The Wishing Thread by Lisa Van Allen

actually want to
sell
the Stitchery?”
    Her sisters didn’t answer.
    Aubrey got to her feet. “That’s not what Mariah wanted.”
    “Mariah wanted you to be happy,” Meggie said softly. “She told us to take care of you. She said so herself.”
    “And that’s what we want, too,” Bitty said.
    Vic cleared his throat. “Excuse me. But—I’m thinking maybe I should go.”
    “Don’t go,” Aubrey said, and much to her embarrassment, her hand shot out to him. She drew back. “I mean, you don’t have to stay. But you can if you want.”
    His gaze firmed. “As long as you need me, I’ll stay.”
    Meggie pulled her attention away. “Aubrey, we’re not attacking you. We don’t mean it to sound like we’re ganging up. But you can’t stay here. It was marginally okay that you lived here while Mariah was around. But now it’s totally un-okay.”
    “Says who?”
    “It’s not healthy,” Meggie said. “Your being alone all the time. The Stitchery’s holding you back.”
    “And besides,” Bitty said, “isn’t the place supposed to be bulldozed anyway?”
    “Our whole neighborhood is,” Vic said. “To make room for the shopping mall.”
    Bitty’s tone softened. “I’m sorry for that. I really am. But the point
for Aubrey
is that even if she does cling to the Stitchery, she might lose it anyway.”
    “No!” Aubrey said. “Mariah hasn’t been gone a week, andalready you guys want to sell off everything she owns.” She pushed her hair from her face and tried to tamp her anger. “Is this … is this a money thing? I mean—if it is, we’ll talk about it. We’ll figure it out.”
    “I am
not
desperate for money,” Bitty said stiffly.
    “I am,” Meggie said, snorting a little. “And the junk in the tower alone could pay my bills for years.”
    “You shouldn’t call it
junk
,” Aubrey said.
    She balled her hands into fists at her sides. Part of the particular torture of living in the Stitchery was knowing that life would never really be comfortable on the income of a part-time librarian and part-time knitter. The Stitchery did not do a big business. It never had. Many times, Aubrey had seen Mariah knit difficult projects that required days of concentration to pull off big, important spells—in exchange for nothing more than a pack of beat-up trading cards. It was the equivalent of swapping the wondrous magic beans for a dried-up old cow, as opposed to the other way around. Although family rumor held that the early Van Rippers had been well off, the recent Van Rippers were forced to water down their hand soap and orange juice, had more bread crumbs than beef in their meat loaf, and had to turn off the water mid-shower to lather up or shave.
    And yet the tower—old miser that it was—could make Ali Baba’s cave look like a roadside flea market. Who knew how much money all those treasures might sell for? On the wall inside the tower, some ancestor had written a verse: FOR WHERE YOUR TREASURE IS, THERE YOUR HEART WILL BE ALSO. When Aubrey was sleepless over her high property taxes and the Stitchery’s leaking roof, the treasure tormented her. She was a miner on a mountain of silver—without a shovel or pick to her name.
    “Listen, we don’t have to decide about this right now,”Bitty said. “Let’s not fight. Okay? Let’s just table the whole conversation until after the funeral.”
    “Plus, there’s the Madness,” Meggie blurted. “Could we talk about that for a second? Aubrey, you know what will happen if you stay here. Your brain will turn into oatmeal inside your skull! And what are we supposed to do? Just sit back and let that happen?”
    “It will be better to talk about this later,” Bitty said, her voice tight with false patience.
    “I don’t see how
waiting
is going to help,” Meggie said.
    Bitty glared at her.
    “Seriously. We all know she can’t stay here alone.”
    “I will stay,” Aubrey said. “I
have
to stay.”
    “Majority rules,” Meggie said.