Tarot: Justice

Lady Justice put down her tea with a clatter. "I am not."

Her sister smiled, a smile full of knives. "There was a time you were needed. Now people make justice of their own."

"Not everyone. I've still got a job."

"For now, maybe." Her sister shrugged. "But you won't always. It's alright. I don't have one. Chivalry is dead. Everyone has to move on."

Lady Justice shook her head. "Not yet." She glanced at the shelves, lined with scales. There was a thin layer of dust over them. She took one down, occasionally. Polished it until it shone like silver. It was getting harder and harder. There as much more to do.

"It's not so bad, retiring. I've been reading more. Drawing. If you come by my place next time, I've even done some decorating. You should consider it. This place could use a little cheering, sweetie." She stood, setting down her cup. "Which reminds me. I've got to go see Curtesy in an hour. Sorry to pop in and out like this."

Lady Justice stood, embraced her sister. "I'll come see you next time," she promised.

"Do. And think about what I've said, hm? You'll wear yourself out with all of this." Lady Truth kissed her sister's cheek and departed.

Art by Woraya Chotikul

Text by Lucie MacAulay

Tarot: The Emporer

Praise the king who raised our city. Raised it on the bones of others.

Our brave king, our great king. See him wave from his tower window, from his ivory balcony, to the peope crowded in the streets. Thank him for his generosity, for the food so scarce we gnash our teeth in hunger. For the soft beds we make from the mud in the alleys. For the clothing on our back, like veils blown by the wind.

A brave man will start a war, for he is not scared of loosing. A wise man will teach his children his wisdom, so that if might be passed down. A man corrupted will turn a blind eye to suffering. Will be deaf to pleas for help.

Our emporer was a brave man. A wise man. A blind man. A deaf man.

So praise him as we break down the walls of his castle, raise our swords and knives. As he returns our visciousness with his own, with the ferocity of hell. With fire and blood.

In the red sunrise, he will be the most glorious sight.

Art by Woraya Chotikul

Text by Lucie MacAulay

Tarot: Wheel of Fortune

Take your pick. Think about it, but don't take too long.

You have to pick one. That's just the way it is.

They results vary. They look identical so you can't predict an outcome, but we can give you a few hints:

One of them is poisonous to touch. Two of them will give you back a year of your life, but only if you use it then and there, or the time disappears like sand running through an hourglass, forever gone. One holds a promise (though for what, not even we know). A few contain animals with pocket watches, fans, and other items of interest.

One of them will kill you instantly.

Take your time. But not too much.

We have other customers.

Art by Woraya Chotikul

Text by Lucie MacAulay

Tarot: The Tower

When the fire had calmed, burned to nothing but embers and a few forlorn flames, she began to chant.

The shadows didn't understand her words, but they understood her request. They writhed in anticipation. A favour, yes, a favour...

They slithered into the fire, dancing as though the timber of her voice was a song. Then, suddenly, the fire erupted into a tornado of swirling flames - blue and red and star-white.

The shadows screamed, like howling wind, and in the heat they moulded, like clay, into human shapes, arms and legs black as sin. They circled the fire, took one another's hands.

She chanted loudly, lifting her voice, but it was stolen from her lips. The shadows said the incantations, in rasping voices, with black tongues. Her heart beat steadily in her chest, thumping her ribs so hard it hurt. It skipped a beat, painfully. She pitched into the circle of shadows, into the fire. It did not burn, but her heart pulsed and sipped another beat.

The shadows closed in, and another painful beat sent tears streaming down her face. Her hands moved to her chest, clawing at the flesh over her heart. She howled and screamed and twisted and raked her nails over her chest, drawing blood. Colours burst behind her eyelids.

Something picked apart her skin, and in a final searing heartbeat, something warm and wet slid into her hand. She gasped and opened her eyes, to see a beating heart in her palm.

The shadows reached with inky fingers, and she clutched it like a mother clutching her newborn baby, but they took it and covered it and whisked it away.

She watched them wrap it like a present, and lay it beside her, but her muscles were water, she coudl not reach for it.

Sleep washed over her, like a black tide, and she welcomed it to her bed of ashes and blood.

Art by Woraya Chotikul

Text by Lucie MacAulay

Home Sweet Home

Welcome to the Maison le Fay. Please wipe your feet before entering and read the addendum below before settling in.

Hooks in the front hall are labelled by the number of your room.

Outgoing mail can be placed in the box in the front hall; incoming mail will be delivered to their respective owner's room.

The temperature stat cannot exceed 85 degrees Fahrenheit.

Common areas may only be used between 6:37 am and 11:52 pm. Do not enter the parlour outside the posted times, no matter what you may hear.

Ignore the cats on the third floor. Do not feed them, ever.

Room service is unavailable on dates divisible by 3.

We wish you a good time.

Please remember, we may not always be visible, but we are always watching.

Please enjoy your accomodations.

Art by Patrycja Makowska

Text by Lucie MacAulay

Dreamers

Dreamers see the world with their eyes closed. They are so often seen as blind, naïve. They weave their world with the threads of half-forgotten dreams, from moonlight and lullabies and fairy tales.

But nightmares are fairytales too.

Once upon a time, there was a dreamer, a young boy.

The boy was tall in the way of one unaccustomed to being tall, and nut-brown from hours in the sun. He worked with his father in the estate of a wealthy merchant and his twelve daughters. His life was one of lilies and roses and the heat of a near-eternal summer. He was a good gardener, but more often than not he found his way beneath bowers of dogwood roses with a collection of fairy tales and read the hours away until the sun had set and he could read no more.

He lay beneath the arbors or on the mossy carpets of the forest, which the owner of the estate also possessed, and dreamt of gilded castles, of lakes so still they seemed like mirrors of the night sky, of ships hoisting royal violet flags, and of a kingdom hidden in the forest, where the trees bent like an emerald canopy over their king and the leaves whispered his name in their secret language.

He often fell from his perches on tree branches while so enraptured by his dreams, and it was not uncommon for him to accumulate bruises the way a rich man accumulates broaches.

While he was a good gardener, he had few friends among the garden staff. They had long ago given up their dreams. Magic did not exist for them. Fairy tales were for children. Would dreaming keep the clematis from climbing in the windows? Would it water the herbs or sew the seeds?

Art by Abby Diamon 

Text by Lucie MacAulay