And then there, standing before her, was Madame Zaran.
There was a strange light in the fortune teller’s eyes. She said but one word:
“Well?”
In that one word Florence seemed to feel a dark challenge.
“No vision today,” she replied simply.
“No!” Madame’s voice was harsh. “And there will be no visions for you. Never again. You have betrayed the sacred symbol!” Her voice rose shrill and high. Her short fingers formed themselves into claw-like curves. Her tiger-like hair appeared to stand on end.
“You—” her eyes burned fire. “You are a traitor. You—”
She broke short off. Her weak mouth fell open. Her pupils dilated, she stared at the midnight blue drapes. Then, for a third time, Florence saw it—the shadow, the long, thin face, the narrow nose, the curved chin, the shadow of Satan, all but the horns and the forked tail.
While Madame still stared speechless, Florence slipped from her chair, glided from the room, caught the teetering elevator, then found herself once more upon the noisy city street.
“Ah!” she breathed. “There was a time when I thought this street a dangerous place. Now it is a haven, a place of refuge.”