Page 80 of The Sisters of Crimson House

“Tell Osiris his mother loves him,” Margaret said, giving her the saddest smile Charley had ever seen.

“I will,” said Charley, nodding to Margaret as the woman walked past her, headed into the beauty of Elmwood Cemetery before she vanished. Charley scanned the hill. Her family had disappeared along with Margaret, along with the Queen of Swords. No more battles to be fought, no more blood feuds to be settled in the name of revenge. No one stopping her now but her. Her muscles screaming, she lifted her sister higher in her arms and walked across the bridge.

Forty-One

She awoke to blood. To panic. Sy hovered over Miranda’s body, his hands pressed below her collarbone to stop the bleeding. Charley felt strangely light, no longer carrying the weight of her sister, who was now bleeding out on the floor of Sadie’s study.

“Help me,” he begged, seeing her eyes open. His eyes were wide, terrified. She scrambled to his side. Miranda’s eyes were closed, her black hair fanned out behind her. “She was trying to kill you,” he said, his voice shaking. “I wanted to kill her,” he admitted, the tears finally falling down his face.

“I understand,” said Charley, watching him.

“Are you going to help me?” he begged again, his hands covered in so much of Miranda’s blood, and Charley finally nodded. She placed her hand over his. She felt the Star press against his skin, and Sy finally learned the truth.

Forty-Two

One Year Later

“The Friends of Historic Elizabeth Street are thrilled to welcome our newest member, the Humphreys House Day Center for Children.” Howard Lovell didn’t look thrilled so much as enormously satisfied as his wife, Peyton, took the giant golden scissors from his meaty hands and cut the ribbon that was strung across the freshly rebuilt and repainted stairs. It was an appropriately cold November, and the small audience assembled clapped their gloved hands as a photographer from The Commercial Appeal snapped photos. Charley stood before the house, taking in the miracle that was Crimson House restored. After the group made their way up the stairs, she approached a plaque that had been mounted into the siding, the copper gleaming in the sun. She ran a finger across the recessed lettering, tracing the grooves of Humphreys House Day Center for Children.

Her season as steward, guardian, and prisoner of Crimson House was over. It was time for its next incarnation, one that would never begin to pay the debt owed by the Bryde family to the Humphreys, but it was a hopeful start. She’d agreed to the sale to the Friends of Elizabeth Street with two specific caveats: the house would have to bear this name and take on this mission. Foster children, orphans, and all children in need of a safe haven would be given shelter, not unlike how Crimson House had been Charley’s when nothing else in her life had been certain. Surprisingly, the Lovells hadn’t put up a fight. Maybe a head buried in one’s walls made one more amenable to compromise, Charley figured, as she made her way down the walkway toward the sidewalk. Or maybe they were just decent people who genuinely cared about the fate of the house next door. Ultimately it didn’t matter. Howard Lovell had been right. It was time to go back to Midtown, where her kind belonged.

But she did have a pit stop to make first.

***

Charley dug her hands into her coat pockets, bracing against the bite that was November as she made her way down a leaf-strewn path. Shouts stopped her in her tracks. Two little boys raced through the south lawn of Elmwood Cemetery, their mom pointlessly yelling at them to stop as they launched themselves over tombstones and past monuments of long-dead Memphians. Charley laughed, surprised at how good it felt to do so despite the shock of cold air in her lungs. Fresh bouquets and evergreen wreaths spruced many of the headstones she passed, remnants of All Saints’ Day.

She finally made her way to the all-too-familiar Bryde mausoleum, passing the Angel of Death, whose sword pointed steadily at a purple winter sky. She knelt before the mausoleum door, positioning the bouquets that Astrid had arranged for her. Roses for Sadie, calla lilies for Celeste. She’d insisted they meant peace or eternity, as the Victorians had ascribed meaning to all flowers and herbs. All Charley knew was that it made her feel at peace for one sweet moment as she breathed in their heady scents.

“What’s that famous quote about roses?” came a voice from behind her.

So much for peace. Charley carefully stood, steadying herself against the mausoleum wall before turning round.

Sy wore a wool coat turned up at the collar, his breath a white cloud in the air. He looked pale, drawn, his eyes dark and driftless. But he was alive. It had been a year, almost to the day, since she had last seen him.

“Shakespeare,” said Charley. “A rose by any other name—”

“Would smell as sweet,” he finished for her. “Right.”

Surely he knew the backstory, Charley thought. Blood feuds. Forbidden love that ended in tragedy.

“I wondered if I might see you today,” Charley said. The ceremony for Humphreys House had been small, but it had been a ceremony nonetheless, one commemorating his mother. She would be lying if she said she hadn’t been disappointed that he wasn’t there.

“I’m not really much for ceremonies.” He glanced at the ground, the trees, anywhere but Charley. “But the house looks good. Fewer tarps.”

Jokes. Even if they were a defense mechanism, she took them as a positive sign.

“But you’re here now?” They had made a de facto truce, one never discussed out loud. There had been no time for that last Halloween. Too much happening too quickly. But they both knew this to be true. He would not go to the police with updated theories on why the Brydes were responsible for the disappearance of Margaret Humphreys, and in turn, she would not press charges for Sy Prescott shooting her sister with the intent to kill her. Even if he’d meant to save Charley’s life in the process.

“Official business,” he said, finally meeting her eyes.

“Oh, you’re here with those hundred thousand dollars, aren’t you?” said Charley.

This actually coaxed a small smile from him. “It went toward a better cause.”

All the money poured into him as a Dennan recipient had single-handedly funded his revenge campaign against the Brydes—his pursuit of Miranda in Europe, the Occam’s Razor sham. Blood money raised by the Brydes at their annual Spectaculars and used by Sy in his attempt to destroy them. Instead, the Friends of Elizabeth Street had buzzed in their newsletter over the very large anonymous donation for the transformation of Crimson House into a place that would save more lives than it had claimed. It, too, had one small stipulation: a plaque honoring the memory of Margaret Humphreys would be embedded into the exterior wall of the house itself.

“Occam’s Razor declined to renew my membership. Something about lack of objectivity.” He smirked at this. “But you’re welcome to officially reapply.”