The Oracle Glass by Judith Merkle Riley Page B

taught it on their own faculty. After that, the Rector of the University himself invited me to call on him, and my persecutors in the Company of the Holy Sacrament were foiled. I still dine with the rector every so often—what a dear old pet! And what a table he spreads! Memorable!” I couldn’t help but be impressed by her knowledge of the world. I wanted it for myself. What a dull thing I’d been, just living in books!
    She reached into her desk and pulled out the contract. She pushed it toward me and pointed to the place I should sign. I could hardly read it, it moved about so, but I managed to hold it still long enough to dip the pen in the inkwell and splatter a signature across the bottom. She took up the paper, looked at it, and laughed.
    â€œI see a splendid future for you,” she said. “Water diviners are all the rage right now and travel in all the best circles. Of course, by themselves the images are not worth much; you must learn the art of interpretation from me, the study of physiognomy, the oracular pronouncement. But with your educated speech, you will be able to go—anywhere. And I do like a fashionable clientele; they will pay us both so much better.” She got up and poked the fire. I wished very seriously that she would open up the cupboard with the marzipan in it again, but she didn’t.
    â€œNow, in the course of your work, you will hear very sad stories: a cruel, unfeeling husband, a little, ah, embarrassment, on the way, the desire for a lover who is indifferent. These you will send to me. Your glass will reveal that in the rue Beauregard they may find assistance for their problems. Luck at cards, enlargement of the bosom, cures for the diseases of love, the preservation of the body from wounds on the field of battle. I offer a number of little confidential services, without which the world of fashion, of culture, could not flourish.”
    â€œOh, I see,” I said to be polite, but my mind was working about as well as my eyes, and I hadn’t taken anything in.
    â€œI doubt that you do, just now.” She chuckled. “Just do as I say, and we’ll be very happy with each other. Now, here is the sign by which you will be known as one of us—the ring finger and thumb together, palm up. Can you do it, or will I have to show you again later? Just remember, you are very far from being initiated into our true mysteries, so don’t get proud—and don’t try to outguess me, will you, dear? Yes, that’s right. Now, let me take your elbow and we’ll have dinner served. No, the door’s over here, remember?” And so it was all in a morning that I was swept into a secret world that I had never even suspected lay outside my own doorstep.
    That day, she saw to everything, disarming my confusion with a large and excellent midday dinner and the ordering of the mending of my dress, which she pronounced much too nice to discard, being a rather handsome light mourning gown in fine gray wool, all trimmed with black silk ribbons. All afternoon, somnolent with food, I languished upstairs in one of her immense, tapestry-hung bedrooms in my petticoats, awaiting the return of my dress. These were her hours for receiving clients, and I was not to be seen in her house. I leafed through a dull religious book prominently displayed on the nightstand, Réflections sur la miséricorde de Dieu , and then, rather daringly, searched the drawers, to be rewarded with a more interesting volume entitled Les amours du Palais Royal , a vial of what I took to be sleeping medicine, a number of curious iron implements made like long pins or hooks, and a heavy steel syringe with a long, slender tip. There was a pile of clean, folded linen napkins and a roll of sheep’s wool. I couldn’t imagine what it was all for. I was about to reward myself for my stay with the excellent book about the Palais Royal when a noise made me start, and I hurriedly put