Page 50 of The Sisters of Crimson House

“Aren’t you curious why?”

“Because you’re a liar?”

“Why she doesn’t want us to be alone together.” The air felt charged. “Maybe because we might have a conversation about who has been lying to you.”

She avoided his gaze, looking back at the deck in her hands. She could hate her sister all she wanted. But he wasn’t going to walk into her booth and start making accusations.

“I think it’s time we talk to the cards.” She fanned them out on the table face down.

“Pick three cards,” she said, and he did as instructed, taking his time to study the back of each one. They were appropriately crimson, a flower motif shot through with gold accents.

He pulled three cards from the deck and looked at her, expectant.

“Lay them out side by side, one for the past, one for the present, and one for the future. And be careful to keep them face down. Can’t have me cheating.”

He moved the cards in front of him, face down. “All set,” he said, nodding at her with a smile.

“Perfect. Let the reading begin,” she said, folding her arms and leaning back in her chair. He looked at her, puzzled. “Out of the three hundred thousand card combinations you could pull, you have chosen these three for me as I asked. If you’re so curious about me and my sister, let’s see what story the cards have for us.” She gave him a wide smile as he stared at her.

He laughed softly. “Why do I feel like I’m not getting my money’s worth?”

“Mr. Hero’s Journey over here is getting a chance to school a tarot reader with her own deck. That sounds priceless to me.” She enjoyed how he suddenly looked vulnerable, his face boyish as he squinted at the cards.

“Okay,” he said, turning over the first card. “Here we go. This card represents the past.” They both looked at it. It was the Death card, a skeletal rider atop a nightmare steed, bodies trampled under its mighty hooves. Of course it was. “Wow,” he said.

“Wow?” Charley said, amused. “This is the most terrifying card in the deck. Maybe lead with something less exclamatory so as not to frighten your sitter.”

“You’re right. My apologies.” He cleared his throat as if getting into character. “Death can mean a lot of things. Obviously for you, as this card is in the past position, it can mean an actual, literal death. For others it’s likely showing up as a symbolic ending. See the sunrise in the corner?” He tapped at a yellow sun just visible in the top right of the card. “It symbolizes that a new day is dawning, but the Death card asserts that all things come to an end. Memento mori.” He smiled at her as if he’d just successfully defended his thesis.

“You know, you’re not so bad at this. You could always come work for me?” she teased.

He grinned, erasing the near-permanent scowl from his face. “Again, not literally,” he emphasized. “They’re just cards, and this one is normally read out of context. They make more sense read with the others.” She nodded at him to continue. He turned over the next card. “And here is your present.” It was the Tower. The other most terrifying card in the deck.

You’re not supposed to be here. The voice was so close in her ear, she jumped.

“Huh,” said Sy, leaning in closer to study the image. “Did your mother commission this deck? Rather clever to have Crimson House as the stand-in for the Tower on fire.”

“No,” said Charley, her voice strained as she stared at the card. The Tower in her deck was an ivory one with an orange stucco roof, a bolt of lightning setting it ablaze. A man and woman hurtled through the air, mid-disaster. But not this card. In it, Crimson House stood tall against a night sky, a tiny blue tarp covering the third-story turret. Lightning struck the very spot where her grandmother Sadie had died, and a tiny Sadie was painted midair, plummeting to the ground. Her mouth opened in a permanent scream, her white hair a shroud against the night sky. “Did you do this?” she asked him, her voice shaking.

“Did I do what?” he said, sounding genuinely confused.

“Swap out the cards?” She grabbed the card, running her fingers over it. It felt worn, speckled at the edges, very much a part of her deck. Impossible.

“You selected the cards, Charley,” he said carefully, thrown by the sudden change in her demeanor. “At your request.” They both looked at the last card in the spread. Her future. Not waiting for Sy, Charley turned it over.

It was the Death card. Impossibly. Two positions over, the traditional Death card showed the rider and horse stepping over bodies, heading toward to a new dawn. But this card’s rider was atop a monstrous horse, its eyes glowing red as it gleefully trampled bodies in its wake. In this frozen tableau, Miranda’s dark hair streamed out behind her as one hand raised aloft a black flag, the other urging on the horse to crush Charley’s body beneath its hooves.

“What is this?” she said, her hands shaking as they hovered over the cards. “How did you do it?”

“How did I do what? I don’t know what you’re getting at,” he said, looking legitimately thrown by her behavior. “What’s your issue with the Queen of Swords, besides this one looking a lot like your sister?”

She looked back at the cards on the table. The third card was not the freakish Death card, depicting her murder in progress. It had been replaced with the Queen of Swords, a standard of tarot but depicted as her childhood monster from the cemetery, now a woman in black clutching a bloody sword in her right hand. In her left, she clutched Charley’s disembodied head. Charley’s face was frozen in a scream. The scream was a warning dying on her tongue.

“Sy, why does Miranda not want us to be alone together?” she said, her heart beating triple time against her ribs. “What happened in Europe?”

“You’re not asking the right question,” he said, the ghost of a smile on his lips.

“She pulled a knife on you,” said Charley. How was this not the right question?