The Sullivan Sisters - Kathryn Ormsbee Page 0,49
illusions in her library book entitled Stage Magic: A Beginner’s Guide. With committed practice, she was going to get better.
Maybe good enough to get Claire and Eileen and even Mom to stop with their busy lives long enough to pay attention.
That could happen.
With magic, anything was possible.
“Seriously?” Claire sniffed at Eileen. “Like Mom’s going to notice a lamp.”
Claire had a point: Mom didn’t notice dirty dishes in the sink, or the certificate Murphy had stuck to the fridge—an award for Best Solo Act in drama club’s Winter Holiday Revue. Why would Mom notice a broken lamp?
“Anyway,” Claire went on, “you’ve broken more stuff in this house than any of us.” She held up a hand, enumerating: “Mom’s ashtray, the bird soap dish, the outlet cover in my room—”
“Our room.”
“Uh, not yours anymore.”
“Whatever. And sorry, I didn’t realize you were keeping a freaking list of my mistakes.”
“I’m not, it’s just obvious who the real breaker is here.”
“Breaker? Wow. Nice vocab.”
“Better than yours, Ms. F-Bomb.”
“I haven’t—”
“GUYS.” Murphy threw down the sheet.
Begrudgingly, the sisters looked to her.
“No one’s helping,” Murphy said, hands on hips. “It’s like you guys don’t even want to do Cayenne Castle anymore.”
Eileen and Claire exchanged a look across the room.
Shrugging, Eileen said, “Sorry, Murph. We don’t.”
“We’re too old for it,” Claire added, gaze drifting to her phone. “We have been for a while.”
“It’s … blankets,” Murphy said, nonplussed. “Who gets too old for blankets?”
“You know what we mean,” said Claire. “The made-up names and tea parties. It’s kiddie stuff.”
Murphy pursed her lips. Her eyes were getting scratchy.
No. She wasn’t going to cry. Especially not when Claire was calling her “kiddie.” Like Claire and Eileen were way older. The two of them sure hadn’t acted too old for the castle last year.
Something had changed. It had been changing for months. Eileen and Claire had been closing their bedroom doors. They no longer whispered, sharing secrets; they shouted, trading insults. Like they’d forgotten how close they’d been before. Forgotten their royal titles of Princess Paprika and Sir Sage.
Then, a few weeks ago, Eileen had said, “Let’s not do the present thing, huh?”
Murphy had stared, uncomprehending. “But … that’s our tradition. We’ve been doing it for years.”
“Yeah, well, it’s old now.”
Claire had shrugged at Eileen’s pronouncement—the only thing she’d agreed with her about lately. And they’d left Murphy in the kitchen, staring at her lukewarm mac and cheese. She hadn’t told them she’d already bought their gifts: a black-handled, iridescent paintbrush for Eileen and a pink flower statement necklace for Claire.
She’d been scared since then, suspecting it: that Eileen and Claire were over the castle. Still, she’d kept her chin up. She’d prepared her show. She was determined to raise these walls and make them remember.
But now …
“You’re ruining it,” she whispered, focusing on the ground so she could swallow the tears. “I was going to put on a show, and you’ve messed up everything.”
“Don’t be dramatic,” Claire said, scrolling on her phone.
Eileen threw her combat boots over the side of the La-Z-Boy. “What show, Murph?”
It felt silly to say now: I’ve been preparing magic. It was the worst thing to say when she was being accused of immaturity. The deck of cards in Murphy’s back jeans pocket felt hot, burning into her leg.
“Never mind,” she mumbled. “It’s already ruined.”
Something flickered in Eileen’s eyes—a place where, recently, Murphy hadn’t seen light.
“Hey,” she said, softer than before. “Sorry for what I said. I know you’re not gonna break anything.”
The tears Murphy had suppressed came back with a vengeance, pouring down her cheeks.
“It’s … not that,” she croaked out. “It’s everything.”
She couldn’t say more. She could only cry, like the little kid Claire and Eileen thought she was.
Well, if that’s what they thought, then fine. She’d prove their point. Murphy yanked down the nearest blanket she’d clothespinned. She ripped out a sheet she’d tucked into the couch’s back cushions.
Then she ran, escaping to her room, slamming the door behind her and locking it shut.
Come back, Murph, she waited for them to call. Or, Don’t be like that, as they pounded on her door.
No one even knocked.
The longer Murphy cried in her room, the better she understood: Her sisters weren’t coming after her. They didn’t care enough.
The castle had crumbled, never to be rebuilt.
DECEMBER TWENTY-THIRD
NINETEEN Eileen
Claire, for the love of God, let me,” said Eileen.
Because, as it turned out, her seventeen-year-old sister couldn’t light a match.
“I know how to do it,” Claire insisted.
“You keep freaking out. You have to make sure it’s lit before throwing