Sisters' Fate (11 page)

“What did you hear, exactly?”

Maura adjusts one of the gold combs in her hair. “That Tess had a nightmare and got hysterical. That you didn’t help matters by accusing everyone of being out to get her.”

“It wasn’t a nightmare.” I shiver. “Someone cast the illusion of her bed being on fire. It’s the second time someone has tried to frighten her like this. Last time it was in broad daylight. We’d just gotten back from shopping, and she walked into her room to find Cyclops hanging from the curtain rod with a note saying
You’ll be next.
”

Maura frowns. “Why didn’t you come to me sooner? She’s my sister, too, you know.”

“I’m coming to you now. Who would do such a thing?” I fight the temptation to point out that if Maura hadn’t blabbed to Inez, no one would know Tess is the oracle, and there would be no reason to target her.

“I haven’t the foggiest.” Maura’s blue eyes narrow thoughtfully.

“Tess thinks someone’s trying to discredit her. Make her seem too young and silly to lead.”

“She
is
too young,” Maura says. “If we were back in Chatham, she wouldn’t even be attending teas or dinner parties yet. When the time comes that the Brotherhood falls—and that time is coming, mark my words—we can’t put a twelve-year-old in charge of New England.”

“I’m not against Tess requiring a regent until she comes of age, but—”

“But you think it should be you, not Inez.” Maura kicks her gold slippers against the side of the desk.
Thud. Thud. Thud.

“Actually, I think it should be Elena.” The idea’s been spinning around in my mind for days, and the words come out before I think through the wisdom of sharing them.

Maura freezes.
“What?”

“I’m not an ideal candidate. I know that. But Elena’s brilliant. Strategic. Manipulative when she needs to be, but she can be kind, too. After Inez, she’s the best witch we have. Her magic might not be as strong as ours, but she has more experience.”

“You want
Elena
to lead until Tess is ready,” Maura says slowly.

“Yes.” I take a desk from the front row and turn it around so I can sit on the top, facing my sister. “I don’t want it for myself. It’s never been about that for me. I just want it to be someone who cares about people—all people, not just men, not just witches, and not just the rich. Someone who believes in equality.”

Maura is staring at me like I’m a stranger. “Why, Cate, have you been reading political theory?”

I laugh. I’m not ready to make peace, far from it, but perhaps we can have a momentary truce? “Just the
Gazette.
”

“I think Elena would be a good leader.” Maura flushes. “But what about Inez? She’s been so good to me. I can’t betray her.”

I clench my teeth as hurt lances through me. She can’t betray Inez, whom she’s known all of two months? She had no trouble betraying
me.
“What is it that she’s done for you, besides flatter you and let you practice mind-magic?” I scowl, thinking of the men lying comatose in Richmond Hospital. “Made you responsible for murder?”

“We haven’t murdered anyone,” Maura snaps, jumping off the desk.

“As good as.” I shake my head. “Do you even know what she’s plotting now?”

Maura huffs. “If you’re referring to Alice’s ridiculous accusation—”

“I’m not,” I interrupt. “Why has she been spending her afternoons at Richmond Hospital with Brother Covington?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Maura plants her hands on her hips, but her shifty eyes give her away.

“I saw her there today with my own eyes, so there’s no point in denying it. The nurses said she’s been there all week.” I raise my eyebrows as a thought occurs to me. “Was your mind-magic on Covington not entirely successful? Is there a possibility he could wake up and tell what happened?”

“Wouldn’t that make you happy, to know I failed?” Maura’s hands clench in her sapphire skirts. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but that’s not it.”

“Well, whatever it is, Inez is hiding something. Maybe she’s the one threatening Tess.”

“No. She wouldn’t do that.” Maura lifts her chin. “She promised.”

“That’s the woman you’d have rule New England? One you’d have to beg not to hurt your little sister?” I snap. “You should never have told her Tess was the oracle.”

Maura strides over to the window, her shoulders stiffening. She’s quiet for a long moment, gazing out at the dreary winter garden. “It isn’t Inez.”

“Forgive me if I don’t take your word for it.”

Maura spins around. “She swore an oath to me, Cate. She swore on her husband’s grave that she wouldn’t hurt Tess.”

“She . . . what?” I manage. “Inez was
married
?”

My sister nods. “In the Spanish territories. One of the Brothers’ guards caught them sneaking across the border down in Maryland. The guard shot her husband in the head before her very eyes. So she compelled the guard to shoot himself.” Maura shivers. “That brooch she always wears—it’s got locks of her husband’s hair in it.”

Interesting. So it’s not just power Inez has been craving all these years. It’s revenge, too.

“Who else would want to discredit Tess?” I ask, refocusing on the matter at hand. “It would have to be someone who supports Inez. Someone like . . .” I trail off. I don’t want to suspect Maura. She seemed genuinely surprised that the incident last night wasn’t the first. But Alice has come around of late, Parvati isn’t powerful enough, and frankly, I don’t see any of the other girls having the initiative to plan a campaign like this.

“You’re wondering if it was me, aren’t you.” Maura bites her lip. “Do you really think so little of me? You think I’d hurt
Tess
?”

“You hurt
me.
” The words slip out before I can stop them.

“That’s—” Maura pauses, but we both know what she was about to say.
That’s different.

Why? What about our relationship is so fundamentally broken that she would think that? What did I ever do to her?

I head for the door. “It’s late, Maura. I’ll let you get back to your friends.”

• • •

The next morning, Tess is waiting for me in the hall between my illusions and advanced mathematics classes. “Cate!” she exclaims, grabbing me out of the crush of girls and pulling me into the library. “I have the most marvelous news! Guess what? Father’s coming for Christmas!”

“Here? To New London?” I ask stupidly.

“No, to Indo-China. Yes, here!” She waves a letter in my face. “I wrote him last week and asked him to come and he—”

“Do you think that’s a good idea?” I interrupt.

“Cate.” She frowns at me, hitching her stack of books higher on her pink-clad hip. “We agreed to tell him the truth at Christmas. How can we do that if we don’t see him? You promised.”

“I know.” Tess thinks it’s past time to tell Father that we’re witches, and I suppose I agree that he should learn the truth of it. But things seem so uncertain just now. Maura and I are barely speaking. How can we pretend to be a happy family for Father? Does Tess mean to tell him
everything
?

“He’ll stay in his flat above the Cahill Mercantile Company.” She bounces on her tiptoes, a grin spreading across her face, and I don’t have the heart to argue. It’s the happiest she’s looked in weeks. “He said he expects to get in late on Friday, and we ought to come to the flat for dinner on Christmas Eve. He’s bringing presents and a big surprise!”

“That sounds wonderful.” But I can’t help worrying. What if Father doesn’t react the way she hopes? “Speaking of presents, I’m going shopping before I head to the hospital this afternoon. Would you like to come with me?”

“No, thank you.” Tess puts her books down on a nearby shelf, straightening the fuchsia sash at her waist. “Vi and I are going tomorrow.”

“Oh.” I bite back my disappointment. “I don’t have to go today. Perhaps we could play a game of checkers. Or I could help you bake scones for tea. Whatever you like.”

“I’ve already promised to help Lucy with her Latin.” Tess picks up the stack of books and edges her way toward the door.

“Oh. Well, perhaps I could—”

“Why don’t you just shackle me to your ankle?” she snaps.

I stare at her, taken aback. “Tess, I didn’t mean—”

“Forgive me.” Tess flushes as pink as one of Mother’s peonies. “I don’t mean to be unkind. But if I want people to take me seriously, I can’t be hanging on to your skirts all the time, Cate. You understand, don’t you?”

“Of—of course.” My fingers dig into the leather cover of my mathematics text. “I’ll ask Rilla if she’d like to come with me instead.”

“Perfect.” Tess gives me a sunny smile, but my throat aches as I watch her walk away. It’s natural that she wants to assert her independence, isn’t it? She
will
be thirteen next year.

Somehow, though, it feels as if I’m losing both my sisters.

CHAPTER

11

VERY LATE ON THURSDAY NIGHT, PRUE,
Rilla, and I head toward O’Neill’s Stationery. Prue is eager to be reunited with her brother, and Rilla insisted on coming because she “refuses to let that conceited fop of a Merriweather” off the hook regarding her ideas for the
Gazette.
As we hurry along the frozen city streets, tucked into our cloaks and fur muffs, they chatter about their ideas for interviewing former Harwood prisoners. I smile, feeling confident in their ability to browbeat Merriweather into running some pro-witch pieces, but butterflies tumble through my stomach at the promise of seeing Finn.

The occasional phaeton rumbles past, carrying young men home from their carousing or whatever it is young men have the freedom to do late at night. Two guards stop us once we reach the market district, but we tell them we’re on our way to Richmond Hospital to pray over the fever victims and they let us pass. No one seems to relish being out tonight. The wind whips furiously through my winter layers, numbing my thighs, sending my hair tumbling out of its careful braids. At least it isn’t snowing. It hasn’t since the night of the Harwood breakout. Has it been two weeks already?

The last two days have flown past. I’ve spent my mornings in class—illusions, advanced mathematics, and animations—and my afternoons nursing at Richmond Hospital. Inez has been strict in illusions, singling me out when my glamours don’t hold, but otherwise she’s been quiet. Too quiet, perhaps. This morning I caught her smiling in a way that sent terror tumbling through me. In the evenings, Sachi and Rory and I have been trying to determine what to do with the new girls. They can’t stay at the convent indefinitely, but most of them have nowhere else to go.

Tess and Maura have both kept their distance. It hurts more than I’d like to admit.

The Brothers have begun to preach about the pestilence brought on by the witches. The
Sentinel
ran an article today claiming that the witches have cast a plague onto the populace. Yesterday, on the way home from the hospital, I ducked into a flower shop to buy some of the yellow tulips Rilla loves and overheard two well-dressed women gossiping about how the witches have done spells to make people sick. They wore bright, gauzy scarves tied over their faces because the fever has begun to spread into the market district, but it’s a flimsy precaution. I suspect they think of the sickness as something that could only happen to other people—poorer, unluckier ones.

The alley behind Fifth Street is quiet. The wind has sent clouds scudding over the moon, plunging the night into shadow. I check to be sure there’s no one nearby before using my key to unlock the back door. In the storeroom, I shuck off my cloak. I’ve forgone my Sisterly black for a dove-gray dress with a blue sash that I know looks well on me. I pause to pat my hair back into place, wishing for a looking glass.

“Do I look a mess?” I ask, flushing. If Merriweather could see me, he’d think I was a silly chit indeed.

Rilla reaches up to fix a strand of my hair. “No. You look lovely.”

I lead the way down into the cellar, my eyes sweeping over the men assembled at the table: Merriweather, O’Neill, the ginger-whiskered Mr. Moore, a strapping man built like a dockworker but dressed like a dandy, and two others from last time. No Finn. My heart falls.

Merriweather crosses the room in three giant strides. “Prudencia!” he says, in a voice hoarse with emotion, and folds her into his long-limbed embrace. While he and Prue are having their tender reunion, I introduce Rilla to the others.

“Good to see you again, my girl,” O’Neill says, after Prue extricates herself.

“Welcome back, Prue. How long did they have you in that place?” the tall man asks.

Merriweather whirls on him. “Good Lord, John, have a little tact.”

“It was three years,” Prue says, smiling. “I don’t mind talking about it. In fact, I
want
to talk about it. I think people should know what we suffered.”

“See?” Rilla’s hazel eyes spark with the light of battle.

Merriweather sighs and turns to me. “Why did you bring this one? The other girl was lovely. Quiet.”

“If you say women should be seen and not heard, I’ll brain you myself,” Prue threatens. “I think Rilla’s idea is brilliant. Everyone who follows your paper knows where I was, Alistair, and they all know it wasn’t because I was a witch; it was because I refused to tell the Brothers how to find you. Some of the other girls wouldn’t want you using their real names, but you could use mine.”

“Absolutely not!” Merriweather thunders. “I won’t put you forward as a target.”

Prue rolls her eyes heavenward. “You can risk your safety, but I can’t? That’s ridiculous.”

The men around the table watch the siblings argue, heads swiveling back and forth as though they’re at a lawn tennis match.

“The ladies have a point.” Finn clatters down the stairs. He’s wearing a chocolate-colored vest and a rumpled white shirt, and when his eyes meet mine, a grin spreads over his face, and I’m blind to anything else. “You weren’t at the bazaar, Merriweather, but O’Shea had a nurse spinning stories about how well the Harwood girls were treated. The public ought to know the truth of it.”

“And how am I supposed to get my hands on all these girls to interview them?” Merriweather demands.

“That’s where we come in.” Rilla’s wearing one of her favorite dresses tonight, too. It’s yellow brocade with enormous orange gigot sleeves and an orange taffeta bow at the breast. “I could interview them for you.”

“What?” Merriweather’s chiseled jaw drops. “
That’s
ridiculous.”

“It is not. It’s past time you had a lady reporter on your staff. I would use a nom de plume, of course,” Rilla plows on. “All the magazines from Paris and Dubai have lady reporters. Why not here?”

Merriweather runs a hand through his shaggy dark hair. “All the fashion magazines, you mean. I run a serious newspaper, Miss Stephenson, and I will not have it become a laughingstock.”

Prue gives her brother a mutinous look. “I think it’s a good idea.”

“Of course you do.” Merriweather folds his arms across his broad chest. “How do I even know she can write?”

“You’ll see when I turn in my first interview, won’t you?” Rilla brushes her palms together as if the matter is settled, and I can practically see Merriweather’s brain explode. Poor man.

“I don’t wish to tell you how to run your newspaper—” I begin carefully.

“Then don’t. I beg of you, refrain from whatever it is you’re about to say. I’ve had all I can take of managing females for the evening,” Merriweather grumbles, glaring at Prue and Rilla. He pulls out a chair from the long wooden table and slumps into it.

“I’m afraid that wouldn’t agree with my conscience.” I take the empty seat between him and Finn. Rilla and Prue sit across the table. “I’ve spent the last four days nursing fever victims at Richmond Hospital. Are you aware that we’re in real danger of an epidemic?”

“An epidemic?” Merriweather shakes his head. “I’ve heard it’s gotten worse, but—”

I shake my head, terribly aware that Finn’s knee is only inches from mine. “It’s spread like wildfire all through the river district. It’s bound to hit the market district next, and then what? It’s three days till Christmas. Everyone’s out doing their shopping.”

John frowns, toying with his purple cravat. “I thought the accounts in the
Sentinel
were all just fearmongering.”

Mr. Moore scratches at his whiskers. “My cousin lives out on the edge of town. Sent word yesterday that his kids are sick and might not be able to make it for Christmas dinner.”

“See? People ought to be taking precautions, and they aren’t, because the
Sentinel
is blaming it all on the witches. The hospital is a madhouse; they’re turning people away for lack of beds. Talk to any nurse!” I glance around at the men lining the table: all gentlemen or tradesmen, by their dress. “When was the last time any of you went down by the river? For all your fine talk of equality and a vote for all men, do any of you ever interact with the poor?”

There’s a moment of silence, and I grit my teeth.

“We don’t get many customers from down by the river. Good writing paper and ink are luxuries,” O’Neill admits, staring down at his wrinkled hands.

“If it’s so bad, why wouldn’t the Brothers be setting up quarantines? Or at least marking houses with the sick inside?” Merriweather asks.

“It might cause panic. That’s the last thing O’Shea wants.” Finn’s brown eyes meet mine and then flick around the table. “He won’t go anywhere without half a dozen guards. He’s afraid of being assassinated or attacked—either by the witches or by someone inside the council. The Brotherhood is deeply divided right now.”

The other men look suitably impressed by this information. “How so?” John asks.

“That last measure barely passed. They’ve caught ten of the sixty witches who escaped Sunday, but they haven’t scheduled another execution. Some say it’s because O’Shea’s afraid of another show of power by the witches.” Finn’s freckled hand rests on his right thigh, just inches from mine, and I have to force myself not to reach out and twine our fingers together. It feels unnatural to be this close and not touching. “Others say it’s because public opinion is against it. Some want to elect O’Shea permanently. Others want to call Brennan back and give him a chance to explain himself.”

Merriweather straightens. “How many of them would side with Brennan now?”

“Hard to say.” Finn leans forward to see around me, and his knee bumps mine. “Before the incident at Harwood, I think he could’ve gotten the vote. Now . . . I don’t know. I feel damned guilty about the whole thing.”

I suck in a startled breath. “Why would you feel guilty?” Surely he isn’t leading this conversation where I think he’s leading it.

“Because I was there, not Brennan. Because it’s my handkerchief they—ow!” Finn exclaims as I kick him in the shin. “I already told Merriweather, Cate, and I’m sure he told the others.”

“Are you mad?” I swivel to face Merriweather. “You can’t turn him in! Even if he confessed, they’d think he was making it up to clear Brennan’s name. They’d hang them both.”

“We know,” Merriweather says. “We have no intention of turning him in. Come to think of it, though, Belastra, perhaps I ought to interview
you
about what happened at Harwood. Anonymously, of course.”

I dart an uneasy glance at Finn. “He helped us bluff our way in. We were disguised as Brothers, but he was the real thing.”

“I see.” There’s a curious gleam in Merriweather’s eyes. “And then what?”

“We pulled the fire bell to get all the nurses in one place, and then we shut them in the uncooperative ward. It locks from the outside. But one of the nurses—the one who spoke at the bazaar—escaped and shot a patient. Finn helped me subdue her and then—”

“I appreciate your candor,” Merriweather interrupts, “but perhaps you could let the man speak for himself?”

My heart sinks. He knows. Finn must have said something the other night, something that betrayed his lack of memory. Now Merriweather’s bound to ask questions, he won’t let it drop, and—

I throw a panicky glance across the table at Rilla.

“Why are you so interested in what Mr. Belastra did that night?” Rilla tosses her brown curls. “It was mostly us, you know. Witches. Women. Why not give us credit?”

“I give you plenty of credit. I’ve already thanked Cate profusely for saving my sister,” Merriweather argues. “Don’t you think Belastra deserves accolades, too, for risking his neck?”

Finn’s brow is furrowed as he stands. “Cate, may I speak to you for a moment? In private?”

Moore chuckles behind his whiskers. “Lovers’ quarrel?”

I can feel the prickly heat spreading up my throat and across my cheeks. I must look like a strawberry. Finn doesn’t say anything and he’s flushing, too, and the silence is horrible. I stand as he strides for the stairs. Leaving the meeting to chase after him will only make me look more foolish in Merriweather’s eyes but—

“Go ahead. Prue and I can handle this,” Rilla promises, waving a hand to encapsulate Merriweather and the rest of the men gathered around the table.

I go.

Finn is standing in the storeroom next to a lantern that throws a dim circle of light. The room smells of paper and ink and dust and now it feels right because Finn is here too, smelling of bergamot from his tea. He leans against a cabinet full of accounting ledgers, and I stand next to him.

He runs a hand through his hair. “This is a damned awkward thing to have to ask, but I don’t see any way around it. What are we, Cate?”

“I— Pardon?” I ask stupidly.

“What are we to each other?” Even in the dim light, I see his ears go red. “Was that man right? Are—are we lovers?”

“We were in love. Engaged, briefly, before I joined the Sisterhood.” I cast about. How can I explain what was between us in just a few sentences? It was trust and respect built on dozens of tiny moments—moments that he no longer has any memory of. “After that, it had to stay a secret.”

Finn is so close that I can feel the heat radiating off him in the cold room, but I cannot read his expression. What must he be thinking? “Why?” he asks.

“They threatened you and my sisters if I didn’t come willingly to New London. Because of the prophecy.” I feel so bumbling. I bite my lip, terribly aware that Finn’s eyes travel to my mouth. The air between us feels electric again, like the moments before a lightning storm.

“The prophecy?” he mutters. “Good Lord. Are you the oracle?”

“No. It’s Tess.” I say it without thinking.

His eyes are warm on my face. “You must trust me a great deal to tell me that.”

“I do.” More than anyone else in the world.

He nods, almost as if he hears the words I don’t say. “Why didn’t you come to me and tell me everything right away? The second you realized I wasn’t myself?”

“I should have. I just—I couldn’t bear it.” My gaze falls to the wooden floor, and he reaches out and tilts up my chin so I have no choice but to look at him. “You don’t remember being in love with me, Finn. How could I come to you and tell you that?”