Page 3 of The Sisters of Crimson House

“It’s going to require a lot more champagne to get into Fort Knox here,” she said, playfully tapping Charley’s forehead with a finger.

Celeste took a big sip of champagne and nodded at Leonore, who was now happily crunching on the last candy apple. Celeste gave Charley a knowing look before sauntering away.

“Celeste is never going to stop trying to read me, is she?” Charley complained to her mother. It made her feel small to be fussed over like that, like a pet.

Nicole smiled at her before watching her sister mingle with the crowd. “I don’t think she can help it. But she means well, honey. It’s a heavy burden to carry, knowing what the future holds in store for everyone you encounter.” How everyone dies, she corrected her mother silently. Celeste’s talent wasn’t one trotted out for the evening’s entertainment but instead kept quiet, hovering in the background like a threat. Nicole gently swept a curl from her daughter’s forehead, studying her solemnly. “And now your sister needs help carrying hers.”

They both turned to see Miranda backed into a corner by the parlor fireplace, surrounded by guests desperate for a moment with the famous medium.

“I don’t want to,” stated Charley.

“I know, sweetheart,” her mother said softly. “But this is your part to play.”

Charley hadn’t signed up for this part. She didn’t see what was so difficult about being a modern-day oracle, an answer to so many whispered prayers. So what if the spirits occasionally used Miranda as a punching bag? It had to be better than being her sister’s lapdog and personal assistant.

“Thank you, Charlotte,” her mother whispered, her hand cupping her daughter’s chin as she went in for a kiss to the forehead.

Charley’s eyes fell on the star that seemed to be carved into her mother’s palm, the same star that marked her as a formidable healer who had been on speed dial for two presidents, the same star that was embossed into every guest’s Spectacular invitation and bronzed on the family crest that lorded over the fireplace in the adjoining parlor. The Seeker’s Star, the birthmark of the chosen in her family. It was not a pretty thing, not shaped like a sticker a child would be awarded for good behavior. It was akin more to a pentagram, inverted so that it resembled the classic goat’s head revered by Satanists or the kids at her school who wore black eyeliner and studded leather bracelets. It’s why so many feared her family, misunderstood them, paid them so much for access to the great beyond. Charley shoved her smooth, starless palm into her pocket, took a deep breath, and trudged over to the crowd.

Miranda was flanked by a man wearing a Union soldier’s uniform and a woman wrapped in a gauzy sheet studded with silvery fish scales. A sailfish, perhaps? Charley wondered if the two guests were together and, if so, what this costume pairing could possibly mean. She cleared her throat for the same speech she’d given a thousand times. She was bored in a house filled with magic. It made her furious.

“Ladies and gentlemen, Miranda is not capable of seeing anyone else tonight. I’ll be happy to schedule an appointment in the very near future if anyone would like.”

They never liked. The Spectacular attracted the kind of clientele whose net worths ensured that waiting was other people’s problem. There was no guarantee that paying the very hefty charitable donation for entry meant that Nicole would select one’s ailing spouse for healing, that Miranda would summon a favorite celebrity for messages. Under this roof, Sadie’s house rules held firm. Once a Bryde begged for mercy, tapped out by the great beyond, that boundary was to be respected. Charley was the conscripted bouncer, the costumed teenager directed to shoo away the more entitled fans.

The soldier and the fish lady glared at her but slowly dispersed, leaving just her and her sister, who dramatically flung herself onto the couch, nearly knocking over a large white pillar candle flickering on the sofa table behind her.

“You saved me, Chuck,” Miranda said, stretching as if still waking up. Her voice was scratchy, strained like she’d been singing. Or screaming.

“What are you wearing?” Charley asked, annoyed to find her sister practically encased in chinchilla.

Miranda absently glanced down at her arms. “Oh, check it out. Countess Helena forgot her Amex, so she paid in fur.” She rubbed her hand slowly across the sleeve, her long nails painted black to match her dress. “I think I might sleep in it tonight. Feels like a cotton candy cloud.” She stretched out her arms as if flying through said cloud before taking a generous sip from a glass of champagne.

Charley’s eyes widened. “Champagne? Dude. Let me have a sip.” Charley quickly scanned the room for her parents. They might have surrendered to full-on post-party delirium with their guests, but she wouldn’t put it past her mother to be her own personal killjoy.

“Nope,” replied Miranda. “I earned this glass.”

Charley picked up the fire poker and angrily stabbed at the logs, watching them smoke and sizzle. This was when she hated Miranda the most. Not when she was onstage dazzling the paying masses, but afterward, when she was smug and lording it over Charley.

“I had to sit through the entire show. You don’t think I deserve some?”

“Seeing me suffocated by a dead opera singer wasn’t its own reward?”

Charley laughed. Miranda wasn’t wrong. Dress her sister up in a pretty gown and let her take center stage, she was still going to have to share her soul with a dead person for entertainment purposes. Miranda was the only Bryde in five generations to have such a gift. Sadie claimed she might be the most gifted Bryde of them all. More like most gifted at being a haint, Charley often thought, but no one was coming to her for her opinions. But she’d be lying if she said she wasn’t forever curious to know what it felt like having a spirit trying to peel you away like dead skin.

“What does it feel like? You know, when the passengers take over?” It’s what Sadie called them, pretentiously. Never ghosts. Passengers, just passing through.

Miranda stretched out her arms and looked at her palm as if it were a mirror blessing her with her reflection, coming dangerously close to lighting her new coat on fire.

“If only there were a way for you to learn that yourself,” she said, studying the Star on her palm. The lines were so dark, the angles so jagged, Charley imagined it had been carved into her hand by a shard of broken glass. Miranda took a healthy swig of champagne. “Just be grateful you’ll never have to know.” She sounded like someone from the soaps Great Leo watched on the little Magnavox TV propped up on the kitchen counter: Imperious. Dismissive. And maybe so honest, it stung like a slap.

“When you actually die onstage, I get your room,” Charley spat.

“Over my dead body,” Miranda responded with a lazy smile, unbothered.

“What’s one more?” Charley said. “It’s not like I don’t hear you whispering to all the dead people in your room at night.” She figured that was the only good thing about not having a Star on her hand. Charley never heard the dead people whispering back. Done with this conversation, she marched over to the end table and snatched up the flickering candle before her sister burned to a crisp.

“Charley, wait,” said Miranda, and Charley savored the way her sister’s eyes widened with genuine shock as she snuffed out the flame. Miranda’s name was visible, carved into the candle’s side with a safety pin, a mini Seeker’s Star at its base. Miranda everywhere, even here in wax. “Why?” Miranda whispered, as they watched the smoke from the extinguished flame drift like the spirits toward the ceiling.