Free Beautiful Redemption by Kami García, Margaret Stohl

sparrow flew in from the open window and perched on the old woman’s shoulder. “There’s the truth you can face and the truth you can’t. You come over here and sit down, and I’ll show you what I mean.” Sulla shuffled the cards, the Angry Queen disappearing into the deck behind the Black Crow.
Amarie walked around to the other side of the table and sat down on the crooked stool where so many folks waited to see their fate.
Sulla flicked her wrist, fanning the cards out in one swift motion. Her necklaces tangled together at her throat—silver charms etched with images Amarie didn’t recognize, hand-painted wooden beads strung between bits of rock, colored crystals that caught the light when Sulla moved. And Amarie’s favorite—a smooth black stone threaded through a piece of cord that rested on the hollow of Sulla’s neck.
Grandmamma Sulla called it “the eye.”
“Now pay attention, Little One,” Sulla instructed. “One day you’ll be doin’ this on your own, and I’ll be whisperin’ to you from the wind.”
Amarie liked the sound of that.
She smiled and pulled the first card.

    The edges of the vision blurred, and the row of colored bottles came back into view. I was still touching the cracked bluish-green one and the cork that had unleashed the memory—one of Amma’s, trapped like a dangerous secret she didn’t want to escape into the world. But it wasn’t dangerous at all, except maybe to her.
    I could still see Sulla showing her the Cards of Providence, the cards that would one day form the spread that showed her my death.
    I pictured the faces of the cards, especially the twins, face to face. The Fractured Soul. My card.
    I thought about Sulla’s smile and how small she looked compared to the giant she seemed to be as a spirit. But she wore the same intricate braids and heavy strands of beads snaking around her neck in both life and death. Except the cord with the black stone—I didn’t remember that one.
    I looked down at the empty bottle, pushing back the cork and leaving it on the shelf with the others. Did all these bottleshold Amma’s memories? The ghosts that were haunting her in ways the spirits never would?
    I wondered if the night of my death was in one of those bottles, shoved down deep where it couldn’t escape.
    I hoped so, for Amma’s sake.
    Then I heard the stairs creak.
    “Amma, you in the kitchen?” It was my dad.
    “I’m in here, Mitchell. Right where I always am before supper,” Amma answered. She didn’t sound normal, but I didn’t know if my dad could tell.
    I followed the sound of their voices back through the hall. Lucille was sitting at the other end waiting for me, her head tilted to the side. She sat straight like that until I was inches away from her, and then she stood up and sauntered off.
    Thanks, Lucille.
    She’d done her job, and she was through with me. Probably had a saucer of cream and a fluffy pillow waiting for her in front of the television.
    I guessed I wasn’t going to be able to spook her again.
    As I rounded the corner, my dad was pouring himself a glass of sweet tea. “Did Ethan call?”
    Amma stiffened, her cleaver poised over an onion, but my dad didn’t seem to notice. She started chopping. “Caroline has him busy waitin’ on her. You know how she is, classy and sassy, just like her mamma was.”
    My dad laughed, his eyes crinkling in the corners. “That’s true, and she’s a terrible patient. She must be driving Ethan crazy.”
    My mom and Aunt Prue weren’t kidding. My dad was under the influence of a serious Cast. He had no idea what had happened. I wondered how many of Lena’s family members it took to pull this off.
    Amma reached for a carrot, lopping the end off before she even got it on the cutting board. “A broken hip’s a lot worse than the flu, Mitchell.”
    “I know—”
    “What’s all that racket?” Aunt Mercy called from the living room. “We’re tryin’ ta watch Jeopardy! ”
    “Mitchell, get on in