Page 68 of The Sisters of Crimson House

“I trust you, Miranda. I’m still here. So is she,” said Charley, glancing at her aunt, a spectral figure with her dark coat and silvery scars. “No more hiding. We’ll figure out how to stop her together.” She hoped the words were enough to convince her sister to leave this cursed room, that they were enough to convince herself not to take it back. They needed Miranda to come home to Crimson House because, insane or not, she might be the only one left who could save them all.

Thirty-Three

It was a dreamless sleep. All four hours of it. Charley awoke with gratitude, offering up a prayer that her sister had not stalked her through her dreams. Her aunt had not risen from the lake, a spectral vision in silver and scars. But both women were now inside the walls of Crimson House. The thought should have been a comfort. Guests would be gathering in a just over a week to see her sister perform. She might dazzle them. She might kill them. The possibilities were endless.

Charley forced herself out of bed, pulling on a sweater over black hair framing her face like a shroud. She would need an IV drip of coffee if she had any hope of making it through the day.

“Pancakes?” Astrid asked brightly as Charley entered the kitchen. She loved that literally nothing fazed this woman, that upon seeing Charley return home at 4:00 a.m. with a feral sister and villainous aunt, Astrid had just made up an extra bed and made some tea like she’d been prepping for it. She was perched on a stool at the end of a kitchen island covered with flour and beside a spiral-bound notebook where Zavier was busy scribbling away.

“Oh, you’re just in time,” he said. “Finalizing the ultimate costume ideas for the Spectacular.” He held up the notebook with panache. “Naturally crimson runs throughout as a visual theme.”

“Costumes?” It hadn’t occurred to her she would need a new outfit, let alone dress up for the occasion. What does one wear to their own execution? It hurt her heart to see how genuinely excited they were for a chance to celebrate, to put on a show. It hurt worse to know there no way this wouldn’t be an unparalleled disaster. At least there were pancakes.

“Any sign of Miranda?” Astrid asked.

Charley shook her head. “Out cold.” She’d checked on her in the Emerald Room before heading downstairs, ashamed that her hand shook when she’d opened the door. Miranda was asleep on the bed, her face mercifully away from the door. Charley noted the rise and fall of her chest, feeling she had done her duty by witnessing Miranda was asleep and not dead. She can’t hurt anybody if she’s asleep, Charley thought as she closed the door. She’d held her breath until she made it to the stairs.

“Your aunt has been up and at ’em with the sun,” said Astrid.

Charley wasn’t surprised. “Not sure she even slept,” she replied. Learning that Celeste was a reanimated zombie would not have come as a shock.

“Even the ghosts don’t want to go near her,” said Astrid.

“For real?” Charley focused on the kitchen, tentatively opening herself up to the energy of the house, the spirits drifting through it. All she sensed was the coffee on her tongue, the smell of butter and vanilla extract.

“They’ve cleared out,” said Astrid, looking around the room. “Blue isn’t even here, and he’s always in the kitchen when Zavier makes pancakes.” Any kind of cooking, or perhaps the anticipation of the meal, seemed to draw spiritual energy to the kitchen.

“Can’t say I blame them,” said Zavier between bites of pancakes. “No offense, but your aunt gives off serious wicked-witch vibes.”

“None taken. Where is she now?”

Both Astrid and Zavier glanced up at the ceiling.

“Sadie’s room,” said Astrid quietly. “I think she slept there.” Of course she was. Why take the available guest bedroom when you could marinate in what was quickly becoming the Museum de Sadie? Suddenly losing her appetite, Charley set down her coffee and headed for the lonely stairwell.

The wooden stairs only creaked and complained more loudly as she made her way to the top. She found her aunt sitting in Sadie’s yellow chair, staring at the Star on the floor.

“I’m sorry you missed her funeral,” said Charley, leaning against the doorframe. “I know that had to have been painful.”

“It was the right thing to do,” she said.

“Sadie still died, Celeste,” said Charley, tired of this argument. Tired of being polite. Just tired. “You stayed away from her, the house”—from me, though she couldn’t say it—“and she still died.”

“I did what I thought was right at the time, Charley. I will never be able to make up for those mistakes, but for what it’s worth, I’m here now.” Celeste looked at her, a sad smile on her worn face. “Such a perfect combination of your mother and father.”

Charley shook her head, unwilling to let the compliment in. “I don’t know if they would recognize me.”

“Some things about you have changed,” Celeste said with a curious smile.

Charley looked at her, puzzled, then felt an itching along her palm. She glanced down at her hand. The shape on her palm was now one angle short of being a Star.

“May I?” Celeste asked, reaching for her hand.

Charley shyly held it out to her.

Celeste hunched over it as if reading her palm, her long gray hair hiding that long scar that raked her cheek. “What do you think happens when the Star is complete?” she asked, straightening.

“I get answers to the questions I’ve been asking my entire life?” said Charley. To be honest, she wasn’t sure if she had really thought it through. But getting answers was a good start.