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it can be changed . . .” Madame Papillon said, then stopped, her mouth set in a firm line.
    “Go on,” I said, sensing that a really big shoe was about to drop. “Lay it on me.”
    Madame Papillon looked at Muna, who nodded for her to go on.
    “Someone has . . . done something to your aura, Calliope.”
    “What the hell does that mean?” I asked testily. I absolutely hated it when people dragged out bad news. Better to just get everything out in the open as quickly as possible, as far as I was concerned.
    Muna stared at me. Her eyes were full of what I can only term as pity —and that scared me more than anything else she could’ve done.
    “Calliope—” Madame Papillon began, but Muna interrupted her.
    “My old lady doesn’t want to tell you the truth, but I have no problem doing it.”
    Madame Papillon looked down into her tea mug, verifying the truth of Muna’s words. I swallowed hard, my stomach and GI tract doing flip-flops inside my gut. This was so not going to be good news, I decided, feeling sick.
    Muna looked deeply into my eyes as if she were trying to plumb my soul, and then, in a very soft whisper, she said:
    “ You don’t have an aura at all.”

three

     
     
    “Just kidding,” Muna said, obviously relishing the look of horror that she’d just put on my face. “But there is something wrong with it.”
    “There’s nothing wrong with my aura,” I said tersely. “If there was something wrong with it, I think I would know. I mean, it is my aura, for God’s sake.”
    I looked to Madame Papillon for confirmation, only to find her rooting around in my kitchen, her otherwise dignified form buried waist deep in my refrigerator. I’d thought we were in the middle of an important conversation about me and my aura, but obviously Madame Papillon didn’t find my problems to be all that pressing.
    I watched as she took out the box of cupcakes I’d brought back from the Magnolia Bakery and lifted the lid. Her eyes closed in near ecstasy, she took a deep hit off the cupcakes, the smell seeming to transport her into another dimension.
    “Oh my, that’s good,” Madame Papillon said, her voice thick with passion as she replaced the lid and set the box back in the refrigerator, quickly closing the door behind her like it was full of poisonous insects, not cupcakes. “Carrot cake, is it?”
    I nodded. “That is what you asked for, isn’t it?”
    She stared at the door to the fridge, her eyes pinned on the door handle like she was afraid it was going to open of its own volition and once more assail her senses with the aroma of cupcake.
    “Yes, that is what I asked for,” she said, her voice strangely monotone as she spoke, her eyes still riveted on the refrigerator door.
    I looked at her quizzically, my aura issues on hold as I tried to figure out what the deal with the cupcakes was. This was total weirdness. The woman had insisted on not one, but two , carrot cake cupcakes and now she wasn’t even going to touch them—just sniff them while they were still in situ? Oh my God, I really hoped she wasn’t just gonna leave them in my refrigerator. I could just imagine the magnificent pig-out session I would have if she did—and I didn’t even like carrot cake. I definitely was not gonna let her leave those stupid things in my refrigerator for me to get fat on.
    “You’re not gonna eat them?” I asked, fishing around to see what the fate of the cupcakes was going to be.
    The aura specialist shook her head.
    “I love the smell,” Madame Papillon said, finally seeming to snap out of her cupcake trance. “But my immortality would be forfeit if I ever tasted a bite.”
    It seemed strange to me that this renowned aura specialist was just revealing her killing weakness to me so blithely. I would’ve kept that secret pretty close to my chest, if it were mine. Of course, she dealt with immortals’ weaknesses on a pretty constant basis, so maybe this was just old hat for her.
    She looked back at