Page 72 of The Sisters of Crimson House

“What’s so funny?”

Charley jumped at the voice behind her, the laughter dying in her throat. Miranda was in the doorway, watching her. She did not seem crazy, possessed, a cracked vessel endangered by a dark spirit. Just a girl sad to be left out of the joke.

“You warned me about Sy,” said Charley. “He warned me about you.” She set the letter down, a thought occurring to her. “Maybe it was me you both should have been warned about. It would have saved you a lot of trouble.”

“I hope you can forgive me for not coming home sooner.”

“You’re here now,” Charley said. A deep silence lingered between them. How to even begin unpacking so many secrets? How to say thank you for swallowing a Grim Reaper so that she could live while her sister slowly, surely went mad? They did not make a card for such things.

“About the party—” she began.

“I’m all good. You don’t have to worry about me,” Miranda interrupted.

Don’t have to worry. “But do you understand the risks? I don’t want you to get—”

“Hurt,” she finished for her. “Child, have you met anyone tougher than your big sister?” Miranda gave her a genuine smile. “We’re planning a party. Not my funeral.”

Charley couldn’t laugh along at the joke. But her sister was right. She’d never met anyone so tough. Even on the verge of shattering into oblivion. “You’re wondering if he’ll come to the Spectacular?”

Was it that obvious? “No. Yes.” She was done lying. Keeping secrets was exhausting, even if the truth was harder to face. His hands on her face, in her hair. She hated that she was going to offer her sister up as bait to an evil spirit, and her main concern was if Sy Prescott would be there as a witness.

“Of course he will,” Miranda said plainly. “You’ll be there.”

Charley looked at her, startled. “Why would you think that? He hates me.”

“No, he doesn’t,” said Miranda, laughing now. “He hates me. You feel like home to him, and that terrifies him the most.”

Thirty-Five

October 31, 2008

Halloween night was cold, appropriately so. None of this tropical nineties, sweating-through-costumes nonsense. The sun dove behind the river, and a new moon appeared, cloaked in a velvety black night that felt ready to do some damage. Thunderclouds rumbled in the distance, wind kicking up leaves and rustling the paper-thin costumes of the kids streaming across the yards of Elizabeth Street. There were kids! Charley was thrilled to watch them from her perch in her bedroom window, idly stroking Zilpha in her arms. Celeste had been posted at the front door to hand out candy to anyone brave enough to ring the bell at Crimson House if her gnarly scar didn’t spook them further. With Charley in charge of the Spectacular, at the very least there would be a friendlier attempt at Halloween treats.

The first yellow cab pulled up and stopped at the entrance of Crimson House. A young man in a tuxedo without sleeves jumped out of the car and opened the door for his date, a woman with a shaved head and a slinky black gown. She took his arm, and they made their way up the walkway lined with lit torches that Zavier had spent the better part of a day installing, their shadows briefly cast against a looming Crimson House. Even with all the lights ablaze in the mansion, the entrance was a gaping black maw, ready to swallow their guests whole. It was time.

“There are people coming to our house,” said Charley, taking in the spectacle. She allowed herself to feel it, to let in the hope that she too often denied herself, even in her quietest of moments. They could do this. She could do this. She could keep the story of the Brydes alive in the home they had so lovingly made their own, and she would help write its next chapter.

“It’s not like they weren’t already going to drop dead from seeing you in that dress.”

Charley turned to see Astrid resplendent in a low-cut red gown with black trim, her blond hair swept into a crown. Zavier was a vision in a red cloak, his head covered by a matching red cowl.

“Dang, y’all,” Charley said, taking them in. “You’re going to shame everyone for trying. Let me guess.” She studied them as they posed. “Night at the Wax Museum?”

Zavier playfully frowned. “Wrong Corman film. Masque of the Red Death. I’m Vincent Price as Prospero. She’s Jane Asher…”

“Jane Asher being hot in Masque of the Red Death,” Astrid finished for him, shrugging. “I just liked the crown.” Astrid gave her a careful hug, expertly preventing any makeup smudge.

“This was a terrible idea, right?” said Charley, nervously smoothing out her dress. It was her mother’s, a formfitting red velvet gown, a nod to her mother’s signature color. She hesitated to call it a good luck charm; no sense in becoming superstitious tonight of all nights. She looked at her friends, her business partners, the two people in her life who continued to show up regardless of how perilous their situation became, and she furiously tamped down the tears that were threatening to form. She gave them a radiant smile. “At least you both will look ravishing when the police come and arrest us all for the worst idea ever.”

“We’ll be too busy saving the house to care,” said Zavier, straightening his jacket in the mirror. “You’re gonna kill it. So let’s get to it.” He smiled and offered his arm to Astrid as they made their way downstairs.

Charley reeled from the activity in the entry. A speaker playing the soundtrack to Rosemary’s Baby served as tonight’s string quartet. Dozens of people in costume milled about, sipping the bargain-basement beer and wine Zavier had scored from the Peabody thanks to an assist from Travis the bartender. It wasn’t the champagne in crystal flutes from the Spectaculars before, but Charley comforted herself knowing that this was a different breed of guest. The costumes were more playful and certainly a homegrown affair. No bespoke crystal crowns and society doyennes all dressed in some variation of Greek/Roman/Egyptian gods, predictably boring and soul-numbingly rich. While there were certainly some dolled-up guests in floor-length dresses, many of the guests were young, embracing thrift store chic and black lipstick, combat boots, and a constellation of piercings. But despite the front-facing ennui, Charley could see on their faces that they were eager to be transported.

It was hard to hide in a red velvet gown, so Charley smiled a correspondingly burgundy-lipped smile as she worked her way through the crowd in the entry, greeting guests and examining a few outstretched palms. Even Jenny, her bougie client from the Peabody, was here mixing it up with Midtown locals. So many witnesses to what could be her biggest triumph, she thought uneasily, or catastrophic failure. She worked to ignore the itch she felt in her own hand. Would one of the guests touch her hand and accidentally send her into an alternate universe? Present her with memories that couldn’t be trusted? She tried to focus on the grooves and lines in the palm held out in front of her. She was in the process of divining when a guest’s true love might arrive when the woman gasped, pulling her hand away to cover her mouth in shock.

“Is that her?” the woman asked, her kohl-rimmed Cleopatra eyes wide as she stared at the top of the stairwell, where Miranda stood, surveying the crowd. She slowly made her way down, taking her time in a simple black dress, black boots, and red plastic devil horns atop her head. If the plan had been to make sure all eyes in the room were upon her, mission accomplished.

“I didn’t have time to make a proper costume,” Miranda said with a smile as she walked up to Charley.