Not that I had missed the young lady, but I remained fascinated by her tarot cards. Mr. Stoker seemed to have respect for their prognostications, so I tried not to dismiss them in too cavalier a fashion myself. As I passed the entrance to the greenroom during that Saturday evening’s performance, I glanced in and, as usual, saw the girls all huddled about Miss Abbott as she spread out her pasteboards on a table. Seth Hartzman leaned up against the wall, watching them. He caught my eye and nodded in a not unfriendly manner. I paused, and he came over to me. “Miss Abbott sure keeps ’em happy with those cards,” he said. “Has she read them for you?” I asked. He shook his head. “Nar! I don’t need no cards or such to tell me what to do.” “I don’t think that’s quite the idea of them,” I said. He shrugged. “I don’t need the likes o’ them.” I saw an opportunity.
