Page 49 of The Sisters of Crimson House

Charley had spent hours sifting through bottles of soaps and oils and powders, fascinated with their packaging and promises of jinxes or money and love spells. This upper-level sanctuary was where she had first laid eyes on Astrid, who managed the upstairs floor (magical arcana, hats, vinyl). Astrid had been in her red phase then: red hair, scarlet lips, tapping an impatient foot with red toenails while giving Charley a second chance to earn the money for the tarot deck she’d swiped when she thought no one was looking. That turned into a spontaneous card reading (Astrid was revealed as the High Priestess because obviously), which turned into a job, which she was currently doing on the second floor of Schwab’s. World tearing apart at the seams or not, there would always be bills for Charley to pay. And as much as she was conflicted about the querent sitting across from her, his card payment had gone through, so she was committed to getting through the next twenty-five minutes together.

“And what is your question?” Charley asked the guest seated across from her.

Sy studied her, his face taking on a soft red cast from a recreation Tiffany lamp fashioned to look like a burgundy dragonfly. She and Astrid had converted a moldering broom closet in the mezzanine into the Black and Bell reading room, complete with witchy Stevie Nicks scarves and an actual crystal ball on the red felt table. It had lasted a day before disappearing into someone’s shopping bag.

“Let me guess: Is this stigmata on my hand?” She smirked at him, holding up her palm like she was about to take an oath. “Or can we not talk about science experiments since you’ve paid me to be here?” She had insisted they meet on neutral territory. Crimson House still felt too tender, too delicate to host a potential enemy combatant inside its walls, even if he was, for today, a paying customer.

“To be honest,” said Sy, studying her. “I just wanted a chance to talk with you. Alone.”

“Alone?” She was thrown by his serious demeanor. She felt her face flush, grateful for the dark lighting.

“I’m surprised your sister agreed to let us meet.”

“Yeah, she’s not a fan of yours,” she said, nodding. “But she’s also not my keeper.” Charley shuffled the deck to underscore her point. “So do you have specific questions for our reading?”

“How about we do a general reading instead? My questions to you haven’t gone over so well in the past.”

Charley laughed in surprise at this. “General reading. That’s tarot terminology. So I take it you have had a reading before?”

“Plenty.”

“Plenty, huh?” She sneaked a glance at his face, his brow furrowed slightly as he studied the cards in her hand. He looked younger when he wasn’t glaring at her. Almost sweet. “So you see some value in a tarot reading?” She shuffled the deck, enjoying the silken feel of the cards as they flew through her fingers.

“They’re an amazing storytelling tool. You have twenty-two cards based on what we now identify as the hero’s journey. You begin with the Fool and end with the World. You add in the fifty-two pip cards, and I think I determined that in a simple three-card spread, the number of possible combinations is 357,840. Give or take a digit or two.” Charley stared at him. If she didn’t know better, he genuinely liked tarot.

“I’m not gonna check your math. Skipped that day in school.”

“The nerd in me appreciates the possibilities,” Sy laughed, a disarming sound. “The artist winnows down those possibilities and tells a story.”

“Con artist, you mean?” she challenged.

“I think the reader and the sitter enter into a contract long before they meet each other at the table.” Their eyes met as she set the cards down on the table. “I have a whole chapter in my thesis about belief and delusion and the art of tarot.”

“Oh right, the thesis. Sounds fascinating.” She wondered if he was thinking about her hands, about what might happen next by virtue of being so close to touching. “Cut the deck,” she commanded.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, picking up the deck and appreciating its heft before dividing it in two. “It’s beautiful. It looks old,” he said admiringly.

“It belonged to my mother,” said Charley. She didn’t know why she told him the truth. She didn’t feel like she owed it to him, but she wanted him to know that every time she touched the cards, it evoked her memory, that the garden motifs imprinted on each card called to mind a garden she tended in the backyard of their bungalow.

“I’m honored you would use it. My mom had a deck,” he added quietly. An unexpected offering.

“You’re being weirdly polite for someone who is out to get me.” She restrained herself from touching the black tourmaline that was nestled between her breasts on a silver chain. Miranda had been scandalized to learn that Charley wasn’t wearing any protective jewelry with a murderous ghost on the loose and insisted she never take it off. She’d wanted to arrive as a bodyguard for Charley, but she hadn’t had a babysitter since she was a child. She wasn’t going to start now.

“You lost someone who loved you.” He pushed the deck back toward her, and she picked it up, the warmth of the cards sending adrenaline through her body. He wasn’t even touching her hand, and she could sense the energy emanating from him. “That changes something fundamental in your DNA. I’m not a total monster, Charley.” The skin on her palm began to prickle, like an antenna tuning into a signal. She could see that band of gray around him, a dark halo that did little to help his story.

“Did you see the woman in the theater with us?” Charley asked him.

“I saw your sister.”

“You know that’s not who I mean,” she sighed, disappointed. How could he continue to be this obstinate, the truth literally trying to kill her right in front of him?

“What do you know about your sister?” he asked, watching her as she shuffled.

“What kind of question is that?” she asked, irritated.

“She doesn’t want me talking to you.”

“Yeah. Because she said you’re a liar.”