by Laura Powell
If Bel had been at this party, she would have lifted her chin, pulled down her neckline, sauntered over to the largest and liveliest group—glass in hand—and just stood there, waiting for their attention to turn. Cat, however, was equally accomplished at keeping a distance. It wasn’t simply a matter of skulking in corners; instead, she had learned to hold herself aloof, to stay watchful but relaxed. That way, she could be left to her own devices.
She accepted a drink from a passing waiter, and wandered to the entrance of the room on her right. Inside, a group was clustered around a green felt table, but as far as she could see it was just an ordinary card game—poker, maybe. The guests were a range of ages, and most had dressed up for the occasion in cocktail dresses or suits. A few people looked as if they’d come straight from the office. Nobody gave her a second glance. Cat found a chair in a quiet corner, and allowed herself to relax.
In some ways, her senses were heightened by her surroundings. The prickle of champagne in her mouth, the scent of the women’s perfume rising in the warmth, the click of heels on wood and the chiming of glass—all these things were sharp and clear. And yet there was a drowsy, muddled feeling that she couldn’t quite shake off. When she tried to pick up what people were talking about, she found she couldn’t concentrate, kept losing the thread. She thought she saw a well-known actress languishing against the wall, and didn’t she recognize that jowly, gray-faced man? A politician or anchorman, perhaps. But when she looked again, she couldn’t be sure. It was as if her focus had gone. Champagne on an empty stomach, she supposed, though it wasn’t as if she had much experience of the stuff.
She put her glass down and wandered through to another crowded room on the other side of the entrance hall, with the vague idea of trying to find the piano. This room had an immense, gilt-framed mirror above the mantelpiece, and Cat saw a new glow and softness in her reflection, as if the luster of the place was rubbing off on her.
The light-headed feeling was definitely getting stronger. She found a seat, sat down and closed her eyes, trying to trace a thread of melody in the distant music. Every time she thought she caught the tune, it slipped away or subtly altered, so that she was unsure if sweetness or melancholy had been the dominant key. Somewhere a clock chimed; she tried and failed to count the hour. Her watch showed the second hand twitching on the spot like something trapped behind glass.
Cat decided she needed to find somewhere quiet and cool where she could clear her head. She went back into the entrance hall and, on a whim, climbed the stairs to the gallery above. She tried the doors along the corridor at random, hoping to find a restroom.
Through the first door, she glimpsed a room with walls lined in crimson silk, unfurnished except for a piano. A blonde in dark glasses and a white ball gown was sitting with her back to the door and playing an old-fashioned waltz. The room next to it was a book-lined study where a group of people were exclaiming over a game of dice. Surveying them from a sofa was the older woman from the night of the Tarot cards. Beside Cat lounged the guy who’d followed her in Soho; his cap was gone and his face was blank and glassy-eyed. As she paused on the threshold, Lucrezia smiled at her, then, holding her gaze, ran her hand through the boy’s black hair.
The doors on the front side of the house opened into a long, bare room that ran the length of the building. Tall windows lined the wall overlooking the square; they had no curtains or shutters and the panes were shining black. The other side of the room was hung with pictures. It was like being in a museum, Cat thought, her steps creaking on the polished wooden floor. Cat didn’t know anything about art, but these pictures looked old, centuries old maybe, for the colors were rich but faded, and patches of paint were nothing but a cracked blur.
The painting on the left was of a man and a woman standing naked among rainbows and flowers, with an angel holding a flaming sword behind them. The next depicted an armored knight on a white horse, but where his face should have been was a gleaming skull. Both these paintings, and the two at the far end of the room, were about four feet by five. The central painting, however, was much bigger. It depicted a vast four-spoked wheel with fantastical figures climbing or tumbling on its rim and a woman in the center. After that came a painting featuring an angel with a trumpet and, finally, a desert landscape with a robed figure bearing an hourglass.
She turned back to the picture of the wheel. Close up, she saw the woman in the middle was blindfolded and carried a banner bearing an inscription in a foreign script. Latin, perhaps. Her smile was shadowy, knowing. And now Cat saw that the wheel itself was inlaid with many smaller images: a chariot, drawn by sphinxes; a flaming tower; a woman wrestling a lion …
A soft noise at the other end of the room made her turn round, and she saw she was no longer alone. The young man who had called himself the King of Swords was lounging against the door, a cigarette in one hand. “Hello again,” he said.
She nodded briefly and turned back to the painting, feeling self-conscious. Her head had begun to ache, and she hoped he’d leave her alone, but he was already moving to join her. He was dressed more casually than before, scruffy almost, in a faded gray T-shirt and with bare feet. Pad, pad, pad along the floor. He looked younger than she remembered. “So you found us all right.”
“Yeah.” This was her prompt to say what a nice party it was, how kind of you, blah blah blah. Instead, she frowned, trying to think past the fuzziness. “Why’d you invite me?” It came out more abruptly than she’d intended, but he didn’t seem to mind, just smiled and took another drag of his cigarette.
“Why did you come?” he countered, watching her through the smoke with sleepy eyes. There was a pause. “I’m Alastor, as you may remember.”
“The King of Swords.”
“And you are the Cat Who Walks by Herself.”
That rattled her. It was what Bel used to call her, quoting from some old kid’s book, she said, though she’d never remembered the title. Had Cat even told him her name, or was it just an uncanny coincidence? She hunched her shoulders defensively and moved away a little, until she was standing beneath the painting of the knight with the bone face.
“The Triumph of Death,” he told her, and gestured toward the painting to its right, the one of the man and the woman in the garden. “Over the Triumph of Love.”
“Not very romantic.”
“No.”
Cat could feel him watching her, not in a sleazy way, but thoughtfully, as if she was being measured for something.
“The pictures tell a story?” she prompted.
“An allegory. It begins with Love or, in a more general sense, humanity,” he explained, sounding relaxed and perhaps a little bored. “Love is overpowered by Death, who prevails over mortal passions and endeavors. Next comes Fame, the golden messenger who survives Death, and so defeats him. But even Fame, like memory, must fall to Time. Our friend with the hourglass.”
Cat digested this. “So where does the wheel fit in?”
“The Triumph of Fortune. Regnabo, regno, regnavi, sum sine regno.” Now his voice was mocking, though of whom or what she wasn’t sure. “One could say that Fortune prevails over every other triumph, determining the nature of our loves, deaths, legacies.… Perhaps even Time’s victory is not so absolute. The Wheel turns, life begins again.”
“And … and the woman at the center?”
“Take your pick. Tuche. Domina Casus. Queen Hecate. Fors Fortuna, goddess of fate and luck.”
Cat frowned. “Fate and luck aren’t the same thing.”
“No.” He was playing with his lighter: flicking the flame up and off again. The spark of it danced in his eyes. “But who’s to say what’s behind the throw of a die, the turn of a card? However skilled the player, whatever the stake, those who win their triumph have Fortune on their side.”
“The Game of Triumphs,” she whispered, as if she’d known it all along. She thought back to their first meeting, the Knight of Wands and a card called the Ten of Swords. What had the dark-hair
ed woman said? He was dealt a difficult card … it pits a knight against knaves. “You deal the cards and the other players act out whatever’s on them. Why?”
“For the prizes you see here and more—Love, Death, Fame … and all the other delights our cards bestow. Believe me, Cat, there’s everything to play for.”
How was a card a prize? And how could you win something as abstract as love, anyway? But Cat sensed he was laughing at her. She didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of her curiosity.
Alastor moved toward the door. “I believe the evening’s Lottery is about to begin,” he said, looking back over his shoulder. “That should answer your questions, if you care to join us.”
She shrugged. “Depends on the jackpot.”
“Ah, but our Lottery offers a different reward: the chance for our players to pick a new card and find a new fate. Who could resist?”
Left alone in the gallery, Cat spent the next few minutes listing all the reasons it was time to go home. The longer she stayed, the more confusing the whole setup became. But in spite of her best intentions, when she left the room she let herself be caught up in a crowd of guests who were surging along the hallway; it seemed easier to go with the flow and be jostled toward the stairs, up to the third and final floor of the house. The black-and-gold-patterned doors at the head of the stairs had been flung open, and Cat saw that the entire floor was one vast mirrored ballroom.
Soon the room was thronged with people. It was difficult to judge the space, since the mirrors around the walls reflected the scene back and forth and around in a kaleidoscopic whirl of people and lights and sparkling glass. For a moment, it was as if Cat was looking through the mirrors into myriad other crowds in myriad other rooms, but then she blinked, and the impression was gone. A hush descended.
At the far end of the room, the kings and queens were seated in a row behind a long narrow table, like members of a board. Behind them, suspended from the ceiling, was a TV monitor showing a silent blizzard of static. In front of them was a wheel. Cat edged her way forward to get a better look.
After the buildup, she was expecting something spectacular, studded with gems, perhaps, and a flaming cresset at the center, but in fact the wheel looked very similar to what any ordinary casino would use for roulette: about three feet in diameter and made of dark polished wood, with numbered slots in alternating checks of black, white, silver and gold. The doorkeeper stood next to it, one hand resting gently on the side.
“The players are assembled,” he announced. “Who is presented for the Lottery?”
“The Queen of Cups calls upon a Knight of Cups,” said Odile, blank-faced behind her dark glasses.
A woman stepped forward from within the crowd. The doorkeeper turned to face her. “Speak, Knight, and name the prize that you play for.”
The knight was lanky and dark, and her voice shook slightly as she spoke. “I—I’m playing for the Triumph of the Moon.”
Cat gave a snort of disbelief. What could this woman have to gain from the moon? Space travel? A hot date with an astronaut?
The man standing next to her gave her a disapproving look. But someone else—a freckle-faced boy of about her own age—leaned to whisper in her ear. “It represents artistic inspiration,” he explained, as if he’d guessed her question.
The King of Swords looked unimpressed. “Question is,” he drawled, tipping back in his chair, “will a cure for writer’s block do our friend any good, without the Triumph of Fame to enjoy it?”
The crowd laughed, and the knight licked her lips uneasily.
“Which court holds the Triumph of the Moon?” asked the doorkeeper in ritual tones.
“The Court of Wands,” replied Ahab—who, dressed in a pinstripe suit, really did look as if he was attending a business meeting.
The doorkeeper nodded. “Let the courts name the cards they have dealt, and the knight’s progress through them.”
“Nine of Cups, Reign of Material Happiness,” said Odile, sounding a little bored. “Played, and won.”
“Seven of Pentacles, Reign of Success Unfulfilled,” said Lucrezia. “Also played and won.”
“Ten of Wands, Reign of Oppression,” said Ahab. “Not yet played.”
“Eight of Swords, Reign of Shortened Force,” yawned Alastor. “Not yet played.”
The audience murmured. Several people could be heard observing it was a hard round.
So a knight had four cards to play, one from each court. Cat thought the Reign of Material Happiness sounded OK. If the knight belonged to the Court of Cups, then it made sense for the Queen of Cups to give her an easy ride. But Cat didn’t like the sound of any of the other moves.
“Which is the card the Knight of Cups wishes to exchange?” the doorkeeper asked.
“The Ten of Wands,” Odile replied.
“A Lottery may only be held when the Triumph of Fortune has entered play,” the old man said gravely.
“But of course.” Odile waved toward the knight, who brought out a card from her pocket. In her excitement or nervousness she nearly dropped it as she handed it to the doorkeeper. Cat couldn’t see the illustration, but she guessed it must resemble the picture of the woman and wheel that she’d seen in the gallery.
“Fortune’s card is hidden in different moves throughout the Arcanum,” the boy at her shoulder said in an undertone. “Players aren’t dealt it; they have to find it for themselves. It means they can swap one of their cards for another, picked at random by the wheel.”
Cat nodded to show her appreciation, but at the same time wished he’d shut up. They were getting black looks from their neighbors.
“The Triumph of Fortune has been accepted,” said the doorkeeper, “and the Lottery may proceed.”
The Queen of Cups inclined her head toward the King of Wands, who bowed slightly in return. Then she rose to stand before the wheel. The King of Swords stopped swinging on his chair and leaned forward with narrowed eyes. Even the Queen of Pentacles, who had been toying with the rope of jet around her neck, became still and watchful. Meanwhile, the knight waited to one side. She was visibly sweating.
Odile produced a silk pouch, from which she took out a small gleaming ball that she held up before the crowd. “A crystal die for Cups, ebony for Wands,” whispered Cat’s informant. “Gold for Pentacles and silver for Swords. The numbers and colors in the wheel’s slots refer to the sequence of cards in the deck.” After a brief pause, the doorman spun the wheel and, with a graceful flick of her wrist, the queen launched the circular die. There was absolute silence as the wheel whirled and the ball rattled. The whole room seemed to be holding its breath.
At last, the spinning stopped and the ball dropped into its slot. The doorkeeper bent to inspect it. The wait seemed to stretch on forever.
“Four of Pentacles!” he called.
At once, the place erupted into a tumult of exclamations and acclaim. It appeared that the Four of Pentacles meant something good, for the knight was grinning dazedly, her face foolish with relief. Even though Cat barely understood what had gone on, she found herself joining the applause.
The doorkeeper raised a hand for quiet. “The wheel has turned. The Knight of Cups exchanges the Ten of Wands for the Four of Pentacles, Reign of Possession.”
The knight handed over a card to the doorkeeper and accepted another from the Queen of Pentacles.
“A fine gamble,” Lucrezia said appreciatively. “And now I have news of a winning one.”
Buzzing and rustling from the floor.
“Yes,” the dark-haired queen continued, voice raised, “it is my pleasure and privilege to announce that the Court of Pentacles has won another triumph. After completing a successful round, a Knight of Pentacles has taken the Triumph of the Devil from the Court of Swords.”
Her announcement was greeted with gasps and applause. Meanwhile, Cat shifted uncomfortably. Talk of the moon and fame was one thing, but the devil.… Once again, the freckle-faced boy leaned in to explain. “It’s the hed
onist’s card. Sex, drugs and rock ’n’ roll!” he said, eyes shining. This didn’t leave Cat much the wiser.
The doorkeeper rapped on the edge of the wheel for silence. “Does the Court of Swords accept the loss of the Triumph of the Devil?”
Alastor’s jaw tightened but his expression stayed carefully neutral. “Naturally,” he said, as he took out a card from his pocket and slid it across the table to Lucrezia with an ironic little half bow. “Though I’m sure it won’t be long before we win it back again.”
“I call upon the Knight of Pentacles to come forward and receive her prize.”
A young woman pushed her way out from the center of the throng: a tall angular girl, her mouth a slash of scarlet and her eyes outlined in startlingly thick swoops of kohl.
“Pass it over, then,” she said.
The doorkeeper looked offended. Clearly, this wasn’t part of the script. But the King of Swords didn’t take offence. In fact, he was looking the knight up and down approvingly. “I hope you’ll make the most of your reward.”
“Oh, you can count on it.” She held out her hand.
As the other king and queens looked on, smiling indulgently, Alastor handed her a small metal object—a ball like the one Odile had spun into the wheel, but made of silver for the Court of Swords.
“After you leave Temple House, cast the die back over its threshold, and the powers of the Devil will be yours. You have played a fine Game and earned your triumph.”
Cat was disappointed. Alastor had told her that the Lottery would explain things, but it had only left her more confused. She still didn’t see how playing cards and metal balls worked as prizes. These people didn’t really believe such things could give them supernatural powers … did they?
