Sisters' Fate (3 page)

“He wasn’t—you don’t understand,” I insist. “Finn isn’t—”

“You’re the one who doesn’t understand.” Parvati strides across the room and throws open the door. “You’ve been sheltered all your life. You put yourself in my shoes, and then you tell me what the Brotherhood deserves.”

Blast.

Livvy stares at her red slippers. “I should—excuse me, Cate,” she mumbles, fleeing after Parvati.

Oh, hell.

I should have asked Elena to be here. She would have known how to finagle such a delicate conversation. Now Parvati thinks I’m a fool who sympathizes with the Brothers, and Inez will have at least one more witch with mind-magic on her side.

I pause beside the window, pushing aside Rilla’s yellow curtains and staring at the dreary gray morning. What’s happening out there? Are the Brothers already meeting to elect a new leader? A great deal depends on whom they choose and whether he’ll lead with vengeance or mercy. Finn predicted they might well vote to resurrect the burnings. I wrap my arms around myself, wishing he were here to comfort me.

I miss him already.

This fall, when I was in New London and he was still in Chatham, I hoped perhaps he was thinking about me, too.

Now he won’t even know to miss me.

I push those thoughts away. If I stop moving—stop doing—I’m going to fall apart. I can’t give Inez and Maura the satisfaction of that.

I have little faith in the Brotherhood these days, but I’ve got to believe most men wouldn’t vote to set me on fire if they knew what I could do. It’s one thing to lock a girl up in Harwood for the rest of her life; it’s quite another to burn her at the stake.

Isn’t it?

Are Parvati and Inez right? Will the Brothers go that far?

The prospect of going downstairs, sitting behind a desk, and taking notes seems impossible. How can I concentrate when I don’t know what the Brothers are doing or how the people have reacted to Harwood and the attack on the Head Council? I’m sure the
Sentinel
is painting both events with the same brush—dangerous witches on the loose. But what of the
Gazette
? Can Alistair Merriweather see the gulf of difference between what Inez did and freeing innocent girls?

There’s a knock on the half-open door.

“Come in,” I call, and Tess peers into the room, face scrunched into a frown.

She kicks the door shut behind her and flops onto my bed. “Everyone’s staring at me,” she announces, her jaw set. “I’d like to throttle Sister Inez. Maura, too.”

“I ought to be first in line.” I sigh, twisting my hair up into a chignon. “Maura had no right to tell anyone without your permission. But neither did I.”

“No, you didn’t.” Tess scowls. “Still, I forgive you. It was under awfully extenuating circumstances. I know you didn’t mean to hurt me.”

“I would never,” I promise, skewering pins through my hair.

“Maura had time to think about it, though. And Inez made me look like such a
child.
” Tess’s eyes narrow. “This is why I wasn’t ready to tell. Bekah and Lucy are acting differently around me already. Careful. Like I could break at any moment.”

“You won’t break,” I assure her. “They just found out. Give them some time to get used to the idea.”

Tess groans. She’s more patient than I am, but that’s not saying much. “Don’t you see? I won’t be just Tess anymore! Everyone will see me as the Oracle now. The Prophesied One.”

“It won’t be that way forever.” I hope not, anyway. I step into my sturdy boots. “I’m going out. Would you like to come with me? Escape the staring for a bit?”

“We have class,” Tess reminds me, picking up the history book at the foot of my bed.

“I’m not going. I need to find out whether the Brothers have elected a new leader. And I’ve got an important errand to run. Sisterhood business.” I pick up an ivory envelope lined with green birds—part of a set Tess gave me last Christmas, though who I had to write to then, I don’t know—and wave it at her.

She snatches it from me and withdraws the matching ivory paper. A green and blue hummingbird is embossed at the top, and the note itself is written in code—a Caesar cipher of three shifts to the left. “Did you do this yourself?”

I nod. There wasn’t much else to do at quarter to five this morning, while Rilla was snoring and I was trying not to think of Finn, so I took a candle down to the library and wrote the note. It took three tries to get it right and then I copied it onto my best stationery. A man like Brother Brennan might appreciate such niceties. Having never met him, I don’t know.

“Does it sound all right?” I ask.

Tess skims the short letter:
Sister Cora has died. I do not trust her successor, who led the attack on the Head Council. It is my hope that you and I can work together for peace. I have Cora’s key and look forward to meeting you at tomorrow night’s gathering.

It’s unsigned. Even using a code, I’m not fool enough to leave my name for anyone to see.

“It’s good.” Tess’s gray eyes meet mine. “You’re going out to deliver it now? Did you already talk to Sister Gretchen?”

I nod. “I’m to leave it with the proprietor of a stationery shop. And Christmas is coming up. Too bad I haven’t any idea what you might like.”

Tess’s smile is its own reward. She could spend days in a stationery store, same as a bookshop.

“I’ll miss class for this,” she decides, jumping up.

“Good. You can help me figure out how to buy an illegal newspaper, too.”

CHAPTER

3

TESS AND I
SLIP OUT THE FRONT DOOR
unnoticed and make our way through the quiet residential streets. Above us, the sky is shrouded in gray; the roses are withering on our neighbors’ gate. After a few blocks, the lawns shrink, the trees become sparse, and the houses grow closer together. Narrow two- and three-story brick buildings are the norm in the market district, with shops on the ground floors and living quarters above. Men of all classes hurry along the cobbled sidewalks. Vendors hawk meat pies and fresh hot bread, offer to shine gentlemen’s shoes—and sell newspapers.

I make a beeline for the nearest shouting paperboy. “Witches attack the Head Council! Brother Covington in Richmond Hospital! Jailbreak at Harwood Asylum!” he chants. “Read the horrible news for yourself! Two pennies!”

I fumble in my pocket for coins. “This is the
Sentinel
?” I can’t see the masthead because he’s waving the paper so furiously in the air. He looks respectable enough, but Mei swore her brother gets the
Gazette
from regular paperboys, bold as you please.

The boy gives me a cheeky grin, black hair falling into his eyes. “Course it is, Sister. What else would I be selling?”

I step closer, lowering my voice. What will he do, arrest me for asking? He can’t be older than Tess. “Do you know where I could get the—other paper?”

“I don’t know anything about any other paper, Sister.” He edges backward, dark eyes darting sideways. “I work for Brother Augustus Richmond, publisher of the
New London Sentinel.
That’s the only legal paper in town.”

“Of course it is.” I smile with a conspiratorial air. “But perhaps you would know where I could procure a copy of—?”

“No, I wouldn’t! What kind of trouble are you after?” The paperboy stalks away.

“For heaven’s sake, Cate.” Tess plucks at my sleeve, sighing. “You’re going about it all wrong. He thought you were trying to set him up!”

My face flushes. “Well, what should I do, then?”

“Think. Who reads that paper? Not Sisters or upper-class girls.” She tucks her arm through mine, and as we walk through the crowded street, her black cloak turns gray. A moment later, the pink lace hem of her skirt turns into tattered blue wool. Her nice fur muff morphs into worn blue mittens.

“Tess!” I hiss, terrified. I scan the block ahead of us. I don’t spot any Brothers, but two of their guards are lounging outside a café. They could have seen her.
Anyone
could have seen her. My heart is racing. It’s not like her to be this reckless; this is the sort of thing
Maura
would do.

“I’m not a child,” she snaps.

“I know you aren’t!” I run a black-gloved hand over my chilled face. “You’re very powerful. And very important. Too important to risk your safety like this.”

“Because of what I am?” she challenges, coming to a halt outside a flower shop.

“Yes,” I admit. But that wasn’t my first thought. “And because I love you and I would be lost—utterly lost—if anyone tried to take you away from me.”

Tess bites her lip, staring at the imported tulips in the window. “Sometimes I think it would be better for everyone if I
were
arrested.”

I grab her arm. “What? Why would you say that?”

Tess doesn’t respond. She just tilts her head to the opposite street corner. There’s another paperboy lounging against a grocer’s window, talking animatedly with three working-class men in jackets and suspenders and blue jeans. “I think he’s the one you want.”

He’s got a bag full of papers slung over his shoulder—a bag with
SENTINEL
printed on it in wide white letters. “Why do you think that?”

“He’s doing a particularly brisk business. Look.” Another man comes out of the grocer’s with a pouch of tobacco. He lights a pipe and leans against the wall with the others. When he hands the paperboy his pennies, the boy hands him a paper—but even from across the street, I can tell it’s thicker than the one I was offered earlier. “The
Gazette
must be tucked inside.”

I gape at her, and Tess shakes her head. “You’ve got to watch before you go blundering into things. Come on, I’ll get you your paper. Give me three pennies?”

I comply. “See? I’d be lost without you.”

“I’ll meet you at the stationery shop,” Tess promises, racing across the street.

I follow her at a more sedate, Sisterly pace. Kneeling at the curb, I pretend to retie my bootlaces while Tess strolls toward the group of men. She greets them with words too low for me to hear, exchanges her pennies for a paper, and thanks the paperboy with a grin. The boy—a rascal with tousled blond curls who can’t be older than fourteen—stares after her, and the men around him chuckle and say Lord knows what to make him blush.

Tess tucks the paper under her arm and strides off toward O’Neill’s Stationery. I follow her. By the time I reach the shop, she’s transformed into a demure young Sister again.

“Teresa Elizabeth Cahill,” I scold, voice low. “Why, I ought to—”

She strokes a pack of cornflower-blue paper with purple daisies embossed on the top. “What are you going to do, drag me out by my ear?”

I huff and turn away, because she’s right and, more abominably, she knows it. I scan the room, tempted to buy something for myself instead to teach her a lesson. I hardly need more writing paper—Tess handles writing to Father—but perhaps a nicer writing implement? I gaze down into the case of fine fountain pens.

Finn would
love
these. The room smells like him, dust and paper and ink. It’s only missing the bracing bergamot scent of his tea. I turn in a slow circle, admiring little pots of ink in every color—brown, black, blue, green, purple, red—arranged in tidy rows on the shelves. I run a hand over a stack of thick ivory paper and try to ignore the sting in my throat.

Will everything remind me of him, forever?

“All right,” I call to Tess, who’s still browsing the rack of ladies’ writing papers. “Is that the one you like best?”

Tess smiles slyly. “It is. And perhaps a new pot of ink? I fancy the violet.”

“Perhaps for your birthday.
If
you behave!” I snatch up the stationery, already tied with a pink bow, and carry it to the counter.

An old man with a shock of white hair and kind brown eyes greets me. “That’s very pretty. For the young lady there?”

“Yes. We’re students at the Sisterhood,” I explain, watching for his reaction.

There is none. He slides the sheaf of paper into a bag. “Can I help you find anything else?”

I lean against the high counter. “Are you Mr. O’Neill, the proprietor?”

“I am indeed. Been in business here since 1856.” He smiles at me. “Is this the first time you’ve visited us?”

“Yes, but I hope it won’t be the last.” I glance over my shoulder. There are two well-to-do matrons examining a display of calling cards, but they seem engrossed in their gossip. “I understand that you and Sister Cora were friends. I wanted to let you know that she passed away last night.”

O’Neill bows his snowy head. “I’m sorry to hear it. Cora was a grand lady.”

“I admired her very much. In fact, I—I was hoping to take up some of the work she did.” I pull the necklace from beneath my cloak, displaying the brass key. “I wanted to leave a note for Brother Brennan.”

O’Neill leans over the counter a bit, lowering his voice. “Ah. Then you haven’t heard of the trouble he’s in.”

I shake my head, heart sinking. “What trouble?”

“It’s all right there in your paper.” He taps a finger against it. “The Head Council was attacked last night and Brennan was absent. Ill, he said. But there was a mutiny at Harwood Asylum, too; all the patients escaped. The nurses don’t remember a thing—their memories were all erased—but the body of a witch was found with a man’s handkerchief bearing the letter
B.
”

“The letter
B
?” I freeze. That’s Finn’s handkerchief—
B
for
Belastra
—he gave it to Zara when she was coughing up blood.

My first, cruel thought is,
Thank goodness they’re blaming Brennan instead.

“Indeed.” There’s disapproval in the arch of his gray eyebrows. “The rest of the council has been rendered useless. Not outright murdered, but as good as. O’Shea’s taken control until they can arrange a proper vote, and he didn’t waste any time accusing Brennan of being in cahoots with the witches.”

“Has Brennan been arrested, then?” I try to sort my thoughts. I’ve got to play this right. Gretchen said O’Neill was a supporter, but—

“No, miss. He’s disappeared. No one knows where he might be.” O’Neill rubs a hand over his white-stubbled jaw, dropping his eyes. The gesture gives the lie to his words.

“I see.” I look over my shoulder. The matrons are tittering, heads bent together, and Tess has moved on to examine the fountain pens. I reach my hand into my pocket and withdraw the note. “I would like to leave this for him. In case he should . . . turn up.”

“Here?” O’Neill’s eyebrows lift again. “I don’t see why he would. That attack last night on the Head Council made us—made
him
look a fool for arguing leniency against the witches. If the Brotherhood can prove he had foreknowledge of it, that’s treason. And treason’s a killing offense. Any sympathy he had for them—”

“It was—unfortunate, what happened to the council,” I interrupt. He has every right to judge us for what Inez and Maura did. “I was Cora’s student, Mr. O’Neill. Her protégée, if you will, and—”

“Doesn’t sound like Cora’s way, what happened.” O’Neill shakes his head.

“It wasn’t. Nor was it mine. But it’s imperative that this note reaches Brother Brennan. So he knows who can be trusted—and who can’t.”

The old man’s brown eyes widen, and he pockets the letter as the matrons approach the counter. “Well, now. If you put it like that, Sister . . . ?”

“Cate.” I pick up the bag for Tess.

He nods. “I’ll see you tomorrow night, then, Sister Cate.”

• • •

It begins to rain as we walk back to the convent. I’m quiet, lost in worry, and Tess has sunk into a black mood of her own. Neither of us brought an umbrella, and though we lengthen our strides, our woolen cloaks are soon soaked through.

I had hoped that by saving Brennan from Inez’s attack, I would be positioning him to succeed Brother Covington. I thought we were helping him, not setting him up to be accused of treason.

I shiver into the scratchy wet wool of my hood, remembering the day Brother O’Shea arrested poor Mrs. Anderson. A widow with two children to feed, she’d allowed a customer from her bakery to escort her home. She was taken from her children and sentenced to a prison ship, and O’Shea relished it. He’s the type to take pleasure in his power over others. A braggart and a bully.

And then there’s Tess. I cast a sidelong look at her. Her steps drag, as though she dreads returning to the convent. My anger sputters out. Would she be safer—happier—back at home in Chatham, where she could bake and read and pretend to be a normal girl? She’s seemed happy enough here. A little overwhelmed by the rush of the city, the crush and chatter of all those girls—but thrilled at all the opportunities for learning that the convent provides.

The fact is, no matter how much I wish it for her, Tess
isn’t
a normal girl. She can’t go home and pretend any more than I could. We’ve got responsibilities that we can’t shirk, and I’ll have to help her shoulder them as best I can.

We hurry up the marble steps of the convent, shucking our wet cloaks onto the pegs just inside the door. They drip onto the green carpet below. “Let’s have a chat in my room, in front of the fire,” I suggest, teeth chattering.

Tess holds out her wet pink skirts. “Can I change first?”

I nod. We part ways on the third floor. Tess trudges down the hall to the room she shares with Violet van Buren, while I go into the cheery room I share with Rilla. I unhook the buttons down the front of my gown and let it pool at my feet. Stepping out of my black skirt, I hang it over the hissing radiator to dry. I’m standing in my corset cover and petticoats, pulling a green dress splashed with white poppies from my armoire, when Tess rushes into my room without knocking.

“Cate! Cate, come quick!” she cries.

“What is it?” I ask, drawing the dress down over my head.

Her face is pale, her eyes shining with tears, and she’s still dressed in her wet pink frock. “It’s Cyclops,” she gasps.

Cyclops is the one-eyed teddy bear she’s cherished since she was little. “Is he missing?”

“No, he—” She swallows. “Come and see.”

I make quick work of the green velvet sash at my waist and hurry after her.

“Tess? Cate? What’s wrong?” Lucy Wheeler and Rebekah Reed are heading toward the stairs, their arms full of books.

“Nothing,” Tess lies. She stands in her doorway until I join her. “Look, Cate, someone—”

Her voice cuts off. I stare at her side of the room: the polka-dotted curtains Mrs. O’Hare sewed for her, the daguerreotype of Mother and Father on her windowsill, the blue quilt on her bed. Cyclops rests on her pillow.

“Someone what?” I prompt.

Tess strides into the room, staring up at the top of her window. “He was
hanging
!”

“Hanging?” I echo, confused.

“Cyclops was hanging from the curtain rod. By a rope. By his neck.” She shudders, rushing over to the teddy bear and picking him up as gingerly as though he were a spider.

I frown. “Perhaps it was an illusion? Someone playing a trick on you?”

Tess tosses Cyclops onto the bed. “There was a note pinned to his hand that said
You’ll be next.
Does that sound like a schoolgirl prank to you?”

“No.” It sounds like a threat.

“Who would do that?” Tess whimpers, curling into a wet pink ball.

I sit next to her, rubbing her back in circles. “I don’t know. But we’ll find out. We’ll keep you safe, Tess. I promise.”