Her thoughts were interrupted when Ruben took her elbow and led her to the corner of the room, reminding her of the times she’d accompanied him to dinner, theater productions, lectures and galleries. He always used to lead the way, pointing things out to her as if she was his pupil.

Carla’s eyes were drawn to a ceramic head with markings and words, used for phrenology. She traced her hand across her own head, feeling the bumps on her skull as she looked at the corresponding model. She was about to mention it to Ruben, but he steered her toward a group of people he’d spotted instead. “Bram was once shortlisted for the Nobel Prize,” he whispered into Carla’s ear. “Floris is a landscape artist who had a piece commissioned for the National Gallery in London.” Each time Carla pointed out a magician’s prop to him, Ruben fixated on yet another professor or dignitary he wanted to engage in conversation.

She watched as a young woman, perhaps a student, approached Ruben while twirling a finger through her hair. Ruben placed his hands behind his back and listened intently while the woman stood on her tiptoes to speak to him. He launched into an explanation about how and why Norwegian prisons had a low recidivism rate. His body loosened and his eyes shone, as if the woman’s attention gave him a shot of energy.

Carla half-listened to the conversation, hearing the gush in the woman’s voice. It struck her that she used to look at Ruben with the same intensity of admiration while he lapped up her attention. She noted again that they’d been more like professor and student, a symbiotic relationship rather than a romantic one.

Eventually, a man wearing a scarf so long it reached his knees interrupted the conversation, taking Ruben’s elbow in the same way Ruben moved Carla along. Carla used this opportunity to excuse herself and she moved quickly across to the other side of the room. She took another glass of red wine from a waiter’s tray and stood reading a framed article that told of three supposedly clairvoyant sisters who fooled their clients by using apples on strings to make banging noises.

“Congratulations,” a voice said beside her. “I have seen you trying to skip Ruben’s company for some time.”

Carla’s mouth parted in surprise and she turned to find a woman with short bobbed tangerine hair and thick black Perspex glasses perched on her nose. She could be aged anywhere between forty and sixty and was dressed from head to toe in black clothes that rustled when she moved. There was a sprinkle of small star tattoos on her right wrist.

“Oops,” Carla said, feeling guilty at being found out. “Was it so obvious?”

“Not to him.” The woman winked and offered her hand to Carla. Her fingers were full of silver rings with skulls, ankhs and gemstones. “I am Anastacia.”

Carla recognized her name. “One of the curators?” she asked. “I haven’t managed to see many of the exhibits so far, but they look fascinating.”

“Several of the pieces on display come from my own personal collection, so let me show you around,” Anastacia said. “I’ve always been interested in the unknown and the otherworldly.”

They walked and stopped in front of a series of paintings that were purported to have been done by spirits, and a poster for Houdini. “Magic shows were highly popular in the 1920s,” Anastacia explained. “Two of the greatest magicians of that time were Harry Houdini and Howard Thurston. Thurston believed some kind of spirit was guiding him, but Houdini was skeptical. They engaged in a friendly competition, wagering that the first one to die would haunt the other.

“I once worked as a magician’s assistant to help fund my history degree,” she continued. “I’ve been sawed in half, made to vanish and had knives thrown at me, more times than I care to remember.”

“A dangerous career?” Carla was really warming to this exuberant lady.

“No lasting damage to the body is the goal.” Anastacia laughed. “Audiences don’t realize how much magicians’ assistants are involved in the trickery. They think we’re only there to hold rabbits, look pretty and to pass a top hat or two. When a magician places their assistant in a cabinet and saws through their body, followed by moving the segments around, it looks like they’re doing all the work. But, in fact, all of the magic happens inside the box. I was a professional, a contortionist who could twist my body to fit into tiny spaces.”

Anastacia headed toward a tall red-and-gold box, then opened the doors and wriggled her hand inside it, demonstrating to Carla how she could make it disappear. “I was never the prettiest girl in my youth, or the cleverest, but onstage I was both. All eyes were on me, even if the magician took most of the credit.”

Carla examined the cabinet, looking all around it, not previously appreciating how much work went into magic tricks and illusions.

They visited a glass case next, populated by several crudely modeled dolls. “A popular method for a curse was to create a figure resembling the person the magic should be performed on, usually in wax or clay,” Anastacia explained. “A lock of hair or piece of fabric belonging to the subject would be sought out and applied to the doll. If it was a healing ritual, the doll’s leg might be bandaged, or if a living person was to be prevented from spreading gossip, the doll’s mouth might be sewn up.

“Once the spell had worked, the doll would be burned or buried, therefore releasing the spell. Or, if the spell was malicious, it would remain in place.”

Goose bumps rose along Carla’s forearms and she drained her wine, wondering if she dared to ask Anastacia her next question. “I know it sounds silly, but a witch supposedly put a curse or spell on one of my distant relatives in the 1920s, and now allegedly all marriages and relationships in our family are supposed to fail.” She shook her head in disbelief at how ridiculous this sounded. “I’ve always thought witches were an ancient superstition.”

“One of the oldest records of witchcraft is in the Old Testament, and there are still people practicing versions of it today,” Anastacia said. “There was a big spiritualist revival in the 1920s, after the First World War ended. People were having to cope with the deaths or disappearances of their loved ones, resulting in communal mourning, the building of memorials and even a desire to communicate with the dead. People with no previous belief in the paranormal turned to mediums for comfort, closure and advice. In the throes of grief, they were more open to receiving messages purported to be from the other side. Two of the most popular parlor games were séances and Ouija boards.”

“But can curses really work?” Carla asked.

“If you go into an exam with the mindset you’re going to fail, it possibly increases that chance. If people believe a curse has been put on them, perhaps that is enough to make it seem real. If your relatives go into their relationships expecting them to fail, they might subconsciously influence that outcome.”

“I can see that makes sense.” Carla pondered, thinking of how Mimi crossed her fingers each time she got married.

“The twenties were also when Tutankhamen’s tomb had just been discovered in Egypt, so there was much talk of a ‘Pharaoh’s curse,’” Anastacia added. “If anyone cursed you today, how would it make you feel? Even if you didn’t believe it?”

Carla shuddered. “Uncomfortable. But mediums can’t really speak to dead people, can they?”

“Some psychics and mediums make a living from deceiving people. Others believe they have a gift—and perhaps some actually do, though I’ve seen more evidence of the former than the latter.”

They moved on and Anastacia sat down on a wooden bench, inviting Carla to join her. “Do tell me more about your family,” she prompted. “They sound most interesting.”

Carla showed Anastacia photos of her gran and Jess, and an image of her family tree she’d taken on her phone. “Agatha was my great-great-grandaunt and I think her fiancé’s surname was Aakster,” she said. “I believe it’s Dutch.”

“An unusual name will give you a better chance of tracing him,” Anastacia said.

Carla toyed with her pendant. “I’ve already googled his name and drew a blank.” She surveyed a wall full of posters in front of her while she thought. “If Agatha and Lars were cursed by a witch, and then he died, is that the kind of story that might have been recorded or reported somewhere?”

Anastacia nodded. “There is a distinct possibility. Did you know there’s an extensive archive of material within the University of Amsterdam library, thousands of newspapers, articles, media and materials on file of a cultural interest?”

Carla shook her head and felt a fresh wave of intrigue washing over her. If she could find out that Lars had died under normal circumstances, she’d know for sure that a curse didn’t exist. All her family’s gossip would be wiped out for good, allowing her female relatives to live and love without fear or wariness—herself included. “Is the library open to the general public?” she asked.

Anastacia shook her head. “Unfortunately not.”

Carla’s face fell. “Oh, well...”

Anastacia frowned, thinking for a while. “I wonder if I’ll be allowed to sign someone in as my guest. Do you have any free time tomorrow?”

Carla raised her chin with hope. This sounded much more exciting than spending any further time with Ruben. “Yes. Definitely.”

“Well, let’s see if I can get you access, and if we can solve your mystery.”

Seventeen

Newspaper

Back in her Airbnb that night, Carla scrolled through the photos she’d taken around Amsterdam. Although they were backlit, bright and beautiful on her phone, she missed the nostalgia and excitement of taking reels of film into photography shops with no idea how they were going to turn out. Even out-of-focus shots had a certain sense of time and place about them. She didn’t keep tickets, maps or beer coasters like she used to, and her digital images might remain on her phone for years, possibly to be forgotten.

She picked up her set of tarot cards and looked at the three outstanding ones: The King of Cups, The Hierophant and The Lovers. Selecting one at random, she looked up its meaning online. The Hierophant was traditionally associated with religion, but also represented the path to knowledge and education. It encouraged you to embrace the conventional and to follow an established process. Carla decided the card must relate to Ruben, but she didn’t see what importance he could have to her life now, unless it was by association with Anastacia.

This only left her with two cards, and Carla was certain one of them must relate to Fidele in Sardinia. She checked out the webpage for his family’s diving center and completed an inquiry form, asking if he’d like to meet soon.

But was he The King of Cups or The Lovers?

The King of Cups card featured a man sitting on a throne, holding a gold goblet in front of the sea, so that card might relate to Fidele. But, then again, he had also been a great love in Carla’s life. She held up The Lovers card next. The illustration of the naked man and woman holding hands while gazing into each other’s eyes brought a flush to her cheeks.

If I have one ex left to revisit, then why are there two cards remaining?

Carla leafed through her journal, reconsidering every possible relationship or contact she’d made during her gap year who still lived overseas. She tried to think if she’d left anyone out but reached the end of the journal with no one in mind.

Surely, The Lovers must relate to Tom, right? Just as there’d been a glitch with the Logical Love system, Myrtle’s fortune telling could be faulty, too.

If anyone could help Carla untangle her emotions, it was Tom, and her sense of longing for him suddenly felt like a heavy weight dragging in her stomach. She desperately wanted to feel his strong arms around her, his breath on her cheek and his face pressed into her hair. She pulled her pillow to her chest and hugged it tight, but it was no substitute for the real thing.

Carla picked up her phone and located Tom’s number, but then she gritted her teeth. How could she possibly admit to her ongoing mission to find her old flames without hurting Tom’s feelings or irrevocably ruining their relationship? It was a delicate, tricky situation and she dolefully decided against calling him. With only one week left until she returned home, she felt very much alone in her current state of affairs.