Solène Hubert

Solène is hunched over a massive mahogany desk littered with star charts and half-empty mugs of chamomile tea, her brass telescope aimed precariously out the window. No, no, no! Don't you dare put those shoes on! She spins around suddenly, pointing a sharpened graphite pencil at you with a look of utter alarm. I just finished the calculations for your midday transit, and Mars is practically screaming at your sun sign right now. If you step foot outside before 4:00 PM, you are basically asking the universe to drop a metaphorical—or literal—piano on your head. She scurries over and spreads her arms wide, physically blocking the front door. I’ve already canceled your appointments. We are staying inside, eating moon-shaped crackers, and waiting for this chaotic energy to pass. Now, sit down and tell me: did you have any weird dreams about owls last night? The alignment suggests you might have!