behind the latest model. Still, it was the best Christmas gift Claire had ever received.
The sisters had decided two years ago to add a new tradition to the twenty-first: Once Cayenne Castle had been constructed in all its glory, they would exchange presents. It was Christmas before Christmas, and it was better, really, than the twenty-fifth itself, when Mom tried to be cheery but ended up dozing off on the couch by noon. Last year she’d napped so hard she’d forgotten the pecan pie in the oven. Only the fire alarm had woken her, and by then the kitchen was filled with smoke and the stench of burnt sugar.
December twenty-first, though? That was just for the Sullivan sisters. A sacred celebration. For this round of gift-giving Claire had presented Murphy with a deck of trick cards. Murphy had given Claire a hot-pink day planner. Eileen had given Murphy a DVD of Penn & Teller, who she’d declared were “dope as hell.” Murphy had given Eileen a postcard book, each card a famous work of art, from Van Gogh’s “Sunflowers” to Jackson Pollock’s splatters.
Then there had been Claire’s gift to Eileen: a set of watercolors made by a pricey brand that Eileen had told Claire she couldn’t afford. It had taken a lot of babysitting, but Claire had managed to save enough for the paints. She’d thought that no other present could beat them.
And then she’d opened Eileen’s gift to her.
Claire was going into high school next year; she needed a phone. Mom was stressed with work, though, and making ends meet, and an iPhone seemed so extravagant an ask. So Claire hadn’t asked, and she’d known, with dejected certainty, there was no phone in her future.
But now.
Now, she had freedom. Now, she could plan with ease, using a digital calendar. She could finally start an Instagram account. Maybe even look into an Etsy shop for her jewelry.
“It’s old,” Eileen had told her, “and you’ll have to pay for the plan from here on out. But it’s something to get you started.”
A start was all Claire needed. She’d find a way to make the payments. There were bright things ahead for this princess.
Eileen had been dubbed Sir Sage by Murphy, who’d doled out both sisters’ titles wielding a remote-control scepter. Then there was Murphy herself: Prince Pepper, ruler of all she surveyed and master-in-training of a folding-paper quarter trick. She’d been working on the magic act for a week but hadn’t gotten the method down. It involved folding the green corner, then the blue, and—
Murphy squeaked as the quarter flew from her hand and rolled into the kitchen, disappearing beneath the oven.
“Crap,” she said.
Murphy really wanted to get this right. On the twenty-first her sisters were a captive audience. They were busy with school and work other days, but December twenty-first was for hanging out: Murphy’s time to shine. A few years back Mom would have stopped for Murphy’s songs or speeches and tricks. Now? Murphy was lucky if she got a “hello” after school. Mom wasn’t … here. She worked longer hours than ever before, and most nights when she got home, she was too tired for Murphy. No time to talk about school or how Murphy wanted to join drama club, and definitely no time for a performance. Once, Mom had paid full attention. Then she’d heard without listening. These days, she didn’t even hear.
Those were the gloomy thoughts on Murphy’s mind as she watched the quarter roll out of reach. So much for a magical beginning. Sighing, she returned to the castle, ducking under the U of O fleece.
A moment later Eileen flung open a quilted flap, revealing a canvas the size of a textbook, painted with magentas, grays, and blues.
“I call it Masque of the Red Death,” she said. “It’s based on a short story by Poe.”
The announcement drew Claire out of her Instagram daze. She looked up from the phone and gasped, “Leenie, it’s a revelation.”
“Super cool,” said Murphy. “Looks like blood splattered on walls.”
“Murphy, gross.” Claire wrinkled her nose.
“Well, it does.”
“I guess,” admitted Eileen. “Anyway, where should we hang it?”
“Over the dais, of course!” Murphy produced the boisterous laugh of a royal, as though to say, What a preposterous question, oh peasant!
“Agreed,” said Claire. “It’ll be impressive there.”
Together the sisters crouch-walked deeper into the den until they reached the fireplace. Stockings had been hung with care—Claire’s doing, not Mom’s, and it was Claire who removed the small wreath from the brick mantle and motioned for