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THE NINE OF EYES stares up at them both.
"That's not," says Gerard, uncharacteristically hesitant. "That's not a card."
He hasn't been doing this for long, street readings, panhandling for a couple pounds because he doesn't want to be at home with his mum anymore and he doesn't know any other way to get money. And his client looks like they've got money, is wearing a good suit, stepped out of a taxi instead of coming up from the Tube station. So despite his better judgement, he flips the next one. It's THE SIX OF EYES.
"Sorry," he says, trying to hide that he's frightened now, though it's there in the tension at the corner of his eyes. "Sorry, I don't know what's..." What's wrong with them? They're tarot cards. They can't just... change. This reminds him of the sort of thing his mum tried to teach him, stuff he's been trying to forget about since he left Pinhole Books.
Superstition about his deck means Gerard never looks at it when he's shuffling, never flips through, tries not to see the cards until the moment he turns them — if one slips out then it's a clarity card, it has its own meanings. If he turns the deck and sees the card on the bottom, that too has significance. Despite this, he picks up his cards and taps them into a neat line, then uses his thumb to flick rapidly through them, scanning the images for something wrong. Is this his deck? Is this a prank? Is he going mad? Is—
"I wouldn't worry about it, really," says the man with a polite smile. His hands are folded in front of him, and he's leant forward, just slightly, like something about Gerard or the cards has caught his attention. "Could you draw the third, please?"
Gerard takes a long, careful breath. From what he can tell, his deck is fine. He needs money, he's desperate. He shuffles, quickly, trying not to think about eyes, about much of anything at all. He places the third one on the table.
THE ARCHIVIST, it says. Major Arcana. A giant eye like an Escher drawing, but instead of a skull in the pupil it's...
Gerard looks at the detailed rendering of his own face.
"Very good," says the man, sounding pleased. He reaches into his suit jacket, and draws out a wallet; Gerard thinks with a shaky gratitude that at least he's going to be paid, even if it's just a fiver. But the man pulls out a business card.
Elias Bouchard, it says. The Magnus Institute, London.
Gerard reels — he knows of the Magnus Institute. Hadn't his dad worked there?
"I know this is a little sudden," says Elias with a slow shark smile, all friendly teeth. "But I'd like to offer you a job."