The gypsy sent off her most recent customer with accented assurances that things would go exactly as the girl wished. She sat back in her chair and adjusted her scarf slightly, since she felt that it had slipped out of place. The wind that rattled the sign outside her tent also undid her hair, and she had to be careful about that.

Movement at the flap of the tent caught her attention. She spoke slowly and melodically. “You want your fortune told?” she inquired, coloring the words with hints of great power.

“That’s why I’m here,” the visitor agreed. The gypsy beckoned the woman into the tent and towards the chair that awaited all visitors to the fortune-teller Stasya.

“Tell me what you wish to know, and I’ll give you an answer,” the gypsy declared.

The woman, dark-skinned and dark-haired, sat down in the proffered seat, and the gypsy noticed how tall and strong her visitor was as the woman began to speak. “I feel like my world is falling apart. Everywhere I turn it seems like people I know are forced to do drastic things in order to survive. I don’t know what to do. Should I follow their lead and go to extremes just to stay in this world? Or should I remain myself and thus lose my place?”

Stasya put her hands on the crystal ball in front of her and concentrated. “I see... I see great success for you if you remain in your career. You are better off if you bite the bullet and do what you have to do to remain as you are.” Her eyes met those of the visitor. “Your colleagues will also have more appreciation for you if you do not abandon them in this time of hardship.”

The visitor nodded. “Well, in that case, I’m definitely retiring now. Really, did you think dim lighting was going to fool me?”

“I do not understand!” Stasya protested.

“For one thing, gypsies aren’t blonde,” Vicky Bullett said, rising from her chair and pulling off the fortune-teller’s scarf. A mass of pale blonde hair fell from its hiding place. Stasya shrieked. “For another, they have Eastern European accents, not badly disguised Canadian ones.”

Stasya, revealed to be Stacey Dales-Schuman, blushed. “But it’s still good advice,” she whined. “Why won’t you take it?”

“Because, you dimwit, you were the one that picked Texas and Tennessee for the championship game. Who would want to take advice from you?” Vicky snorted. “Not me. I was leaning towards leaving, especially after that incident with Murriel and the socks, but this was the last straw. I’ll see you around, though.” She walked out of the tent. Stacey remained, quite disappointed.