Sisters' Fate (16 page)

“I don’t see him,” Prue complains, glancing around anxiously. We’ve waited until the last moment to take our seats so she could search the crowd for her brother.

“Maybe he changed his mind,” I suggest.

She raises her eyebrows. “I find that unlikely.”

We start down the central aisle, but an old woman in a white fur cloak jostles me and I stumble, grabbing Prue’s arm to right myself. My focus wavers. Her newly pudgy, dimpled hands stretch into long, thin fingers with nails cracked from lack of proper nutrition.

“Are you all right?” she asks.

“Of course.” It’s fixed in a trice. A small thing, barely noticeable. I push down a jolt of worry. I’d counted on Tess’s help, but she stayed home from services; Vi said she was up half the night crying over the kitten.

I head toward the Sisterhood’s customary pews, searching for Elena. Maura sits in the first row with Inez, but Elena’s nowhere to be seen. It’s not like her to miss church. Keeping up appearances is important, she would say; Sisters are meant to be devout. I tap Sister Celeste, one of the governesses, on the shoulder. “Have you seen Elena?”

“She went across town. Her aunt’s taken sick,” Celeste explains.

Blast. I nod and thank her while cursing Elena’s aunt. The services are about to start; we can’t rush out now. I motion Prue into the last row, next to Lucy.

Lucy looks askance at the seeming stranger. “This is Lydia,” I explain, gesturing to the plump, pretty blonde with brown eyes and round apple cheeks who looks nothing like Prue Merriweather. I should have made the illusion less complicated. I didn’t realize I’d be solely responsible for keeping it up.

I look up at the ceiling, praying that I can manage this.

Brother O’Shea climbs the dais, his long horse’s face unsmiling, and wishes us all a merry Christmas. At his command, we reach for the Bibles tucked on the back of each pew. I open ours to follow along with the customary prayers—and a leaflet falls out, fluttering to the floor. Prue picks it up, and I peer over her shoulder as she reads:

This reporter has obtained records from Richmond Hospital confirming that over three hundred people have died of fever in the last week alone. Yesterday’s
Gazette
urged the Brotherhood to cancel services and other public gatherings until the threat has passed. This reporter has learned that the
Sentinel
intends to print a rebuttal charging us with shoddy journalism intended to stir the populace against the Brotherhood. However, it is the
Sentinel
which has ignored the science of prevention in favor of blaming the witches. This reporter has borne witness to witches healing the fever—that of a poor boy, a tailor’s son, who was denied a place in the hospital. The Brotherhood dismissed the outbreak because it originated in the river district, whose inhabitants don’t contribute to the Brothers’ coffers. The Brothers’ refusal to set up temporary hospitals, to make available more medicine and nurses to treat the city’s poor, has allowed the fever to spread across the city into your fine neighborhoods. If I print lies—why are so many of your fellow congregants coughing?

Wishing you all a very merry and healthful Christmas,
Alistair Merriweather
Publisher & Editor in Chief,
New London Gazette

I meet Prue’s eyes and her lips twitch.

No one is paying attention to Brother O’Shea now. Whispers slither through the pews along with the restless movements of the congregation. The sermon is punctuated by dozens of deep, hacking coughs—and each time, heads swivel to locate the culprit and everyone near the afflicted person inches away.

It was rather brilliant, slipping those leaflets into the Bibles. Rilla will be sorry she missed it.

Still, the service stretches on and on, interminable. O’Shea seems oblivious to his flock’s preoccupation. He recounts the story of the Lord’s birth and then launches into a sermon on suffering hardship joyfully. Somehow, this becomes a judgment on the starving poor and those who would not sacrifice their daughters gladly.

I stand and sit at the appropriate cues, mumbling the responses. An hour passes, then two, and then the bells in the neighboring council building mark three. For all Brother Ishida’s shortcomings, the Christmas sermon in Chatham was never so long as this. Two rows ahead of us, old Sister Evelyn’s head droops like a fuzzy dandelion. Snores and the shrieking of tired children begin to mingle with the coughs of fever victims. Keeping up Prue’s illusion becomes a matter of endurance, and an exhausting one at that.

Finally, Brother O’Shea begins the familiar ritual of leave-taking.

“Let us clear our minds and open our hearts to the Lord,” he intones.

“We clear our minds and open our hearts to the Lord,” the congregation echoes, rising and stretching. People wake the elderly and small children.

“You may go in peace to serve the Lord,” O’Shea declares, raising his hand in farewell.

“Thanks be.” Even the faces of the black-cloaked Brothers up in the chancel—all forced to spend Christmas in New London away from their families because of the never-ending National Council meeting—show relief.

People rush for the three processional doors at the back, practically knocking one another over in their haste to escape. The marble floor is littered with hundreds of crumpled leaflets, but judging by the quick exodus, I daresay they’ve done their work.

I beam at Prue—still blond-haired and brown-eyed and plump. “Let’s wait a minute till it’s not so crowded.”

The other Sisters join the crowd without a backward glance, eager to go home and break their fast. Only the most faithful congregants remain in their seats, heads bowed in prayer. A few dozen Brothers mingle on the dais. I wait while the elderly totter down the aisle with their canes, moving at a snail’s pace.

I’ve no sooner stepped out of the pew than I’m accosted.

“
There
you are,” Alice hisses. “I was waiting outside forever.”

Beneath her cloak, she’s still wearing her Christmas Eve finery—an amethyst gown with a low, square neckline that doesn’t befit a Sister at all. Her golden hair tumbles out of its pompadour, wisps framing her cheeks, and there are dark shadows beneath her eyes.

“What’s wrong?” It must be grave for her to go out looking such a mess.

“My father.” She rubs a tired hand over her cheek. “He’s ill. All the servants have fled in fear of the fever and I don’t know what to do. He’s a bit of a tyrant; I don’t blame them for going. But he’s all the family I’ve got left. I can’t just leave him.”

I feel a pang of sympathy. “Of course not. How bad is he?”

Alice makes a face. “Well, he’s been sweating like a pig all night. I can’t get him to eat anything but a little broth. It’s the fever, I’m sure of it. Four houses on our street have yellow ribbons nailed to their doors.” She lowers her voice. “I hear some of the Brothers’ guards are going round and ripping them down. Why wouldn’t they want people to know where the sickness is? Don’t they want to stop it?”

“They don’t want people knowing it’s reached Cardiff,” I explain, remembering the wealthy man we met in the hospital. “No one cared so long as it was just river rats dying. The rich will be furious that O’Shea didn’t set up a quarantine. Now it’s too late.”

My mind fills with grim images of a city decimated by fever. Of shops closing, people out of work. Of fathers confined to their sickbeds for weeks and families going hungry.

“In the
Sentinel
this morning, O’Shea outright denied that it’s anything but a plague cast by witches. He says the
Gazette
was just trying to stir up trouble,” Alice whispers.

“I heard.” I hand her Merriweather’s leaflet.

What if Merriweather’s efforts aren’t enough? Coffins will be piling up in the churchyards again. I can’t save them all. I could barely save Yang. I’ll have to stand by and watch people die and—

I’ve had to see too many people die.

Mother—her face and body swollen with child, blue eyes staring, asking me for promises I could not keep. Zara—the smell of pennies on her breath, coppery skin hot against mine as she begged me to help her die. The woman from Harwood who lost her baby—her blond hair matted with blood as her life seeped out onto the cobblestone street.

O’Shea sweeps down the aisle from the chancel. He and his retinue pause to greet their wealthy parishioners, laying blessings on their heads, chuckling at something a well-dressed man says. He looks utterly unconcerned by the weighty responsibilities of state, by the hundreds of people dying in his capital city while he doesn’t lift a finger to stop it. While he lays the blame at
my
doorstep.

He pauses before us with his reptilian smile. “Merry Christmas, Sisters!”

Prue and Alice go to their knees, but I hesitate. The idea of kneeling before him makes my stomach roil. I do not want this man to touch me. He would have murdered Sachi and Rory and Prue. He would order me and my sisters and all my friends killed if he knew what we were. He would watch us hang and cheer our deaths.

O’Shea stares at me with his pale eyes. “Sister Catherine, isn’t it?” he says.

I grit my teeth and kneel. He blesses Prue, then Alice, and then lays his plump, sweaty hand on my forehead, and oh—the moment he touches me, I sense his headache. Perhaps he is not as unaffected by Merriweather’s stunt as he pretends. My fingers twitch along the marble floor.

If anyone deserves pain, deserves suffering, it is this man, who doles it out so gleefully.

“Lord bless you and keep you this and all the days of your life,” he says, and I cannot help wishing the exact opposite for him.

“Thanks be,” I murmur, yanking on the threads of magic running through me. His headache flares, burns a fiery scarlet. He stumbles back.

It’s not enough. I wish I could make his head explode, crack his skull wide open.

I did not know I contained such violence.

“Brother O’Shea, are you unwell?” I hear someone ask, and I feel a grim satisfaction—along with a wave of dizziness. My vision blurs.

“Cate?” Alice whispers, her hand on my shoulder. There’s a note of alarm in her voice.

“Isn’t that the newspaperman’s sister?” a woman’s voice shrills. “The one who was supposed to be hanged?”

Oh no. I struggle to my feet, but it’s too late. I am such a fool.

Prue stands before me, utterly herself again. My illusion has disappeared.

“That’s her. Prudencia Merriweather,” a man declares, starting toward us.

But the guards get there first.

Four of them surround Prue. Two grab her roughly by the arms. I can tell by the look on her face that they hurt her, but she doesn’t cry out.

The well-to-do man strides up to her, his gilded cane tapping along the marble floor, Alistair’s leaflet crumpled in his fist. He shakes it in her face. “Is this your doing, too? Making a mockery of the Lord’s birth?”

Prue lowers her eyes to the floor.

Good Lord, what have I done?

Alice’s eyes are on me, but there are a hundred people left in the cathedral. Far too many to mind-magic.

Prue’s already been convicted; now they’ll use her to roust out Merriweather and hang them both. What a prize I’ve handed O’Shea.

“What have we here?” he asks, voice echoing. He turns to me, his smug smile restored. “Is this girl a friend of yours?”

“I—” I croak. Prue’s gray eyes are wide with fright, but she gives the tiniest shake of her head. She’s telling me to abandon her.

But this is all my doing. My promise to her—to Sachi, to look after her—

Despite my best intentions, I never seem able to keep my promises.

“Speak up, girl!” O’Shea barks.

A burly guard puts a hand on my shoulder, hauling me around. His fingers will leave bruises. My temper—so carefully leashed all morning—cracks. Splinters. And breaks wide open.

“Don’t touch me!”

My magic surges up and out in a burst so powerful, I’ve never felt the like. Brother O’Shea and his guards are flung backward. Their bodies fly through the air like rag dolls, or trees uprooted by a tornado. They fly and flail and don’t stop until they hit pews, landing with a series of sickening crunches.

At the same time, there’s a deafening crash—and then another—and another—and another. The people still left in the cathedral scream—men and women alike—on and on, shrill and hoarse and
terrified.
I look toward the sanctuary in time to see the image of the Lord ascending to heaven shatter, shards of stained glass flying everywhere.

People cower behind the mahogany pews, hands thrown up to protect their faces from the rain of glass.

I look to Alice. A bit of glass has nicked her cheek, but she is utterly still.

There is fear in her blue eyes, too.

Alice is scared. Of me.

CHAPTER

16

“GO!” I URGE, YANKING THE KEY FROM AROUND
my neck and tossing it at Prue. “Prue knows where. I’ll meet you.
Go!
”

The second
go
seems to galvanize them. They run down the aisle, boots clattering. No one tries to stop them. One of the guards is slumped against a marble column; another lies sprawled atop several pews; a few appear to be unconscious—or worse.

“Guards!” O’Shea hollers. His bald head peeks above a pew several rows away.

I glance toward the doors. Prue and Alice are almost out.

Two guards run out of a door near the sanctuary. I fling up a hand, and everyone in sight cringes. “Stay back. I don’t want to hurt anyone else.”

Wisely, the guards halt.

“You can’t hide. We’ll find you,” O’Shea promises, rising to his feet. His blue eyes glitter from inside the shadow of his hood. “We’ll put you to death for this sacrilege.”

I run. The glass cuts through my black slippers. Three more guards dart out from behind pillars and try to stop me. It isn’t hard to stop them instead. My magic hovers just beneath my skin, pulsing through my body in time with my heartbeat.

In this moment, full of fear and anger and
power,
I feel more alive than I ever have.

More guards rush in from outside. “Sister, what’s happened? Are you all right?” they ask, rifles at the ready, eyes frantically searching the central aisle for danger. What must they think it was—an assassination attempt on O’Shea?

“There was an explosion,” I pant, dashing between them.

“Witchery!” O’Shea roars behind me. “Stop her!”

But I’m slipping out into the bedlam. Guards are trying to prevent a group of Brothers from reentering the church. I pause at the back of their flock, head down, and when I raise my face to the sun, I’ve transformed into a man with coffee-colored skin and fuzzy black hair. Brother Sutton, of Chatham.

Fortunately, most people seem to have headed directly home after the long service instead of mingling about on the steps. Guards are trying to herd the remaining members of the congregation across the street into Richmond Square. I pass a woman sitting on the steps, heedless of the commotion around her, applying a gray glove to a jagged gash on her son’s forehead to stop the bleeding.

I take in the amount of colored glass littering the steps, casting rainbows onto the cobblestones below, and realize that it could have been much worse.

I head down the street. The moment I turn a corner, my glamour changes.
Rose,
I think, and I become my old neighbor Rose Collier, dressed in a fine pink wool cloak. At the next corner, I’m Lily: the meek, cow-eyed maid who informed on us to Brother Ishida. I go on like this for blocks, zigzagging my way toward Fifth Street, running through half a dozen disguises, but I don’t slow my strides.

I can feel the magic sapping my strength, dragging at my feet. My head swims, vision tunneling, but I can’t rest. Not until I’m somewhere safe. I stumble forward into the alley behind O’Neill’s shop, begging my magic to see me through one last transition.

“Merry Christmas, Hugh!” a man says cheerfully, hauling boxes inside a shop two doors down.

I turn to him, face transformed into O’Neill’s weathered visage, white hair stark against my tanned face. “And a very merry Christmas to you!”

I wait until the neighbor’s gone inside before I knock twice at the storeroom door. When it opens, I practically fall into Prue’s arms.

“Cate! Oh, thank heavens!” Prue lowers me to the floor.

I press my face to my knees to keep from swooning. “How did you get out?” Alice asks.

“Not important. You have to go to the convent, Alice. Hurry. Get Maura and Tess out of there!” I gulp air, lifting my face. “O’Shea knows my name. He’ll come looking for me and when he finds out I’ve got two sisters—all he’ll have to do is look at the registry of students—”

“The prophecy,” Alice breathes. “Three sisters, all witches. They’ll know it’s one of you. You were
powerful,
Cate.”

She means it as a compliment, but all I can think is that I was powerfully stupid. I can’t take this back. I can’t go home—not to the convent or to Chatham—not unless I want to put everyone I care about in danger.

I broke Mother’s cardinal rule:
Never
do magic in public.

And now the Brothers will descend on the convent, interrogating girls, searching the rooms, looking for any hints of witchery. If Alice doesn’t get there first—

The consequences are too awful to imagine.

“You have to go warn them. Now.
Please,
” I beg, voice shrill.

Alice takes me by the shoulders and shakes me. “Don’t you dare go into hysterics. When your magic’s back, go to my father’s. I gave Prue directions. All the servants are gone, and he’s half out of his mind with fever; you’ll be safe there.” She presses the key into my hands. “I’ll bring Maura and Tess to you.”

So canny. She’s like Elena, always planning. I’m grateful for it now. “Hurry! The entire convent—”

“The Sisters have contingencies for this sort of thing. Don’t follow me, Cate. You’ll only wind up getting yourself or someone else killed. Do you understand?” She stares at me until I nod, and then she transforms herself into a pretty brunette and swirls out the door.

I struggle to my feet, turning to Prue. “I’m sorry. What happened at the cathedral—”

“You got me out of there. That’s all that matters.” Prue smiles. “There’s a note on the front door that the shop’s closed for Christmas. O’Neill’s gone to his daughter’s. I’d like to let Alistair know where I’ll be, but I don’t suppose I should leave that information lying around.”

“I can write a note in—”
Code,
I mean to say, but my mind catches up to the phrase
his daughter.
“My father! Prue, my father’s here in New London. The Brothers will go after him next. I’ve got to warn him!”

Grisly images of Father being tortured fill my mind. Prue hops down off the cabinet. “How long will it take for your magic to come back?”

I bite my lip. “I don’t know.”

• • •

I pound on the door of Father’s flat, praying that I’m not too late. It took an hour—sixty torturous minutes—for my magic to return. What if the Brothers have already sent soldiers for him? What if they’re waiting for us? What if they’ve already beaten him and dragged him off to their prison in the basement of the council building?
What if—what if—what if?
Doubts pulse through me in time with the hammering of my fist.

Prue catches my arm. “Stop,” she hisses. “You’re going to roust all the neighbors.”

Father throws open the door, beaming. “Maura! It’s good to see you, girls. What’s—?”

Guilt stabs through me at his smile. “Not Maura,” I say, dropping both illusions as we push past him. “And not Tess. This is Prudencia Merriweather, Alistair’s sister. We’re—we’re in trouble.”

“Well, you can stay here for as long as you need,” Father says. The three of us stand crowded in the tiny entryway. Two cloaks hang on the pegs just inside the door. A pair of leather gloves lie on the hall table where he dropped them—likely when he came in from church. I’m so grateful we caught him at home.

“I can’t. Neither can you. You have to leave. But you can’t—” I catch both of his hands in mine and squeeze them. Father’s hands are soft, a gentleman’s hands, unused to hard labor or even the reins of a horse. “You can’t go back to Chatham. They’ll look for you there. They might arrest you—hurt you—to draw me out.”

“The Brothers?” Father asks, and I nod. His grip tightens. “Where are your sisters?”

“They’re still at the convent. I sent someone to fetch them—someone I trust.” I run a hand over my windblown hair. It’s strange to refer to Alice as such, but she’s proved herself worthy of it. “You’ve got to go, Father. They could come for you any minute now.”

Father takes the steps two at a time. “Tell me what happened while I pack a few things.”

I follow him, and Prue scurries after both of us, right into his bedroom. He pulls his valise from beneath the bed and begins stuffing things into it—books from his bedside table, a daguerreotype of Mother when she was my age. Prue goes to his armoire and begins to take out shirts and vests, tossing them on the bed. She’s dead helpful in a crisis, I’m learning. I just pace.

“I was supposed to be glamouring Prue at church, but I lost focus. Someone recognized her and the guards tried to arrest her. They would have hanged her, Father. They started questioning me, and I—I lost my temper and—” I take a deep breath. “I smashed all the windows in the cathedral.”

“
Richmond
Cathedral?” Father pauses with his hands full of crisply ironed shirts.

“And tossed Brother O’Shea and a dozen guards halfway across the church,” Prue adds.

“O’Shea recognized me. We’ve met before—at the convent, when he came to speak to the headmistress. He’ll come looking for me. Not just for what I did today, embarrassing him like that, but because of the prophecy. When he finds out I have two sisters—” I break off as the tide of worry threatens to pull me under. “We’ve got to go into hiding, all of us.”

“You’re the oracle, then?” Father asks.

“Tess,” I explain. “Wait. How did you know about the prophecy?”

“I haven’t been living in a cave.” But Father gives me a sheepish look as he snatches pants and unmentionables from his dresser. “I talked to Marianne after you left last night.”

Marianne! Oh, Lord, is there no end to the lives I can ruin? “She should go back to Chatham straightaway. I don’t want her and Clara coming to any harm.”

“I’ll stop and warn her.” Father puts a hand on my shoulder. It’s strange to realize that he is only a few inches taller than I am. I suppose I still think of him as the towering giant he seemed when I was a child. “What about you? If the Brothers could be here any minute, you ought to be on your way. Surely you’re in more danger than anyone else.”

I exchange a quick look with Prue. “I’ll see you safely out.” I’ll be damned if I let the Brothers imprison him without a fight.

Father zips the valise and strides into the parlor. “Let me fetch money from the safe and we’ll be on our way.”

I bite my lip. “Where will you go?”

Father removes the portrait of his parents hanging above one of the golden sofas. Behind it, a small metal safe is set into the wall. He spins a combination, opens the safe, and takes out a small bag. Judging from the way he lifts it, there must be quite a bit of coin in there. “Can never be too careful,” he chuckles, noting my surprise. “Don’t fret about me, Cate. A man of means can stay hidden in a city the size of New London without too much trouble. Look at Prudencia’s brother, there. I’ll start at the Golden Hart. It’s down near the river; no one would look for me in a place like that. Not for a while, at any rate.”

I gulp, imagining Father in a tawdry inn populated by—who? Pickpockets and prostitutes? I’ve never seen either, though I’ve heard tales. I’m more concerned about sickness. “Be careful. The fever—”

“I’ll send word for you if I take sick.” He shoves a sheaf of documents into his bag along with the money pouch. Then he turns to me. “I don’t want you checking up on me. It’s not a fit place for a young lady.”

A young lady! I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.

Prue recites Alice’s address for him as we clamor back down the stairs. “That’s where we’ll be for the time being.”

“Cardiff, eh? And if I see Finn whilst I’m telling Marianne the news, should I pass that along?” Father pulls on his gray cloak. “He’ll be worried.”

I blush. What, precisely, did Marianne tell Father? “I don’t want him involved in any of this.”

“Are you sure of that, Catie?” The childhood nickname almost sends me into tears. It reminds me of Father kneeling and checking beneath my bed for monsters.
Nothing there, Catie,
he’d say, before giving me a smacking kiss on the forehead. No one else has ever called me that—and I haven’t heard it from him since I was very small.

I picture my bedroom back in Chatham: the quilt and curtains with the blue daylilies, the rose-patterned rug next to my bed, and Mother’s violet settee. Will I ever see any of it again? I can’t go back, at least not with the Brothers in charge of New England, and despite all of Inez’s schemes, we do not seem very close to ousting them at the moment.

“I’m sure,” I say. But my voice trembles on the lie.

Father pauses, looking me straight in the eye. “I haven’t been a good father to you, Cate. My advice may not be welcome, but I’m going to give it nonetheless and hope you’ll indulge me. A man like Finn—he won’t take well to being coddled. A marriage requires a meeting of equals. Your mother—well, I wish she’d told me the truth and trusted me to make my own decisions.”

“I—I’ll keep that in mind.” I give him a quick embrace, inhaling the scents of leather and pipe smoke. “Keep safe,
please.
I feel as though we’ve only just found you, in a way.”

“I do, too.” Father’s voice is gruff. “Take care of yourself, now.”

“I will. And I’ll look after Maura and Tess, too.”

Father smiles. “Never had any doubt of that.”

• • •

I almost break my promise to Alice three times over.

“I can’t wait and do nothing!” I complain, pacing the Auclairs’ grand foyer. Above me, the crystal chandelier catches the last rays of sunlight.

Prue throws herself in front of the door. Again. “You’ve got to.”

“I could move you if I wanted,” I point out, frustrated.

Prue leans back against the door, arms crossed over her chest. Her gray eyes, fringed with unfathomably long lashes, practically dare me to try. “I know you’re worried, but you’ve got to think this through. The convent will be crawling with Brothers. If you go back, it will only complicate things. Alice is probably on her way home with Maura and Tess right now.”

“What if she’s
not
?” I sink onto the bottom step of the great, gleaming staircase, my mind filling with nightmares. “It’s been hours! They should have been back by now. I don’t know what could be keeping them, unless the Brothers got there before Alice did and there was a battle. O’Shea will have a registry of students. When he sees three Cahill sisters on that list—”