“You’re allowed that too.” I offered a soft smile and moved a box of tissues across the table to her. I’d learned long ago to always keep tissues near during a reading. “But we’ll start with the basics, okay? Greta, you’re a Cancer Sun, Taurus Moon, Virgo Rising.”
“Is that good or bad?” Greta dabbed at her eyes.
“It’s very good,” I assured her. “It’s… just who you are. This is the kind of chart that loves creating safety, comfort, and care—especially around home and family. Cancer Sun means your heart lives with your people. Taurus Moon loves tangible comfort, food, textiles, beautiful, practical things. And Virgo Rising is the part of you that’s organized even when you feel like you’re falling apart. You show up for everyone else, even when you’re exhausted.”
Greta let out a shaky laugh. “That sounds… accurate. Too accurate. It’s a bit creepy, actually.”
“Occupational hazard,” I said wryly. “Astrology is like cosmic people-watching. Now, before we dig into what’s going on this year, is there anything you want to tell me about what’s brought you here? That’ll help me zero in on the right parts of the chart.”
Greta took a breath, lifted her chin like she was bracing for a wave, then nodded. “It’s tough … grieving. And being a single mum, now.” Her voice wobbled. “We, um, I, have two kids. They’re eight and five. I… uh… I’m working nights at the supermarket now. Shelf-stacking and till training. It’s honest work, but the hours are rubbish for the bairns. My mum comes by most nights. I barely see them awake except for the school run and weekends. And I’m… tired. All the time.”
My heart clenched. “I’m so sorry, Greta.”
“Everyone keeps saying that,” she whispered. “And I know they mean well, but I don’t want people to be sorry. I want… something that feels like a life again.” She tugged at a chain around her neck that held a wedding ring. “But I have an idea. That maybe, I don’t know…could be something more. A business, maybe. My own thing.”
“That’s what you want to ask about?” I asked gently. “Whether you should go for it?”
“Aye.” She nodded, eyes huge. “Because if I quit the supermarket and it goes wrong, it’s not just me I’m hurting. It’s the kids. The mortgage. Everything.”
I nodded slowly, fingers hovering over the trackpad. “Okay. Then we’ll look at your second house—money, income—and your tenth house—career. Also your fourth house, of home and family, because this decision impacts all of that. And we’ll see what’s lit up.”
I clicked to pull up her chart, the familiar wheel spinning into place.
And then my entire world shifted.
For a moment, I thought it was a trick of the eyes. But it wasn’t the screen that changed. It was… everything.
The lines of Greta’s chart—those neat aspects connecting planets across the wheel—shimmered. Just the faintest glimmer at first, like sunlight on a loch. I blinked and leaned closer.
The lines thickened, glowing softly.
I blinked, uncertain of what I was seeing, and sucked in a breath as the chart lifted. Off the screen. And floated gently into the air.
I gaped as silvery threads rose from the laptop, weaving themselves into the air between us, forming a delicate, three-dimensional web. They hummed with something old and powerful, a music I felt more than heard.
“Lass,”Bracken whispered, tiny claws tightening on my shoulder.“Do you see that?”
“You see it too?” I whispered back. My heart was pounding so hard I could feel it in my fingertips.
“See it? It’s like someone spilled the loom of fate all over your coffee table,”he breathed.“By the thistle, Liora, what are ye?”
“Is everything all right?” Greta asked, glancing between us, oblivious. To her, the chart was still just a chart. She couldn’t see the threads spiraling and twisting.
Focus. You’re reading for a very real, very fragile person.You can panic about glowing fate spaghetti later.
“Everything’s grand,” I said quickly, forcing my voice steady. “I’m just… tuning in.”
I reached out, hand passing through the luminous threads. A sensation like static skated over my skin—tiny sparks of insight or possibility, even.
And then images slammed into me.
Greta at her kitchen table, fabric strewn everywhere—tiny shirts, old rugby jerseys, a faded flannel shirt. Her hands moved with purpose, stitching pieces together. She was creating a quilt.
And then next, she looked to be at a summer market on the square and Greta sat behind a stall full of quilts, pillows, and textile keepsakes. A sign above her readHeartStitch Memory Quiltsby Greta MacLeod. People approached with warm smiles and curiosity.
Next, it switched to a small studio room off her kitchen, where she worked at a sewing machine while the kids slept in the next room. Warm light cocooned Greta as she worked with a peaceful expression and light music in the background.
The images snapped back like a rubber band. I sucked in a breath.