Page 26 of The Sisters of Crimson House

“There are so many ghosts,” she whispered with awe, her eyes darting around the room. “I mean, just everywhere around you.”

“The dead know I’m a doorway,” said Miranda. “That tends to give you an entourage anywhere you go.”

“But there weren’t any before. Not any I could see, anyway,” said Astrid.

“If I’m a doorway, then I’ve learned to keep the door shut. Tight,” Miranda added for emphasis.

“I’ve never known how to turn that part of myself off,” said Astrid plaintively. “I’d give anything to learn.”

Charley was stunned watching this exchange. She and Astrid had spent countless hours talking about the catalog of ghosts she had experienced inside Crimson House and out in the wider world. The secret thrill of goose bumps along her arms signaling the arrival of a spirit. How the tall shadows only she could see on the parlor wall felt like an invitation to some secret society. Not once had Astrid confessed to her that she might want to deny that part of herself. The instant jealousy made her feel heartsick.

“Boundaries are very, very important, Astrid, in our line of work,” said Miranda firmly, no longer looking like the sorority girl who’d just pounded three glasses of wine. “The job doesn’t come with an instruction manual, but this is as close as I can offer to instructions.” She leaned closer to Astrid, lowering her voice. “You don’t let anyone or anything have access unless you’ve given permission. All you have is your sovereignty, and once that’s taken from you, it’s a hell of a fight to get it back.”

Astrid nodded, wide-eyed.

“I think Astrid is pretty clear on boundaries, Miranda,” said Charley, increasingly irritated by her sister’s need to lecture. And, if she was being honest, by Astrid’s willingness to lap it all up.

“I can attest to that,” said Zavier with a sly grin, looping his arm around her shoulders.

“Yeah, I have none.” She shrugged, allowing herself to be drawn into a quick kiss.

“Kind of you to indulge me then,” Miranda said with a condescending smile. “I don’t often get the chance to share with other magic folk like this.” She trailed off at seeing Charley’s scowl. “Sorry. Am I not allowed to talk about any of this? I thought you’d at least be curious.”

“I don’t have a lot of time left to be curious,” Charley said, abruptly standing. “I need to go check on Sadie.”

“Stay!” begged Miranda, reaching for her. “We’re celebrating!”

Charley evaded her grasp. “You can celebrate. The responsible adults have work in the morning.”

“Can you not just marvel in us both being here together?” Miranda stood suddenly, swaying a little before steadying herself on her chair. “I don’t think you understand the miracle that this is. Me home, you safe and sound.”

Neither Zavier nor Astrid dared speak a word.

“Safe and sound?” repeated Charley slowly. “I’m alive, thanks to my two business partners. Sound? That I can’t verify, and certainly no thanks to you.”

“You’re just so serious,” Miranda declared as if relieved to get the thoughts off her chest. “You should be in school. Having fun. Not stressing yourself out over running ghost tours in Sadie’s house.” She said ghost tours like she was embarrassed for Charley and that she wasn’t one of the world’s most notorious mediums.

“It might surprise you to learn that just because you left didn’t mean the customers quit coming,” said Charley, reveling in the rush of pride that sent through her. If she had learned anything from her family, it was that she wasn’t going to leave money on the table.

“I’m not saying we both didn’t make sacrifices. But maybe for one night we pretend like we didn’t have to?” said Miranda, smiling at her in a way Charley had never seen before. Of course, it was because she wanted something.

“I was never given a choice!” Charley seethed. “Go to school? Have fun?” When the only adult in her life was likely insane, her mission had been making money the only way she knew how—performing for it. “I don’t know what fantasyland you pictured when you thought of my life inside Crimson House, if you ever thought of me at all. But it stopped being Sadie’s house a long time ago. Right now the responsible adult needs to go and check on her. Good night, y’all.”

Ignoring Astrid and Zavier’s protestations, Charley launched herself from her chair, slowing only to pocket a lone flier that was resting on top of the bar, the words Occam’s Razor in bold letters at the top. She wasn’t psychic, and she didn’t see dead people, but she had an inkling it had been left there for her.

Thirteen

October 30, 1999

“You want some tea?” Sadie asked without looking at Charley, painstakingly crimping the raw crust with her thumb and forefinger. Large square-shaped reading glasses slid to the end of her nose as she studied her work, her hazel eyes amplified by tortoiseshell frames that lent her a Sophia Loren–like glamour.

She could never be accused of being warm. She baked like many of her generation did, not necessarily infusing love but perfection into her creations. Charley was pretty certain Sadie cared less about it tasting good than about it eliciting a strong reaction when the guests saw it on the table tomorrow night. This was her signature chocolate chess pie, looking like a sculptural marvel with a hand-braided crust that resembled a snake eating its tail and with enough butter that it tasted like something that should be eaten in private. Catering handled 99.9 percent of the Spectacular’s needs, but Sadie loved contributing something of her own. Maybe so the guests might remember that she’s human and not a bog witch, Charley thought. Or perhaps she was the one who needed that reminder.

She got off the stool from where she was watching Sadie work, the implication that if she wanted tea, she should help herself. Grandmothers were supposed to be grandmotherly. Here Sadie was, baking in front of Charley, offering tea. But it could never disguise the unease she felt in Sadie’s presence, the gulf between them. Charley could never shake the feeling that she might as well be part of the staff that would be taking over the kitchen the following evening.

“Have you selected a costume for tomorrow evening?” asked Sadie, her hands coated with flour and sugar.

“Uh-huh,” Charley said, plopping a bag of green tea into an orange mug with a yellow smiley face. It was a flea market find that didn’t match the legion of cream-colored porcelain mugs. Out of place, like her. “Dragonfly.”