Page 25 of The Sisters of Crimson House

“You could be running ghost tours anywhere in this city,” said Miranda, turning her attention to Zavier. “What about my family’s story has captivated you so?”

“You mean why is a Black man telling the story of the white women of Crimson House?” Zavier said with a disarming smile. It wasn’t the first or tenth time he’d been asked this question, and Charley loved him for the candor with which he answered it every time.

“I’ve been in love with Crimson House ever since I first laid eyes on it. I grew up in Raleigh. Boy Scout trip when I was eight,” he added with a shrug.

“Hella progressive Scout troop,” conceded Miranda.

“Shout out to Troop Three-Oh-Nine,” Zavier said with a grin. “It was a real-life haunted house complete with ghosts and an unbeatable backstory. I studied the greatest hits in town: Mary at the Orpheum. The haunted jukebox at Earnestine & Hazel’s. The ghost of Annie rumored to have died tragically inside the theater at Rhodes College. But I kept coming back here.” Zavier dipped his finger in a glass of water and offered it to Jenkins, whose beak was just visible from Zavier’s inside jacket pocket. “Memphis is a singular experience,” he said with pride. “It’s shaped by water and forged from the pain of some of the most gorgeous, tragic souls you’ll ever meet. If those aren’t the primary drivers of a supernatural vortex, I don’t know what is.”

“Am I getting some of the tour?” Miranda said with a wry smile.

“This one’s a freebie. Just for you. But I mean this,” he said, lowering his voice. “A family of famous mystics communing with the dead inside a celebrated mansion? You’ve hit the supernatural jackpot.” He snuck a quick glance at Charley before returning his attention to Miranda. “Beatrix Bryde and I may not have a lot in common at first glance, but your great-great grandmother, she always saw potential. I see tremendous potential that Crimson House has even more stories to tell.”

“The stories are so good, you don’t even have to make them up,” replied Charley with a smirk.

“Which he still does,” added Astrid.

“Constantly,” complained Charley. “Like, there’s no need to deviate from insanely good source material. No one was beheaded in that front entry.”

“I do not make anything up,” deadpanned Zavier. “I just enhance what is already in place.”

“So are y’all just waiting for my grandma to die, and then she becomes the next stop on the tour?” asked Miranda, taking a sip of her drink.

“Jesus, Miranda,” said Charley, glaring at her sister.

“Are Mom and Dad highlighted as well? Just trying to get the rundown on how it all works.”

“No,” said Zavier carefully, “because Sadie Bryde will outlive us all, God willing, and two, house rules. We haven’t seen your parents in the house, so no need to make up anything about them. And even if we did see them, I wouldn’t do that to Charley. Or you,” he added softly. “I can be accused of stretching the truth, but never being cruel about it.”

“Just making sure my little sister isn’t being taken advantage of,” Miranda said, turning to study Charley. “You have all kinds of characters coming in and out of Sadie’s house these days. There’s a lot you don’t know about how the wider world works.”

A perfectly timed server swooped into the space, blocking Charley’s eyeline with Miranda before she could flip the table and possibly her sister off her chair. The server held out a single glass of champagne that she offered to Miranda. “This is from the gentleman at the bar. He wanted to know if you were the Miranda Bryde and said, ‘Welcome home.’”

Miranda moved to take the glass, but Charley snagged it midair, downing the drink in three mostly elegant gulps. She placed the empty glass back on the server’s tray, giving her a wide smile. “You can tell him the Miranda Bryde is good for tonight. This becomes her entire personality after her third glass,” Charley said, beaming at Miranda, who, to Charley’s satisfaction, couldn’t completely hide her irritation. “Right? Since we know each other so well.”

But now Miranda was looking past her, frowning at the bar. Charley turned to check out the generous stranger doling out drinks, seeing no one but Mal chatting with the server.

“So. Dead people,” her sister said, her attention returning to Astrid. “Who do you see around me?” asked Miranda with a calm smile.

“Honestly?” said Astrid, her eyes darting around the room. She leaned closer to Miranda, conspiratorial. “I don’t see anyone. It’s kind of weird for this place especially. There’s usually at least one ghost hanging close to the bar.”

Miranda held out her hand to Astrid, her palm almost disfigured by the giant diagonal lines crisscrossing its surface. “Show me what you see now.”

“Oh, I couldn’t,” said Astrid, looking genuinely unnerved at the fabled Seeker’s Star on Miranda’s palm.

“Please.”

Astrid took a deep breath before tentatively accepting Miranda’s hand. “I’ve never seen it up close before, the Seeker’s Star,” she said reverently, studying its shape. “Only in pictures, but wow.” She exhaled quietly. “May I?” she asked.

Miranda nodded as Zavier scooched forward. Even Charley found herself leaning in, unconsciously following the line on her own palm with her index finger like a river on a map.

With her index finger, Astrid lightly traced the contours of the Star, the lines etched so deep into the skin, they looked lined in ink. Tiny, cilia-like lines branched off in all directions, giving the impression her Star was crowded by thorns. “And when you were born, it was just there, on your hand?”

“Yep. Our matrilineal line is born with it, like we were stamped in a factory. Our great-great-grandmother Beatrix understood that she could capitalize on this sucker instead of die from it. Too many magical women in history are punished for embracing what makes them special. She wasn’t going to wait around for that to happen.”

“Holy shit!” Astrid yelped suddenly, dropping Miranda’s hand in shock. “Oh God, I’m sorry. It’s just—”

“What?” asked Miranda with a knowing smile.