Magic isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.  Trust me, I would know.  At three I learned I had an unusual ‘gift.’  Why people insist on using that word is beyond me.  ‘Gift’ makes it sound like a good thing.  Most of the time it’s anything but.  You see, when I touch something (or, worse, someone) with my bare skin, I learn things—things that are sometimes best kept private.  You can imagine what that does to my social life.  I can’t go anywhere without the protection of formal length gloves and clothes that cover almost every square inch of me.  But it’s the gloves that mark me for what I am—a clairvoyant.

To say my life is complicated would be an understatement.

Don’t get me wrong, it hasn’t been all bad.  I’ve made what many people fear into a successful career.  I read antiques.  I consult with archeologists, curators, appraisers and everyday people who want to know the secrets of old things.  Sometimes I even help the police.  I have friends.  I have enough money.  Yes, my life has its challenges, but I’m making it work.

Honestly, though, I think I’ve been in a rut, just going about my day to day business, comfortable with my life if not exactly fulfilled.  But now things have changed.  The Chiliquitham Police have asked for my help on a murder investigation.  What little they’ve told me scares me, which isn’t easy considering some of the readings I’ve done.
I’ve got a bad feeling about this case.  I worry it might land me in a psi-ward somewhere.

Or worse