The place smelled of incense and rose oil and was very, very dark. Two tiny glints of light caught Nancy’s suspicions until she recognized them as a pair of small, black eyes and saw the brown, leathery face to which they belonged. The face smiled and spoke. "Come een! Come een!" It was a tiny old woman with matted white hair, gold hoops hanging from her well creased ears and a sequinned headband pinching the folds of skin on her forehead. Next to a small table, behind which the old woman was seated, was a squat lounge chair that Nancy guessed came from the Goodwill. Nancy held up her coupon. "I, uh, are you . . ." she lifted the entrance flap to get some light and tried to read the name in the lower left corner of the card. "Madame Boomsha . . ." "Yesh!" the woman interrupted, grinning through an impressive gap between her eye teeth. "Dat’sh right. You shay it like famoush American shong ‘Boomshakalakalaka’. Dey call me duh ‘Boom Mashter’." She then raised a single brow and pursed her still smiling lips. "Sho," she said, pointing to the vacant seat. "Geev me card. I geev you free conshult. Take off your shoes and let me shee your feet." At first Nancy protested, noting her lack of foot hygiene, but the old woman seemed eager to give it a go anyway. For several minutes she traced the lines on Nancy’s filthy stompers, ‘hmm’ing and ‘oh’ing and ‘uh-huh’ing, but she did not, as Nancy feared when she began to tug on Nancy’s toes, recount the age old story about pigs going to Market and all. "It ish difficult," the Madame finally admitted. "You need bat. But I tink, ah, yesh, I do shee shometing. No . . . yesh . . . no . . . daer, now I shee. Yesh! Aha! . . before a great and, ah, reverent audienshe you shall . . . recsheive de Queen’sh praishe! God shave her!" and she briefly got a far away look in her eyes.