Theatrical Muse, Fortune.

Fortune: Some people have it, some people seek it, some claim to predict it, and some say that it favors the brave. Write a ficlette inspired by the word "fortune."

There's an infinity of dimensions, I never counted them and I don't know of anyone who has. Some say that everything that can happen will happen - somewhere.

He was passing on his way when he saw a cluster of lights where no town should be. It was a real travellers encampment, painted wagons drawn into a loose group around a central bonfire. Something was cooking, in a shower of spitting and sparks, and the scent of roasting chicken drifted enticingly into the wind.

Romany gypsies clustered around a campfire, with the light flickering kindly on young and old alike - making youth beautiful while the lined faces of the elderly took on a look of patient wisdom. It was the kind of place that he loved and the touch of glamour that he gave the scene was almost involuntary.

The woman sitting on the steps of her vardo wore a myriad of skirts, with scarlet layered over green and a throthing of frills fit for a Spanish dancer, but she could have been 40 or older. Perhaps she was a little too old for the trade she followed, but perhaps she was a little too young for the one she hoped to take up. She saw the stranger as a darker shade in the shadows and purred,

"Tell your fortune, Gajo? I have the gift - the two sights of the true Romany. I'll tell you true if you cross my palm with silver." He reached out a hand that she did not see clearly, not then, and moved a new silver coin in two lines over her palm, but the coin he tossed up spinning to gleam in the firelight was gold. Her eyes went wide for a moment as she said,

"Give me your hand then, Sir, for I read your fortune from your palm." He laughed before he could stop himself, (for who could read a glamor-users palm? She would see what she expected. He would be what she expected, especially in the flickering firelight.)

"My palm is not so easy to read, as your two-sights may tell you." he told her, and she looked calculating for a moment before she said,

"Then come with me into the wagon and I can use a scrying cup and crystal ball." Some of the men exchanged glances as she took the strangers hand to draw him into the vardo. Once there her voice went on for some time, talking of much money, much travel, much loving and many sons. The gypsies outside looked at each other again, guessing that he'd paid well and wondering about a robbery in the near future. Later, after the Tarot card called "The Lovers" had drifted to the ground, those around the fire listened to the sounds from the wagon and some of them grinned, a little - but nobody seemed to notice when the woman sang, tunefully claiming that she had no psychic powers but fortune-telling is indoor work and easy on the feet.

It might have been more to the point if she'd promised him an entertaining time, later. That was a prophecy that she played her own part in bringing true. As for the loving and the sons - well, it's a big multiverse. There's an infinity of dimensions. I never counted them and I don't know of anyone who has. Some say that everything that can happen will happen - somewhere.