Page 24 of The Sisters of Crimson House

Chastened, Charley quietly followed, old-fashioned in tow.

“We stayed in Austria and Switzerland mostly,” Miranda was saying between sips from her wine. “And Hungary. Budapest turned into a nine-month stretch until we got kicked out of the castle we were squatting in after I channeled a religious zealot who’d been imprisoned in the basement. I wound up naked but for a burlap sack and some clogs to make a getaway. That was unfortunate.”

Zavier shook his head, trying to make sense of that sentence. “That’s the most rock and roll thing I’ve ever heard,” he marveled.

“I promise burlap is not as edgy as it sounds,” Miranda said.

“Please,” Astrid insisted, joining the conversation. “Your last sentence included Budapest. What was your most exciting performance?”

“Oh, I don’t know. They all kinda run together, you know? The lights get dim, and I go away for a bit and then come back with a migraine and an applauding audience.”

“You had residencies at Ronnie Scott’s in London. There was a castle in Ireland? I think some bragging rights are involved,” insisted Zavier.

“You followed my shows?” said Miranda, studying him anew.

“It’s my job to keep tabs on the news of the weird, especially when it involves the Brydes.”

Charley watched Miranda and Zavier, hating that she wasn’t above feeling jealous over his rapt attention, but she’d be lying if she said she wasn’t also desperate for scraps. The local news had a complicated relationship with the Bryde family. They were never above sharing sneering opinion pieces on the family’s alleged “gifts,” but the rampant celebrity sightings around town due to the annual Spectaculars made reporting on the Brydes fairly routine. So blurbs about the Memphis girl gone continental would pop up on occasion, faithfully reporting a story on how Miranda channeling a revered WWII strategist in a conference room at the Savoy in London had led to her two-month gig as their channeler in residence. How she’d led a group meditation during a full moon at the 2005 Glastonbury Festival in Somerset. It irritated Charley to no end that she’d had to look up Somerset on a map.

Miranda appraised Astrid and Zavier over her drink. “So Black and Bell. This is the ghost-hunting team that kept that busted roof over my sister’s head all these years.”

Astrid was speechless for a moment, shooting a panicked glance at Charley. “Charley is our main draw with her brilliant tarot readings,” Astrid said in a rush. “She was keeping us afloat just as much.”

“The first time she read cards for me, it felt like I’d let her peek at my diary,” added Zavier, giving Miranda what Charley called his sales pitch smile. “It was like she could see into my soul.”

Miranda spread her hands wide in supplication, sloshing her wine. “Anyone can spin a tale with a tarot deck. That doesn’t take a lick of psychic ability. But the good ones have enough charisma to convince you of anything. At least Charley picked up that family trait.”

Charley took a healthy sip of her drink, focusing on the burn in her throat. Twice in twenty-four hours she’d been bullied by skeptics intent on proving she had no value.

“It helps to have an actual psychic around for psychic services,” Miranda continued, leaning forward to study Astrid. “How did you all meet?”

Astrid looked wide-eyed at Charley, who gave her a tight nod. Miranda wasn’t wasting time with first impressions. “Schwab’s,” she said. “Zavier and I were running ghost tours, and we bumped into homegirl here stealing a tarot deck.”

“Petty thief, huh?” said Miranda, turning in her seat to admire Charley anew.

“Emphasis on the petty,” said Astrid, grinning at her friend. Charley toasted her. “Z and I ran a haunted-history tour, and Charley lived in a haunted house. We were like peanut butter and chocolate, destined to be collaborators. Family, really,” she said. “But not actual family,” she added quickly, glancing at Miranda.

“Astrid sees dead people,” Charley said, grinning at her over her glass.

“But I’m not a psychic,” Astrid insisted. “I can’t do what your family does. I sense energetic shifts, cold spots.”

“She and Zavier have saved my ass a thousand times over,” said Charley firmly. “Nice to have someone helping you manage a house you’ve had no choice but to maintain by yourself since you were fourteen.” Charley pointedly stared at her sister before taking a sip of her drink.

“You clearly brought on savvy business partners,” said Miranda, nodding in agreement.

Charley fumed. This was true. But thanks to her, Crimson House was still open for business. Would it kill Miranda to admit as much?

Zavier cleared his throat, sensing the atmospheric pressure shift between sisters. “Charley’s the muse. Astrid is the muscle. I’m the man behind the curtain. Not the sexiest of roles, but I like to think I add a little pizzazz to the proceedings.” Zavier reached into his jacket, and with a flourish, he produced a caramel-colored dove from his sleeve, Miranda ducking as the bird careened wildly around the room. “Shit, Jenkins!” Zavier jumped up from his chair to chase it.

“Zavier, keep that goddamned bird out of my bar!” hollered Malcolm the bartender from across the room.

“Jenkins is not a bird, Mal. He’s my assistant,” Zavier yelled back, balancing on one of the arms of the Chesterfield sofa to collect the bird from where it was taking refuge atop the crown molding.

“Zavier, you brought Jenkins back into the bar?” asked Charley, shaking her head at him as he stuffed the bird back into his jacket. “After Mal already warned you?”

Zavier shrugged. “I always come prepared with pizzazz.”

Astrid nodded in agreement. “So much pizzazz.”