani's ears prick backward.
We pass the shop, but I twist on the driver bench, keeping my eyes on Gavin. I flick my wrist and the street light on the corner pops back on.
He rushes to the door, trying the handle as he peers over the closed sign. The knob is slippery in his palm and still locked. He presses his forehead to the door, but I'm certain his wide eyes only see the usual, empty avenue.
He shakes his head with an unconvincing laugh.
"I haven't even been drinking," he says before returning to the soapy dishes left in the sink.
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