Resident Astrologer… sometimes

Miss Honoria Finch is not on staff, and she is certainly not expected—but she arrives all the same.

Some years she is seen striding up the drive at dusk, a scarf trailing from one arm as though she has come directly from somewhere more important. Other years, she is simply there one morning in the Orangerie, stirring lemon verbena tea with a tarot card, as if she had always been.

No one knows precisely when she arrives, and no one asks when she intends to leave. Her room is always prepared. Her linens are always pressed. This has never been discussed.

She is said to have read horoscopes for debutantes in Charleston, advised a minor European prince on a regrettable engagement, and predicted the 1999 solar eclipse while standing barefoot in a thunderstorm. Only the last of these is confirmed.

During her stay, scarves begin to appear.

They are found draped over the back of a chair, folded at the foot of a bed, or left where the light falls most favorably. The patterns are not immediately understood—constellations, perhaps, or something adjacent to them. No two are quite alike.

They are taken quietly, as one might take something that was always meant for them.

She does not mention them.

By the time one begins to wonder whether she has come for a reason, it is generally too late to ask.

And then, as abruptly as she arrived, she is gone—leaving behind a handful of silk, a few unsettled thoughts, and the distinct impression that something has already begun.