Taking a shivery breath, I moved on to the next row—my present. The three of Swords—the classic card of emotional turmoil and conflict. So true. Everything was mixed up, boiling over.

I tucked my straggly hair behind my ears. Wil… His words—that bare naked honesty. It hurts, he’d said.

Blinking back stinging tears that prickled my throat, I realized how right he was. It did hurt. It almost seemed to be the legacy of living on this earth, breathing this air, existing. There was no happiness without pain.

But did losing something you’d once pegged your hopes on mean that you could never be happy again?

Was that what I was doing? Punishing myself for living while Brock was dead? And Papa?

And there it was…the next card in the middle row, staring me in the face. The eight of Swords. Fear. Blockage. Prevention. I swallowed. And it was followed by the Moon card—a warning of dishonesty, deceit or confusion.

Maybe all of the above. I was confused. Had I been deceiving myself? Had I been convinced that it was my fate to wander…to never love? To never be loved? I’d often seen the card that most represented me as the Fool. And maybe in more ways than one, I had been a fool. A fool who lied to herself.

Tears streamed down my cheeks and I blinked to see through blurry eyes by the time I made it to the third row—the future. My throat was tight and it was hard to breathe, because...

That first card.

The King of Cups.

I remembered my words to William at the regional market. The King of Cups represents a man of emotional stability, a man who lives by honor—quiet, kind and trustworthy.

William…sitting right there at the start of my future.

Biting my lip, I snatched up the entire stack, suddenly overcome with emotion. With no desire to examine the deeper meanings, I tucked the cards inside their bag and then stuffed it in my bottom drawer. I vowed not to touch them again for months. And maybe I’d smudge them with white sage smoke for good measure and take other decks with me to the Festival.

It took me hours to fall asleep, and when I did, I dreamt of giant cards the same size as me, chasing me everywhere but never catching me.

Chapter 26

William

It’s been one week since I said goodbye to Jenna, and every day after I’ve been single-mindedly continuing my training. I’ve lifted weights, run and gone to the martial arts studio. I’ve even meditated and practiced Jenna’s crazy visualization crap.

The hardest part has been forcing myself to spend time in crowded areas. Britt and Mia took me to the mall, but Adam deserted me, saying that even helping me wasn’t worth having to go shopping. As we walked through the area between the stores, I tried the visualization technique again—instead of a river of people flowing toward me, I pictured an actual rushing river and a bubbling waterfall. It took work, but eventually I felt myself entering a zone of calmness, able to look at the situation as if outside my body.

And as much as I don’t like it, I’ve eaten lunch every day in the crowded lunchroom at work. Instead of people hunched around circular tables and booths, talking and clanking dishes, I started to picture them as animals in the wild—a herd of zebras or gazelles in the African veldt. It was weird, but it worked.

But despite the progress I’ve made, what I haven’t been able to do is stop thinking about Jenna. I’ve missed her, and I’ve wanted to tell her that things are starting to click. That I’d hear her voice in my head—the way she encouraged and believed in me—and when I butted up against an obstacle, I remembered the way she helped me around it.

We worked together so well. But that isn’t the reason I’ve ached every time I’ve thought of her. Or why my heart speeds up whenever I think of the next time I’ll see her. And though the festival means the inevitable rematch with Doug—and with that, the uncertainty of the outcome—I’ve found myself counting the days, hours and minutes until I see her again.

There are 1,440 minutes in a day. We haven’t seen each other since Sunday night at approximately nine o’clock, and I’ll see her again on Friday night at around six o’clock. That means there are about 7,020 minutes between the time we parted on poor terms and the time when I can try to make it better.

And things will be better. They just have to be.

Because Friday marks the beginning of the Festival, and once the Festival ends, the Renaissance Faire will begin operation on the same site until the end of June. And once the Renaissance Faire moves on, Jenna will gone for good.

On Friday, we traveled to a small community just north of “the Grapevine” in Kern County, about a two-hour drive from where we live in Orange County. It is an area of Southern California where there is lots of open space. We congregate yearly at a large campground nestled amongst rolling, dry and mostly plain hills that surround our lightly wooded site. I had nothing to bring with me this time but my armor and fighting equipment, as well as my hand-sewn, period-authentic tent and living essentials.

Our clan has set up at the southwest edge of the campground, which we essentially take over for the week. Everyone stakes places for their personal tents, cook areas and booths, where they’ll set up their wares to sell. To the north and tucked into a small side canyon, there’s a great oblong arena with concrete stands climbing up each side. It is there where the battles will take place—teams fighting it out, in addition to one-on-one duels like the rematch I am scheduled to fight with Doug.

I’m walking the length of the arena and looking up at the empty stands, trying to work out a strategy for visualization. As I’m attempting to picture what it will be like when we face off in two days, I notice another person at the opposite end from where I’m standing. From her height, body style and coloring, it’s easy to determine that it is Jenna.

I can suddenly feel my heart pound in my throat and my mouth is dry, like I really need a drink. What’s confusing is that, at the same time I want to avoid her, I also urgently want to see her again. These feelings are pulling me in two directions like a huge tug-of-war.

And she’s here watching me, which means she’s clearly not avoiding me. She might have even sought me out. Slowly, I kick at the dirt clods at the edge of the arena and make my way toward her, my heart speeding up the closer I get. She doesn’t come forward to greet me, but she doesn’t turn and walk away either. And with each step I take, I realize that I’m craving the chance to see her face again, to talk to her, to hold her, to kiss her.