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338 A Face to Meet the Faces Clairvoyant Gillian Devereux I know this is all fake, and yet I believe. Even the most intelligent among us wants to know the future. Some obvious trick works the act—a stage trap, a gypsy switch, an audience plant. No one this pretty sees the unknown. A tired, listless audience crowds around me, caked in dust and misery. They’re desperate for rain, for work, for magic. They’re desperate for a charm to halt the dark. I’m desperate too, for this girl who pretends she has all the answers, who poses on stage, her gown molded to the curve of her body. The fabric skims skin and bone, frames the slope between her breasts, and then, suddenly, falls open to reveal a naked thigh. I can’t remember how I got here or where I’m headed. I can’t move beyond the shape of her face, smooth and cold like a crystal ball. I want to help her con these farmers and railroad men, help her read their minds, their fears. It’s done with mirrors in some shows, but in others the girl takes a partner who speaks to her in a private code, all his words chosen and deliberate, all his syllables heavy with some hidden meaning. ...

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