Page 42 of The Sisters of Crimson House

“No,” said Charley. Astrid had asked her what would happen to her with a fully realized Star. The only thing she felt with growing certainty was that Sy being present both times the Star had made its presence known couldn’t be dismissed as coincidence. What had he said about Occam’s Razor? The solution to a dilemma was likely the simplest. Sy was the common denominator. Her hands still thrummed with static electricity from when they’d touched. “I know that Sadie didn’t want this for me, and I know you don’t,” she added pointedly. “But it’s happening, and I think he’s the key to understanding why. Maybe stopping what’s after us, too. Also, he’s giving away free money, so you can either be with me or against me.” She looked around the table.

“You know I’m always in your corner,” said Astrid, squeezing her hand.

“Without question,” said Zavier.

They all turned to look at Miranda.

“Your ignorance is astonishing,” said Miranda, sighing, pulling her coat tighter. “But I’m with you.”

“Perfect,” said Charley. “Because I want to talk to Sadie, and I’m going to need your help.”

Twenty-Three

November 21, 2000

“What animal makes you feel safe? Careful now. We’re almost at the top.” Charley muscled the yellow wingback chair up the last few steps of the stairwell, pausing to make sure Sadie still had a grasp on one of the legs. She did not. Well, at least that explained why it had felt extra heavy.

“I don’t think this was designed for sixties mod furniture,” said Charley, panting as she maneuvered the chair through the narrow opening.

“Good work. Now put it over there, please.” Sadie pointed to the turret window.

Charley half marched, half dragged the chair into position before sitting down so that she could see over the more modest Italianate house opposite. If she stood on tippy-toes, she might actually glimpse a view of the Mississippi River. It was solidly fall, the weeks tipping toward winter. The light outside was a purple gray, and the small heater she’d plugged in was outmatched by the built-in chill of the turret. At least the yellow chair mimicked the presence of the sun.

“The house faces west, so you’ll see some really beautiful sunsets up here,” said Charley. “Is that why you want to stay up here?” Charley turned to watch Sadie, who was busying herself with books on the bookshelf she had asked Charley to “help” her with two weeks ago.

“Mm-hmm,” she said absentmindedly, unpacking the second box of books from her office.

The move was gradual, some boxes here, some rugs there. Charley had thought that maybe Sadie was just giving her something to do, something physical to help alchemize the grief through her body. She noted with mixed feelings that Miranda hadn’t been asked to do any heavy lifting. The bed had already been up here—thank God, Charley thought as she wrestled the chair up the stairs. That had been enough to make her sweat through her shirt. The turret room was sometimes used as spillover if they needed extra guest space during the Spectacular. But it wasn’t until the chair that it clicked for her. Sadie wasn’t redecorating; she was moving.

“Cats.”

“Cats?” Sadie repeated.

“They make me feel safe,” Charley said, returning to Sadie’s quiz.

“That’s good,” she said, pausing to write something down in a notebook she had on the bookshelf. “A change of scenery will be good.” Sadie was in brown corduroy pants and a denim shirt, her reddish hair pulled back with a clip. Charley had never seen her grandmother dress so casually. She’d also never seen her so keenly interested in Charley’s likes and dislikes as she’d been in the last five minutes. Charley told her she liked summer (her favorite season) and that she dreamed one day of visiting Paris.

“If you could be a bird, what kind?” she said. “Help me?” she added, motioning to a side table, which Charley helped her grandmother move in place to the wingback chair. “There,” she said, studying the tableau by the window. “All settled.”

“A blue jay, I guess?”

“A blue jay,” said Sadie. “They’re awfully loud and territorial.”

“I think that’s why I like them,” said Charley. She liked things unafraid to take up space.

“Do you know what a psychopomp is, Charley?”

She cocked her head at the word. “Psychopomp?” Strange to say out loud, stranger to hear her grandmother say it.

“It’s a being that moves between the lands of the living and the dead, ferrying souls from one plane of existence to the next.”

“You mean like Charon and the River Styx,” said Charley proudly. Any mention of mythology in class was filed away in her brain for moments just like this. She tried hard then not to picture her mother and father in the back of Charon’s boat, drifting away to infinity.

“And Hermes, the messenger god, in the dining room’s stained glass,” Sadie prompted as if reading her thoughts. Charley nodded in recognition. “Owls are considered psychopomps. Your friend the blue jay, on the other hand…” Sadie paused and studied her. “Some legends say the blue jay is in the employ of the devil. That they spend their week hollering to anyone who will listen that they carry kindling down to Hades for the fires of hell themselves. What about a crow?”

“What about a crow?” repeated Charley, confused.

“They’re powerful totems,” Sadie replied.