THE FUTURE for the Whethervane always begins the same way: a curled fist of pressure at the base of the neck, a stretching along the neckline, invisible fingers curling and squeezing until they reach the head. Then a lancing pain that settles behind the right eye: sometimes a throbbing, sometimes a pulsating wave that comes and goes.
Then the nausea, the sensitivity to smell. If you visit in the hopes of finding out who you’re going to marry, best not to wear perfume.
Emily, who works in the gardens and sometimes the kitchen, is standing outside the Whethervane’s bedroom door on a sultry, storming summer afternoon. Her son, Rowan, is in her arms. Rowan is four years old. His forehead against her neck is hot and sweaty; she’s sweaty too, from standing in the hallway for so long. (This, despite the cool temperature. The compound is kept at 68.5 degrees Fahrenheit, day and night.) She’d been hoping to get in before lunch, but it is almost three and she’s still waiting.
There are no chairs in the hallway. The Whethervane cannot stand the sound.
She leans against the wall and Rowan leans back with her. Inside the bedroom, voices murmur, rise, go silent. The doorknob finally turns.
SOMETIMES the pain of their migraines is so bad that the Whethervane goes blind in one eye. But don’t worry—they might lose sight of you, but they’ll still see your future, the hopes and dreams