But every time someone shuffles a deck and asks a question they probably already know the answer to, somewhere in that enormous psychic territory, the lights come on.

A file lands on a desk.

A phone rings.

Someone swears.

And the cards go to work.

Nobody knew precisely where the building was located, including the people who worked there.

Amy walked into the room as if she had already won an argument nobody had started.

She looked at Penny.

“You’re in my chair.”

Penny blinked.

“I’m in Position One.”

“I know.”

“You’re Position Two.”

“I know.”

Penny waited.

Amy sat.

Charles closed his eyes briefly.

Wanda arrived behind her.

Five of Wands.

Wanda, the Five of Wands, was the Department of Competition, Friction, Debate, Chaos, and Turning Every Group Discussion Into a Contact Sport.

She was already arguing with someone in the hallway.

“I didn’t say you were wrong. I said your entire premise was bullshit.”

A voice shouted something back.

Wanda leaned into the hallway.

“THAT’S NOT WHAT OBJECTIVELY MEANS.”

Charles looked toward the ceiling.

“Wanda.”

She turned.

“Oh. Morning.”

“Chair Three.”

“I know how numbers work, Charles.”

Amy snorted.

Wanda looked at her.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“No, say it.”

Charles raised one hand.

“No.”

Neither woman looked at him.

“No,” he repeated.

Amy smiled.

Wanda sat.

Penny quietly moved her legal pad six inches to the left.

Miranda arrived carrying seven folders.

Miranda was the Seven of Cups the Department of Possibilities, Imagination, Temptation, Confusion, Fantasy, and Having So Many Options That Choosing One Became Its Own Emergency.

Charles stared at the folders.

“I don’t want to know.”

“I have theories.”

“Of course you do.”

“Seven.”

“Of course.”

“I’ve color-coded them.”

Charles’s forehead wrinkled.

“That somehow makes it worse.”

Miranda smiled and took Chair Four.

Donna came through the door next.

Ten of Wands.

Donna, the Ten of Wands, was the Department of Burden, Responsibility, Overwork, Carrying Too Much, and Saying ‘It’s Fine’ When It Was Very Clearly Not Fine.

She carried a laptop, two binders, a tote bag, someone else’s coffee, a stack of mail, and what appeared to be a printer cartridge.

Charles frowned.

“Why are you carrying a printer cartridge?”

“Hank asked me to bring it downstairs.”

“Hank is on the second floor.”

“I know.”

“We’re on six.”

“I was already coming this way.”

“Donna.”

“It’s fine.”

It clearly wasn’t fine.

She lowered everything beside Chair Five with the exhausted sigh of a woman personally responsible for keeping civilization operational.

Then Gay Perry arrived.

Seven of Wands.

Perry is the Seven of Wands, the official department was Defensiveness, Advocacy & Unnecessary Escalation, a division whose necessity Charles questioned weekly and whose budget Perry defended so ferociously that nobody had successfully reduced it.

Perry was impossible to miss.

He was flamboyant without ever appearing to have tried particularly hard at it. His clothes were immaculate. His hair was immaculate. His nails were not merely manicured; they were evidence that somewhere in the universe, standards still existed.

Perry could raise one eyebrow and make a grown man reconsider the previous fifteen minutes of his life.

His true gift, however, was language.

He never needed to shout.

Perry could dismantle an argument with eleven words, ruin someone’s afternoon with six, and occasionally end an entire departmental dispute simply by asking, “Are we really doing this?”

His comebacks arrived instantly, elegantly, and with just enough cruelty to be useful.

Charles considered this an organizational liability.

Everyone else considered it one of the employee benefits.

Perry entered the conference room, glanced at the Board, and inspected one perfectly manicured nail.

“Who are we defending?”

“We don’t know yet,” Charles said.

Perry raised an eyebrow.

“Marvelous. My favorite kind.”

“We may not be defending anyone.”

Perry looked genuinely offended.

“Then why the fuck am I here?”

Charles pointed toward the Board.

“Because she pulled you.”

Perry looked at SEVEN OF WANDS — POSITION SIX.

Then back at Charles.

“Well.” He crossed one leg elegantly over the other. “Clearly somebody needs defending.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Charles, darling.” Perry settled into Chair Six. “I am literally the Seven of Wands. Nobody calls me because everything is going well.”

Charles stared at him.

“This is going to be a long morning.”

Perry smiled.

“Your forehead said that before I got here.”

Linda entered quietly.

Five of Cups.

Linda was the Five of Cups, the Department of Grief, Loss, Regret, Mourning, Disappointment, and the Feelings Nobody Was Allowed to Make Fun Of.

She took Chair Seven without speaking.

The energy in the room softened around her.

Luci arrived a moment later.

Three of Cups.

Luci was the Three of Cups, the Department of Friendship, Celebration, Community, Emotional Support, Shared Joy, and Refusing to Let Anyone Suffer Alone.

Warm, bright, and socially incapable of allowing another human being to suffer alone, she paused beside Linda before taking her own chair.

“You okay?” Luci asked softly.

Linda gave her a small smile.

“No.”

Luci squeezed her shoulder.

“Okay.”

Nothing more.

Perry watched them.

His expression softened.

For all the razor blades hidden in his vocabulary, Perry knew exactly when not to use them.

Nobody made a joke.

Barry entered next.

Two of Swords.

Barry was the Department of Indecision, Stalemate, Avoidance, Suspended Judgment, and Pretending That Not Choosing Wasn’t Also a Choice.

He stopped between Chairs Eight and Nine.

Everyone waited.

Barry looked at both chairs.

“Nine,” Charles said.

“I know.”

Barry continued looking.

“Barry.”

“I’m deciding.”

“Your chair is assigned.”

“I understand.”

“Then there is nothing to decide.”

Barry frowned.

“That’s one interpretation.”

Perry stared at him.

“Barry, darling, it’s a fucking number.”

Barry looked at him.

“I don’t appreciate being rushed.”

“You’ve been standing there for thirty seconds.”

“Exactly.”

“Sit down before I age.”

Barry sat.

“I would’ve gotten there.”

“Eventually,” Perry said.

“Probably.”

Perry looked at Charles.

“I need coffee.”

“You’ve been here thirty seconds.”

“And somehow I’m exhausted.”

“I came in optimistic,” Perry continued. “That was my first mistake.”

“You came in complaining.”

“I contain multitudes.”

“You contain grievances,” Charles said, returning to the papers in front of him.

“Also true.”

Finally, footsteps approached.

Victor entered.

Six of Wands.

Victor was the Six of Wands, the Department of Victory, Recognition, Public Success, Confidence, Applause, and Assuming the Outcome Was Positive Before Anyone Had Finished Reading the Question.

Victor did not walk into rooms.

Victor arrived in them.

He paused inside the doorway, surveyed the assembled group and smiled.

“Good morning, everyone.”

Amy groaned.

Victor ignored her.

“I understand congratulations are in order.”

Charles looked at him.

“For what?” Charles asked.

Victor gestured toward the Board.

“Outcome.”

“We don’t know the question,” Charles said.

Victor shrugged. “Still counts.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Charles said.

Victor took Chair Ten.

“Agree to disagree.”

Perry looked him slowly up and down.

“Confidence really is fascinating when completely unsupported by information.”

Victor smiled.

“Jealousy doesn’t suit you.”

Perry inspected one perfect nail.

“Neither does that tie, but here we both are.”

Penny coughed into her hand.

Charles looked down at his paperwork to conceal something suspiciously close to a smile.

8:29 A.M. — WHAT THE FUCK DID SHE ASK?

Ten cards.

Ten people.

Ten numbered chairs.

One question.

Unfortunately, nobody inside Tarot Headquarters knew what the question was.

That was the problem.

The Reader knew.

The Reader always knew.

But The Reader existed somewhere beyond the walls of Headquarters, beyond the Board, beyond the Archive, beyond even the elevator’s inexplicable eleventh floor.

She shuffled.

They interpreted.

That was the arrangement.

Charles stood at the head of the table and surveyed the spread made flesh.

Penny sat poised with her pencil.

Amy looked ready to defeat someone.

Wanda looked ready to help her.

Miranda had seven possibilities.

Donna was carrying everyone else’s problems.

Perry was prepared to defend someone he had not yet identified.

Linda was grieving.

Luci sat beside her.

Barry couldn’t decide.

Victor believed they’d already succeeded.

Charles’s forehead wrinkled.

“What the fuck did she ask?”

Perry lifted his coffee.

“And there it is.”

8:31 A.M. — UNAUTHORIZED PERSONNEL

The door opened.

Milo appeared holding a clipboard.

Milo was the Eight of Wands, Department of Communication, Speed, Messages, Momentum, Rapid Developments, and Shit That Apparently Could Not Wait Until Morning.

According to the unauthorized brass plaque Rocco had installed on his office door, his full title was:

DIRECTOR OF SHIT THAT APPARENTLY CANNOT WAIT UNTIL MORNING

“I’ve distributed the preliminary notification,” Milo announced.

Charles opened his eyes.

“What preliminary notification?”

“Reading in progress.”

“Everyone in the building already knows there’s a reading in progress.”

“Now they know officially.”

“Milo.”

“Yes?”

“Stop communicating.”

Milo looked genuinely confused.

“I’m Communications.”

Perry raised one immaculate hand.

“I’d like to nominate that exchange for the building newsletter.”

“We do not have a building newsletter.”

Milo immediately wrote something down.

Charles pointed at him.

“Don’t.”

Milo looked up.

“Don’t what?”

“Write that down.”

“I’m taking notes.”

“I know what you’re doing. Stop taking notes.”

Milo lowered his pen.

“Of the meeting?”

“Of everything.”

Milo stared at him.

“I’m Communications.”

“You’ve mentioned that.”

“It’s literally my job.”

“You are not supposed to be in this meeting.”

“That doesn’t make it less communicative.”

Charles’s forehead began to wrinkle.

Perry smiled.

“Oh, this is delicious.”

Charles pointed toward the door.

“Out.”

Just then conference-room door flew open hard enough to strike the wall.

Every head turned.

Rocco stood in the doorway as though the building had been waiting for him.

It had not.

Rocco was the Knight of Wands, Department of Impulse, Adventure, Risk, Passion, Recklessness, and Turning Situations Requiring Patience Into Situations Requiring Insurance.

His official job description was considerably less clear than his department name suggested. Nobody could remember seeing him behind a desk. Charles wasn’t entirely convinced Rocco had a desk.

What Rocco did have was momentum.

Rocco went first and considered consequences once they had caught up with him. He volunteered for things before understanding what they were. He regarded the phrase bad idea as preliminary feedback.

If a door was locked, Rocco knew another entrance. If there was a velvet rope, Rocco knew the guy holding it. If there was no guy holding it, Rocco knew a guy who knew the guy who was supposed to be holding it.

Rocco could get you into the VIP section of a nightclub in almost any major American city despite apparently knowing nobody who actually worked there.

Nobody knew how.

Rocco knew a guy.

Rocco always knew a guy.

He had also once announced that a jump from a hotel roof into a swimming pool was perfectly safe because he had “measured the trajectory.”

There had been no measuring device.

There had barely been a trajectory.

Charles still had the incident report.

Rocco had kept the hotel wristband.

He was wearing his Tarot Headquarters baseball cap backward, naturally. A gold chain rested against his neck. Faded jeans. Sneakers. And across his chest, in large white letters, a black T-shirt that read:

I’M NOT FLIRTING WITH YOUR WIFE.
SHE’S FLIRTING WITH ME.

Charles looked at the shirt.

Then at Rocco.

Then back at the shirt.

His face went completely still.

This was never a good sign.

Charles angry was manageable.

Charles arguing was familiar.

Charles completely still meant somewhere inside his head a formal complaint was being drafted in triplicate.

Charles slowly removed his glasses.

He did not take them off the way ordinary people removed glasses.

Charles removed his glasses when the situation had exceeded the corrective capabilities of prescription lenses.

He folded them carefully, one arm and then the other, and placed them on the table beside the spread.

“You’re not in the spread.”

“I know.”

There was no embarrassment in the answer. No sudden realization that this might mean he should leave. Rocco said it with the easy confidence of a man confirming the weather.

He remained leaning against the doorway, one shoulder against the frame, arms loosely crossed over his chest. His T-shirt contained a sentence Charles had already made the deliberate decision not to read twice.

Rocco was also the Knight of Wands, Department of Impulsive Decisions, Unnecessary Acceleration, Sexual Tension, Questionable Judgment, and Things That Seemed Like a Good Idea at the Time.

Technically, none of those responsibilities required his presence here.

This had never stopped him before.

Charles waited.

Rocco waited back.

The silence stretched.

Rocco appeared perfectly comfortable inside it.

Charles did not.

A small vertical line appeared between Charles’s eyebrows.

Then another.

“Then why are you here?”

Rocco pushed himself away from the doorframe and stepped the rest of the way into the room as though Charles had just invited him in.

“I heard there was a reading, Chuck.”

Silence.

Not ordinary silence.

Headquarters silence.

The kind that happened immediately before somebody cried, somebody resigned, or Gary appeared carrying baked goods.

Charles did not move.

Perry’s head rose slowly from the chair where he had been examining one immaculate thumbnail.

Milo stopped typing.

Even the fluorescent lights seemed to reconsider their involvement.

From somewhere in the Kitchen came the unmistakable sound of a metal tray hitting the floor.

Charles stared at Rocco.

Rocco stared pleasantly back.

Charles’s jaw tightened once.

Barely.

For anyone else, it would have been nothing.

At Tarot Headquarters, it registered as seismic activity.

Charles spoke very carefully.

“What did you call me?”

Rocco’s eyebrows pulled together.

“Chuck.”

Perry inhaled sharply.

Charles tilted his head.

“My name is Charles.”

“Right.”

“Charles.”

“Yeah.”

“Not Chuck.”

Rocco considered this.

“All right, Chuck.”

Perry made a small choking sound and turned it into a cough.

Charles looked at him.

Perry immediately became fascinated by the ceiling.

Charles returned his attention to Rocco.

“No.”

Rocco blinked.

“No what?”

“No Chuck.”

“I feel like we just covered this.”

“We did.”

“Great.”

“Do not call me Chuck.”

Rocco shoved his hands into his pockets.

“Seems a little formal.”

“It is my name.”

“Chuck is also your name.”

“It absolutely is not.”

“It’s derived from Charles.”

“I am aware of how nicknames work.”

“Then I’m not seeing the problem.”

Charles’s nostrils flared.

Very slightly.

Perry saw it.

Perry’s eyes widened.

“Oh, darling,” he whispered.

Charles ignored him.

“My name,” Charles said, each word placed carefully into the room, “is Mr. Charles Bentley.”

Rocco nodded.

“Okay.”

Charles waited.

Rocco smiled.

“Chuck.”

Perry folded completely in half.

Milo turned his chair away from the table because Communications had apparently decided plausible deniability was now departmental policy.

From the Kitchen doorway, Gary appeared.

He was holding a pair of metal tongs.

There was powdered sugar on his shirt.

Nobody knew how long he had been standing there.

Gary looked at Charles.

Then Rocco.

Then Perry, who was visibly shaking.

“What happened?”

Rocco jerked his thumb toward Charles.

“Chuck’s mad.”

Gary disappeared back into the Kitchen.

Immediately.

Charles closed his eyes.

“Rocco.”

“Chuck.”

Charles opened them.

“Leave.”

“Why?”

“Because you are not in the spread.”

“I know.”

“We established that.”

“Several times.”

“And yet you remain.”

Rocco glanced toward the cards laid across the table.

“Yeah, but Milo said shit was happening.”

Milo spun around.

“I said something was happening.”

“You said, and I quote, ‘Dude, shit is happening.’”

“That was about the copier.”

“The copier was serious.”

“The copier was out of paper.”

“Exactly.”

Charles pointed toward the door.

“Out.”

Rocco looked at the finger.

Then at Charles.

Then at Perry.

“Is he always like this?”

Perry straightened himself with considerable effort and dabbed delicately beneath one eye.

“You may be the bravest man I have ever met.”

Rocco looked genuinely surprised.

“I called him Chuck.”

“Yes, darling.”

Perry glanced toward Charles.

Charles was standing perfectly still behind the table, glasses off, jaw set, one hand still pointing toward the exit.

Perry lowered his voice.

“That’s why.”

Rocco looked back at Charles.

A slow grin spread across his face.

Charles saw it.

And somewhere deep inside the collective unconscious, something terrible became permanent.

“Don’t,” Charles said.

Rocco backed toward the hallway.

“See you later, Chuck.”

Charles’s head snapped toward the door.

“ROCCO.”

Rocco grinned.

Milo made the catastrophic mistake of laughing.

Charles pointed at the hallway.

“Both of you. Leave.”

Rocco raised his hands.

“Okay, okay.”

“Now.”

“I’m going.”

“You’re still talking.”

“That’s generally how goodbyes work, Chuck.”

“OUT.”

Rocco disappeared into the hallway.

The door swung shut behind him.

Silence returned.

Charles stood motionless, one hand still extended toward the door.

He lowered it slowly.

Straightened his jacket.

Adjusted his glasses.

Inhaled through his nose.

The room waited.

Then Perry’s eyes drifted to the far end of the table.

Milo was still sitting there.

Milo looked at Perry.

Perry looked at Milo.

Neither moved.

Charles noticed.

His eyes closed.

“Milo.”

“Yeah?”

“I said both of you.”

“I heard you.”

“Then why are you still here?”

Milo considered this.

“I thought that was mostly directed at Rocco.”

“I pointed at both of you.”

“Yeah, but emotionally?”

Charles slowly removed his glasses.

Perry covered his mouth.

“Do not encourage him,” Charles said.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Your face did.”

Milo stood.

“Okay. I’m leaving.”

“Thank you.”

“But if anything happens—”

“Nothing is going to happen.”

Milo glanced at the Board.

Then at Miranda.

Then at Linda.

Then back at Charles.

“Feels optimistic.”

“MILO.”

“I’m gone.”

He reached the door.

Opened it.

Rocco was standing directly on the other side.

“Anything happen?”

Charles pointed.

Both men vanished.

The door shut.

Again.

Charles stared at it.

Five seconds passed.

Ten.

Nothing.

Charles turned around.

Perry smiled sweetly.

Charles pointed at him.

“Not one word.”

Perry lifted both hands.

“I support your leadership.”

“Somehow that was worse.”

From the Kitchen, Gary called:

“Do we need beignets?”

Charles picked up his glasses.

“No.”

A pause.

Gary called again.

“Making them anyway.”

Charles put his glasses back on.

Nobody said another word.

But from that day forward, everyone at Tarot Headquarters understood two things.

Mr. Charles Bentley’s name was Charles.

And Rocco was going to call him Chuck until the end of time.

Then came the smell.

Warm oil.

Powdered sugar.

Perry sat up straighter.

“Oh, shit.”

8:43 A.M. — EMERGENCY CARBOHYDRATE RESPONSE

Gary appeared in the doorway carrying a tray.

Charles immediately checked the Board.

Ten of Swords wasn’t there.

He looked back at Gary.

“You’re not in the spread either.”

“I know.”

Gary entered.

Gary was the Ten of Swords, Department of Endings, Collapse, Exhaustion, Betrayal, Rock Bottom, and Emotional Disaster Response.

The Ten of Swords was what happened when ordinary heartbreak had exhausted its available resources.

Three of Swords was heartbreak.

Five of Cups was grief.

Ten of Swords was lying face-down on the floor wondering whether getting up was really necessary.

This made Gary uniquely qualified for emotional emergencies.

Whether Gary was actually qualified for anything else remained unclear.

In fact, whether Gary worked at Tarot Headquarters at all remained an open administrative question.

Gary had never applied for a job.

He had never interviewed.

He had never been formally hired.

There was no onboarding paperwork.

No tax documentation anyone could locate.

No signed employee handbook acknowledgment.

No one remembered issuing him a badge.

And yet Gary had a badge.

He also had keys.

Several of them.

No one knew what they opened.

Charles had once asked Human Resources to investigate.

Three weeks later, HR sent him Gary’s personnel file.

It contained one sheet of paper.

EMPLOYEE: GARY

POSITION: UNKNOWN

DEPARTMENT: POSSIBLY KITCHEN

SUPERVISOR: GARY

EMERGENCY CONTACT: GARY

EMPLOYMENT STATUS: UNDER REVIEW

Someone had handwritten beneath it:

Gary was already here.

Charles had returned the file to HR.

HR sent it back.

Neither department had mentioned it since.

Gary, meanwhile, continued reporting to the Kitchen.

Nobody—including Gary—knew how or why he had ended up there.

The prevailing theory was that several years earlier, Headquarters had experienced an emotional catastrophe severe enough to require immediate pastry intervention.

Gary had appeared with beignets.

He never left.

At some point, somebody gave him an apron.

Then access to the walk-in.

Then purchasing authority.

By the time anyone realized there had never actually been an employment process, Gary was ordering fifty-pound bags of flour and arguing with vendors.

Removing him would have required paperwork.

So Gary stayed.

His operating philosophy had once been found taped to the staff refrigerator:

EMERGENCY CARBOHYDRATE RESPONSE PROTOCOL

THREE OF SWORDS:
ICE CREAM

FIVE OF CUPS:
WINE

TEN OF SWORDS:
BEIGNETS

Beneath that, in smaller type:

DO NOT ASK WHAT HAPPENED.

DO NOT ATTEMPT PREMATURE EMOTIONAL PROCESSING.

LOCATE POWDERED SUGAR.

SECURE THE PERIMETER.

PROTECT THE FUCKING BEIGNETS.

Charles had objected to the profanity.

Gary had pointed out that the profanity was operationally necessary.

Charles had removed the sign.

Gary laminated another copy.

Then Rocco found a Sharpie.

Next to THREE OF SWORDS: ICE CREAM, Rocco had written:

Unless she cheated. Then tequila.

Next to FIVE OF CUPS: WINE, he added:

Tequila works faster.

Gary had crossed that out.

Rocco had written it back.

Gary crossed it out again.

Rocco underlined it.

Beside TEN OF SWORDS: BEIGNETS, Rocco had drawn an arrow and written:

WAIT 30 SECONDS BEFORE EATING. GARY SERVES THEM AT THE TEMPERATURE OF THE FUCKING SUN.

Gary had added:

THAT SOUNDS LIKE A YOU PROBLEM.

And at the bottom, Rocco had created an entirely unauthorized fourth category:

THE TOWER:

FUCK THE PROTOCOL.

GRAB THE BEIGNETS.

RUN.

Charles had discovered the modifications during a routine inspection.

He had stared at the sign for a very long time.

“Is that permanent marker?”

Rocco had looked up from his phone.

“Sharpie.”

“I know what a Sharpie is.”

“Then why’d you ask?”

“Why would you use permanent ink on a laminated protocol?”

Rocco shrugged.

“I like to commit.”

Gary had looked at him.

“That may be the least accurate thing anyone has ever said in this building.”

The sign remained on the refrigerator.

Mostly because removing it hadn’t helped.

Rocco’s Sharpie had bled straight through the paper and onto the white refrigerator door beneath it.

Charles had discovered this when he peeled the sign away and found:

TEQUILA WORKS FASTER

permanently transferred onto Headquarters property.

He had tried soap.

Then rubbing alcohol.

Then something from Maintenance that came with gloves and several warnings.

TEQUILA WORKS FASTER remained.

Eventually, Charles had put the sign back over it.

It seemed more professional.

A few minutes later, Gary entered the conference room carrying a tray.

Beignets.

Fresh.

Warm.

Buried beneath an irresponsible amount of powdered sugar.

Charles looked at him.

“Then why are you here?”

Gary raised the tray slightly.

“Emergency Carbohydrate Response Protocol.”

“That is not a protocol.”

Gary looked toward Linda.

Five of Cups. Department of Grief, Regret, Disappointment & Staring at What Went Wrong.

Linda sat with her shoulders folded inward, staring at the Board like it had personally ruined her life.

Gary looked back at Charles.

“Agree to disagree.”

Charles followed his gaze.

His expression softened.

Just slightly.

“Technically she’s Five of Cups.”

“I know.”

“The protocol specifies wine.”

“It’s a weeknight.”

Charles stared at him.

Gary stared back.

There were moments when Charles remembered that he had absolutely no authority over Gary.

This was partly because nobody knew who did.

“Fine.”

Gary carried the tray to the small table beside the conference-room door and set it down.

He selected one, placed it carefully on a small plate, and crossed the room.

Gary stopped beside Linda.

Five of Cups.

Linda looked miserable.

Gary looked at her.

Then at the beignet.

Then back at Linda.

He placed the plate in front of her.

A small cloud of powdered sugar lifted from the pastry and settled directly across the corner of Charles’s briefing.

Charles looked down.

White powder covered three lines of carefully organized notes.

He slowly raised his eyes.

“Gary.”

Gary looked at him.

“You got powdered sugar on the briefing.”

“It’ll come off.”

“This is a formal reading.”

“Then don’t lick the paperwork.”

Perry made a small choking sound.

Charles ignored him.

From the partially open doorway, an arm appeared.

Just an arm.

Rocco’s.

It slipped around the doorframe and felt blindly along the little table.

Once.

Twice.

Then found the tray.

Gary saw it.

Rocco’s fingers closed around a beignet.

Gary slapped his hand.

“OW.”

“You’re supposed to be gone.”

“I smelled beignets.”

“You were in the hallway.”

“I have excellent instincts.”

Gary moved the tray six inches farther from the door.

“Protect the beignets.”

Rocco’s hand reappeared.

Gary moved the tray again.

The hand followed.

Gary stared at it.

“Rocco.”

The hand froze.

From the behind the door came Rocco’s voice.

“Yeah, G?”

Gary’s entire body went still.

There was a pause.

A long one.

Gary slowly turned toward the doorway.

“What did you call me?”

Apparently, Rocco had decided that sometime between being thrown out of the meeting and attempting to steal a beignet, he and Gary had reached the nickname stage of their relationship.

They had not.

The hand withdrew immediately.

“Nothing.”

“That’s what I thought.”

The door pulled shut.

Gary waited another second, then returned the tray to the small table.

Perry rose from his chair.

Charles watched him cross the room, walk directly past Gary, and take a beignet.

Gary did not stop him.

Charles stared.

Perry noticed.

“What?”

“You heard Gary.”

Perry looked at the beignet in his hand.

Then at Gary.

Then back at Charles.

It took him a moment to understand the objection.

“Oh, darling. That was for Rocco.”

“Gary said protect the beignets.”

“Yes.”

“From everyone.”

Perry glanced at Gary.

Gary said nothing.

Perry turned back to Charles.

“I’m Gay Perry.”

He said this as though it settled the matter.

For Perry, it usually did.

He said this the way other people might say I have diplomatic immunity or I’m authorized personnel.

At Headquarters, Perry had long operated under the assumption that being gay constituted its own category of clearance.

Charles had long operated under the assumption that it did not.

Neither position had ever been formally tested.

Charles stared at him.

“That is not an exemption.”

Perry’s eyebrows rose.

“Since when?”

“Since always.”

“That is absolutely not how this building has been operating.”

Charles opened his mouth.

Stopped.

Because, unfortunately, Perry had a point. He took a bite.

His eyes widened.

“Oh, fuck.”

Gary nodded once.

“Exactly.”

Charles closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, Perry had powdered sugar on one immaculate cuff, Linda was quietly pulling apart a beignet as though it had personally disappointed her, and Gary had positioned himself between the tray and the doorway like a carbohydrate-based Secret Service agent.

Rocco’s fingertips appeared around the doorframe.

Gary pointed at them.

They vanished.

Charles looked toward the ceiling.

Somewhere above him, the universe remained conspicuously silent.

“Wonderful.”

Gary nodded.

“Protocol’s working.”

“No one asked you.”

“You’re welcome.”

8:55 A.M. — THE READING, FINALLY

Twelve minutes later, they were finally getting somewhere.

This was not unusual.

Distractions were always abundant at Tarot Headquarters.

People wandered into readings they were not in.

Communications documented things nobody had asked Communications to document.

Rocco existed.

There were occasionally beignets.

What began as a straightforward interpretation could lose twenty minutes before anyone successfully interpreted anything.

Eventually, someone had to intervene.

That someone was usually Charles.

Unfortunately, Charles had spent most of the morning trying to intervene.

He looked around the conference room.

Milo was gone.

Rocco was gone.

Gary had successfully secured the beignets.

Perry was eating one but, apparently, had diplomatic immunity.

Linda had eaten approximately none of hers.

Miranda had been prevented from opening any additional folders.

For the first time all morning, every person remaining in the room was either actually in the spread or had at least stopped actively interfering with it.

Charles picked up his marker.

“Now.”

He turned toward the Board.

“Can we please discuss the cards?”

Charles turned back toward the Board.

He straightened his jacket.

Picked up his marker.

Attempted to reclaim what remained of his authority.

“Now. Let’s establish what we know.”

Miranda opened a folder.

Charles pointed at her without even turning around.

“No.”

“I haven’t said anything.”

“You inhaled.”

Miranda slowly closed the folder.

Charles pointed toward Penny.

“Penny opens us with something new. Something practical. An opportunity, perhaps. A message. A beginning.”

Penny nodded and took notes.

“Amy crosses her.”

Amy smiled.

“Conflict.”

“Potential conflict,” Charles corrected.

“Same thing eventually.”

Charles didn’t even look up.

“No.”

Wanda leaned forward, planting both forearms on the table.

“And I’m underneath it.”

“Yes.”

Her eyes moved from Charles to the Board and back again.

“So there was already tension.”

“Possibly.”

“Definitely.”

“Possibly.”

Wanda sat back, unconvinced.

The Five of Wands did not particularly care for possibly.

Wanda was the Department of Conflict, Competition, Tension, Disagreement, and Everybody Talking at Once. She could detect friction in an empty elevator.

To Wanda, tension was rarely a possibility.

It was usually just waiting for someone to admit it was there.

Across the table, Amy had been watching her.

Amy was the Five of Swords, Department of Conflict, Winning at All Costs, Hollow Victories, Arguments That Went Too Far, and Things You Probably Shouldn’t Have Said Out Loud.

She looked at Wanda with the particular expression only the Five of Swords could give the Five of Wands:

the quiet, unmistakable recognition that an argument was available.

Amy straightened slightly.

“You’re wrong.”

Wanda’s head snapped toward her.

The movement was immediate.

“About what?”

Amy paused.

Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

“I don’t know yet.”

Wanda stared at her.

“Then how am I wrong?”

“I’ll circle back.”

Wanda’s mouth fell open.

Amy calmly picked up her coffee.

Perry stopped mid-bite.

Linda looked up from the remains of her beignet.

Even Gary glanced over from pastry security.

Wanda pointed across the table.

“No. Absolutely not. You do not get to start an argument and then schedule the reason for later.”

Amy took a sip.

“I just did.”

Wanda turned toward Charles.

“Are you hearing this?”

Charles was already rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“Yes.”

“And?”

“And I am begging both Fives to remember that we are attempting to interpret a spread.”

Amy gestured toward Wanda with her coffee.

“She started it.”

Wanda nearly came out of her chair.

“I STARTED IT?”

Charles closed his eyes.

And just like that, 8:55 A.M. was beginning to look optimistic.Everyone stopped.

He pointed between them.

“This is precisely why you two should never be adjacent.”

Perry took another bite of his beignet, chewing thoughtfully as he studied the Board.

“The cards disagree.”

Charles turned his head slowly.

The look he gave Perry suggested that the Seven of Wands was approximately one sentence away from joining Milo and Rocco in the hallway.

“Do not encourage them.”

Perry brushed a dusting of powdered sugar from his fingertips.

“I’m defending the spread.”

“Of course you are.”

Perry straightened in his chair, mildly offended that this required explanation.

“It’s literally my job.”

Charles held his gaze for a moment, apparently searching for an argument against the Seven of Wands doing exactly what the Seven of Wands was designed to do.

He found none.

This irritated him further.

Charles turned back to the Board.

For several miraculous minutes, the reading actually progressed.

Cards were discussed.

Positions were clarified.

Nobody unauthorized entered the room.

Nobody touched the door.

Nobody called Charles Chuck.

It was, by Headquarters standards, extraordinary productivity.

Miranda leaned forward, studying the spread with her chin resting against one hand.

Then her eyes brightened.

Charles noticed.

His shoulders dropped.

“No.”

Miranda looked up.

“I haven’t said anything.”

“You have Seven of Cups face.”

“I do not have Seven of Cups face.”

“You absolutely have Seven of Cups face.”

Miranda opened her folder.

Of course she had a folder.

She offered seven possible interpretations.

This was not intentional.

It was simply what happened when the Seven of Cups was asked what something might mean.

Charles listened to all seven with the increasingly rigid expression of a man being presented with seven exits from a building and discovering that five opened directly into traffic.

He rejected the first.

Then the third.

Then the fourth.

The sixth lasted approximately eleven seconds.

The seventh never really had a chance.

Miranda made a small mark beside each rejected interpretation.

Charles should have recognized this as a warning.

He did not.

They moved on.

Or Charles believed they moved on.

Three minutes later, Miranda quietly resurrected two of them.

Charles stopped writing.

His marker remained pressed against the Board.

Slowly, he turned around.

“I rejected those.”

Miranda looked down at her notes.

“You rejected them at the time.”

“There has been no new information.”

“There’s been context.”

“It has been three minutes.”

“A lot can happen in three minutes.”

From beside the door, Gary glanced toward the handle.

Given the morning they had been having, he could not entirely disagree. Donna somehow accepted three additional responsibilities during the meeting despite nobody assigning her anything.

Perry defended Linda, Luci, the spread itself, and at one point the constitutional right of Miranda to have seven theories, although nobody could identify which constitution he was referring to.

Linda quietly identified the grief underneath everything.

Luci reminded them that connection did not automatically mean romance, reconciliation, or disaster.

Barry remained undecided.

“About what?” Charles finally asked.

Barry frowned.

“Everything.”

“Of course.”

Then they reached Position Ten.

Victor straightened.

Charles looked at him.

Victor smiled.

“Victory.”

“We don’t know that.”

“Success.”

“Potentially.”

“Recognition.”

“Possibly.”

“Triumph.”

“Victor.”

Victor spread his hands.

“I’m literally Six of Wands.”

From the hallway came Rocco’s voice.

“WE FUCKING WON!”

Charles spun toward the door.

“ROCCO!”

Silence.

Then:

“Sorry.”

Perry examined his nails.

He’s not.”

“I know.”

By 8:58 a.m., the Interpretation and Response Conference Room contained fourteen people despite only ten having been summoned.

Sean from Risk Management had appeared with a twenty-seven-page preliminary report titled POTENTIAL NEGATIVE OUTCOMES.

Sean was the Nine of Swords, Department of Anxiety, Worry, Fear, Overthinking, Sleepless Nights, and Imagining Catastrophes That Had Not Technically Happened Yet.

Risk Management was less his occupation than his natural habitat. Sean did not believe in waiting for something to go wrong.
That was irresponsible.

He preferred to identify everything that could go wrong, organize it by probability, cross-reference it with several things that had gone wrong previously, and then worry about all of them simultaneously.

The report had tabs.

Charles noticed this immediately.

“How preliminary is preliminary?”

Sean looked down at the twenty-seven pages.

“I’m still assessing.”

“Of course you are.”

“There are several emerging concerns.”

“Nothing has happened yet.”

Sean looked genuinely puzzled.

“That’s why they’re potential.”

Charles stared at him.

Sean opened the report.

“I’ve identified fourteen primary risks, nine secondary risks, and three scenarios I’ve classified as unlikely but emotionally devastating.”
Perry looked up.

“Is that an official risk category?”

“It is now.”

Charles closed his eyes.

Sean turned a page.

“There’s also an appendix.”

“Of course there is.”

“Appendix A is escalation pathways.”

Charles opened his eyes.

“And Appendix B?”

Sean hesitated.

“Things I thought of after I went to bed.”

Nobody asked what time Sean had gone to bed. The Nine of Swords rarely had a useful answer to that question.

Hank was repairing the conference-room door.

Nobody knew what had happened to it.

Everyone suspected Rocco.

Milo had issued three updates about a meeting that was still occurring.

Miranda was back to seven theories.

Donna was now holding Hank’s screwdriver.

Gary remained stationed beside the small table near the door, guarding the remaining beignets with the vigilance of a man entrusted with nuclear launch codes.

This was not entirely theatrical.

Rocco had already attempted one unauthorized extraction from the hallway.

Gary considered that a security breach.

There would not be a second.

Across the room, Elliott was hovering approximately eighteen inches above his chair.

Elliott was the Four of Pentacles, Department of Holding On, Possession, Control, Security, and Refusing to Let Go of Absolutely Anything.

He was also known throughout Headquarters as Elliott the Levitator.

Nobody knew why he levitated.

It had nothing whatsoever to do with the traditional meaning of the Four of Pentacles.

Elliott simply did.

Sometimes six inches.

Sometimes two feet.

Once, during a particularly contentious quarterly meeting, he had reached the ceiling.

Nobody mentioned it anymore.

There had been questions initially.

Then concern.

Then an email from HR.

Eventually, Headquarters arrived at the only workable policy:

Gravity was a personal matter.

Charles stood at the head of the table and surveyed the room.

“All right.”

Nobody listened.

His forehead wrinkled.

“ALL RIGHT.”

Silence.

“We have a practical beginning crossed by conflict. More conflict beneath it. Multiple possibilities. Burden. Defense. Grief. Connection. Stalemate.”

He paused.

“And Victor.”

Victor smiled.

“Victory.”

Charles exhaled through his nose.

Perry leaned back.

“So did we help her?”

Charles looked at the Board.

“That remains unclear.”

“Did we answer the question?”

“We don’t know the question.”

“Do we know what she should do?”

“No.”

“Do we know what this is about?”

“Not conclusively.”

Perry nodded.

“Great.”

Charles stared at him.

“How is that great?”

Perry pointed one perfectly manicured finger toward Victor.

“Apparently we won.”

Charles looked around the room.

At Penny’s immaculate notes.

Amy and Wanda glaring at each other.

Miranda’s folders.

Donna’s impossible workload.

Linda beside Luci.

Barry still thinking.

Victor looking insufferably pleased with himself.

Rocco’s powdered-sugar fingerprints on the edge of the table.

Gary guarding the beignets.

Sean’s catastrophe report.

Milo typing another communication.

Hank holding out his hand because Donna still had his screwdriver.

Elliott slowly approaching the ceiling.

And Perry, perfectly composed in the middle of the wreckage, checking his manicure.

Charles looked back at the Board.

SIX OF WANDS — VICTOR

He sighed.

“Fine.”

Charles opened the case file.

Under DISPOSITION, he wrote:

SUCCESSFUL RESOLUTION

Victor smiled.

Rocco burst through the doorway.

“WE FUCKING WON!”

Charles threw down his pen.

“We did not win, Rocco.”

Every phone in Tarot Headquarters chimed.

Charles stopped.

Slowly, he turned toward Milo.

Milo looked at his phone.

Then at Charles.

“What?”

Charles’s phone vibrated.

He looked down.

FROM: OFFICE OF COMMUNICATIONS

SUBJECT: VICTORY

Charles removed his glasses.

Gay Perry finished his beignet.

“Good meeting.”

“It was not a good meeting.”

“Could’ve been an email.”

Charles slowly turned toward him.

His forehead wrinkled.

Deeply.

Perry smiled.

“Careful, darling. At your age, those become permanent.”

Charles opened his mouth.

The lights flickered.

Everyone froze.

The Board went black.

A beat.

Then green letters appeared.

SHUFFLE DETECTED

Charles’s shoulders dropped.

Rocco grinned.

Miranda reopened her folders.

Sean reached for his report.

Gary pulled the beignets closer.

Milo lifted his clipboard.

Elliott continued toward the ceiling.

Gay Perry inspected his nails.

And somewhere outside Tarot Headquarters, blissfully unaware of the institutional damage she was causing, The Reader prepared to ask another question that nobody should fucking ask.

Charles stared at the Board.

“Don’t.”

The first card began to appear.

END OF EPISODE ONE

Episode Two Hope is Lost

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