The flap to the tent fell with a heavy slap to my back. Layers of its red, lacy fabric muffled the commotion from outside. The stillness prickled, uneasy on the back of my neck.

My shoes sunk deep into the plush paisley rugs, and from the tent’s spire, a dim lamp dangled, the wire cage around it casting sharp shafts of orange light that did little to eliminate the shadows.

Sweet, perfumed smoke consumed the air. Thick, twining swirls floated about the confined space, and in an instant, I had the brittle lungs of a seventy-year-old chain smoker.

After a healthy cough, dispersing the gunk from my chest and wiping the sweat from my forehead, I croaked, “Hello? Vanya?”

I had half a mind to turn around and leave. No one was here—Vanya most definitely wasn't here, that sneak—but then the smoke dissipated, and a voice spoke from the shadows.

“Hello?” It croaked, and I likened the vocalist to a punching puppet show puppet.

“Er, hi,” I said. “Apologies, but I’m looking for my friend. She said to meet me here. She believes in all this stuff. Have—”

“Hello.”

“Yes, hi.”

“Hello. Hello.”

A table appeared beyond the haze. Nicknacks cluttered the circular wood in an array of typical clairvoyant tools.

Intricate tarot cards and smoking smudge sticks lined the rim. The table’s centre was taken over by a polished crystal ball, cradled in the talons of a giant black claw.

Behind the table was a high-backed chair, and resting on the top rail a creature stood, one usually found on the rounded shoulders of a pirate.

“Hello,” the cockatoo screeched.

Atop his white crown forked a brilliant crest of yellow feathers. His head tilted, and his beaded black eye caught mine. I felt awfully exposed—once again a jester red-faced before a jeering court.

“Butter...fly,” he spoke and clicked his black tongue.

“Er, yes,” I brushed the yellow and black pin on my lapel. “A butterfly. My buddy Bex made it for me. But, ah, I’m looking for my other friend. Have you...” I glanced around, and my face flushed.

Gods! I was talking to a parrot. “Is your... Is your person about? My friend booked me an appointment, and I’d prefer to get this out of the way.”

“Hello. Die.”

“Er, no, I’m Jes,” I said, pointing to my chest, and the cockatoo bobbed his head, nodding towards the bowl on the table.

Wrinkled, bean-sized fruits filled the small container, and I, like an expert, translated his squawks.

“Oh, you mean date. Would you like a date? Between you and me,” I whispered, pinching the soft food between my fingers. “I don't really believe in all this fortune teller nonsense. Seers are just con artists dressed in fancy silks, right?”

I held it up, a few centimetres from the bird. His head twitched, his eyes flashed.

The bird saw red, not from the luscious decorations, but because of me.

His crest flattened, and his beak snapped, nipping hard.

“You beast!” I cried. A dot of red bulged from the tip of my thumb. “And I've fought wyverns,” I mumbled.

“Kill. Shift, change. Green. Brown. Gone.”

“Right. Well, as menacing as those words are, they don't make a sentence. They mean nothing. And you've now hurt my finger, as well as my feelings.”

I thumped my fist on the table, and the tarot pack scattered, one of the cards coming to a delicate stop next to the bowl of dates.

The cockatoo clicked his tongue. “Uh-Oh!”

I stared at the golden upright card. A man laid down on the ground, his face hidden, turned away, and from his back, protruded ten swords, their hilts extended towards a bleak, sunless sky. My chest tightened.

I was no expert, but even I could figure out the card was a literal depiction of 'stabbed in the back'.

“I’m..." I dragged my eyes away. The card meant nothing; it was just a card—a fluke. I hadn't even shuffled the deck. Any one of them could have slipped from the pack.

It meant nothing.

"I’m... I'm going somewhere else,” I said to the bird. “Enjoy your... your wrinkled dates.”

A burst of cold air prickled my skin as the door flap flung open. Bex rushed in; her pale skin shadowed, a red flame in the light.

“Oh, marvellous!” she blurted. “I found you... in here of all places. How... excellent.”

“Vanya said I would find it interesting or something.”

A sudden ear pinching screech consumed the clairvoyant’s tent. I winced and clapped my hands over my ears. The cockatoo hopped from his perch and onto the table, then disappeared behind the chair.

“Monster,” he squawked. “Green! Green!”

Bex chuckled and tucked a piece of lime hair behind her ear. “What a humorous bird.” She grabbed my wrist, and her face settled, severe. “But we have to go.”

“Ah, wait. Where's Vanya?”

“She's outside, where we should be.”

The bird screeched.

“Should we leave the bird?” I asked. “Don’t get me wrong, I hate it, but should we leave it alone?”

“It’s fine. Let's go. No, Jes, don't go round—”

I followed the cockatoo around the chair.

I wished I hadn't followed the cockatoo around the chair. Gods, it was a mess.

Orange hair that wouldn't have been amiss on a lion sprouted around the woman’s gaunt face. Blood oozed from her parted lips, and her eyes stared at me, lifeless, like glazed orbs of creamy glass. The bird stood on the woman's still chest, next to the bloodied dagger.

My legs gave way, and my hip smacked the rim of the table. Pain smarted, and I folded onto the floor. An invisible cord of panic took hold. It tightened, and my hand clutched my throat—suffocating sucked. It really, painfully sucked!

And a woman was dead.

“Call someone!” I cried. “Bex!”

But Bex had gone.

“Jes!”

Soft hands squeezed my shoulders, and Vanya came beside me. A fresh cut slashed her cheek, and the brown skin under her left eye looked purple like she'd been punched. I hadn't seen her enter—it's funny how you can miss things.

“Are you hurt?”

Maybe I should have been the one to ask her that, but instead, I said, “I don't understand what's happening.”

Black spots blotted my vision, and pins and needles found a new home in my hands.

I didn't understand.

“I wanted you to come in here,” Vanya said slowly, “because I knew you’d learn the truth. I didn't—”

“But this stuff is nonsense; it's not real!” I gestured towards the body, and bile tasted bitter on my tongue. “That’s real!”

“And how do you feel?”

“This isn't therapy, Vanya!”

“How do you feel, Jes? Bex killed her; how do you feel?”

“I-I don't know.” I pushed the heel of my hand to my forehead. “I don't understand. Disgusted? Shocked?”

“Shocked.” the bird echoed. I’d forgotten he was there.

White wings flapped, and he hopped onto the table; his foot touched the corner of my tarot card.

“Stabbed in the back,” I muttered. Perhaps there was some tangibility in it.

“I knew the truth would be revealed,” Vanya said. “Now, do you understand? Bex is a monster. She tricked us.”

“Why?” I swallow sawdust. “Why did she do it? Kill her?”

“She was worried, I guess, that Madam Imelda would spill her secrets.”

Vanya knelt and picked something yellow and black from the floor.

A butterfly.

I brushed my lapel. My butterfly. Bex's butterfly.

Vanya held the small pin out to me, but I didn't take it; my head hurt. “And in a way,” she added, “I suppose she did.”

“That’s sick!”

“I know.”

“No, not that... Well, yes, that, but you! You knew this would happen, and you didn't even need a dumb crystal ball to see it! You're just as bad as Bex!”

“Betrayed!” The cockatoo called, and I knew I‘d never heard a more accurate word.