ICHNEUMON FLY enters.

ICHNEUMON FLY. Ha, ha! [He murders MRS. CRICKET and drags her to his lair.] –And So Ad Infinitum, Capek.

Three women are sitting in the New Age section of the bookstore, on the floor, two old, one young. The young one is talking. “So, uh, I’m a … pentacle, then? Is that right?”

The two older ones talk to each other, quick, telegraphic phrases, succinct to the point of cryptography. “Well,” says one, “mostly you’re a pentacle.”

“No one’s just one or the other, though,” says the other one.

“Like, I’m a sword-cup cross in day to day life, but I’m all sword in my relationships.”

“And I used to be almost all pentacle, like you, but then we got divorced and now I’m a pentacle-wand. Do you see?”

“I’m not sure…” says the young one. “It’s all pretty confusing.”

“You’ve got most of it,” says the first old one, encouragingly. “You’re really very good at this, it took me months to even figure out what I was, and you’ve been doing this for, what?”

The young one coughs and looks away. “Just this afternoon.”

The old ones exchange glances. “Oh, now, I don’t know,” says the second one.

“You really shouldn’t,” says the first one.

“It’s important to be honest about this.”

“You don’t want to mix things around.”

“Not that anything bad’s going to happen.”

The first one purses her lips disapprovingly. “No, nothing like that. But if you’re going to lie about it, what’s the point?”

“You aren’t going to impress us one way or the other.”

“This is for you, not us, after all.”

The young one is looking at the floor with her fingers tangled on top of her head. “Um,” she says, from between her arms. “I guess I’ve looked at it before, once or twice.”