Sisters' Fate (4 page)

CHAPTER

4

RICHMOND CATHEDRAL IS THE BROTH
ERS
’
pride and joy. It is a place intended for worship, yes, but also for the great pomp and circumstance of state ceremony. Brother Richmond and his first followers hailed from Salisbury in England, and they say our cathedral’s design is based on the great cathedral there. Outside, the stone edifice is niched with statues of apostles and the early church fathers. Above us, the spire rises three hundred feet—by law, the tallest building in all of New England. Below us, former Head Council members sleep in the marble crypt.

The cathedral is laid out in the shape of a crucifix. Pointed arches support the high, buttressed ceiling, and the stained glass windows lining the walls are filled with beautiful, terrible illustrations of the Lord’s miracles. Beyond the sanctuary, on the north wall, He ascends to heaven. Before Him, dozens of shining mahogany pews are filled with mourners.

Brother O’Shea, puffed up with new importance, leads the service. It’s meant to be an honor, the new head of the Brotherhood delivering her eulogy, but O’Shea knew nothing about Sister Cora. His words, tinny and false as a badly tuned instrument, set my teeth on edge.

“Sister Cora was a good woman, and we mourn her passing. But we must remember that she was an anomaly. It is dangerous to encourage our girls to educate themselves, lest they be distracted, their minds sullied by matters that ought not concern them. True study of the Scriptures must be left to men, whose minds are more capable of discerning the true word of the Lord.”

His blue eyes are piercing as he gazes out into the crowd. I cast my face down to hide my outrage. “Most girls cannot manage the”—his nose wrinkles, his long face betraying his distaste—“
independence
that Cora was permitted as a member of the Sisterhood. Women require their husbands’ guidance to determine right from wrong. I must admit, I have my doubts about whether the Sisterhood still has a place in New England.”

The faces around me are carefully blank, though I know Rilla and Mei must feel the same fury and fear that I do. O’Shea has the power to close the convent and put us all out on the street, or force us into loveless marriages, and he wants us to know it.

“Any deviation from the path raises questions of obedience. Education leads to rebellion. The dangers we face from unscrupulous women—from witches, who believe they are not only our equals but our superiors—has never been greater.” Next to me, Rilla bites her lip. “Brother Covington and the other council members lying comatose in Richmond Hospital serve as testament to this. So does Sean Brennan, who is now in hiding, justly fearing the consequences of having freed the witches imprisoned in Harwood. Lord knows what vengeance those madwomen will wreak!”

I glance at the mahogany casket that holds Sister Cora’s body. I can’t let her down. I’ve got to find a way to reinstate Brennan into the Brotherhood’s good graces—to make it clear that he ran for his life, not out of guilt.

We’ll never get anywhere with a tyrant like O’Shea in charge.

• • •

After the service, we lead the way through the afternoon gloom to the funeral reception at the convent. Delectable breads and scones and small tea sandwiches march down the dining room tables. With Sister Sophia—the best cook in the Sisterhood—still away, Tess and some of the other girls spent the morning in a flour-drenched frenzy of baking. Tess is in the kitchen now, plating scones and washing dishes. She seems happier today, unafraid, but I can’t forget that someone in the Sisterhood wants to do her harm.

The sideboard is stacked with the convent’s best gold-and-white china, and Sisters Johanna and Edith bring out pots of steaming tea and chocolate. The pocket doors between the dining room and sitting room are thrown wide. Inez and Gretchen have adopted the roles of mourners-in-chief, greeting guests, reminiscing about Cora’s good deeds.

Gretchen’s eyes are bloodshot and rimmed in red. Inez’s are not.

Our Sisterly uniforms—black bombazine dresses that stretch from throat to wrists to ankles, black heeled boots, and black satin gloves—are well suited to mourning. None of us wants to draw attention to ourselves. We keep our voices respectfully low, gazes cast down demurely.

No one will find any banned texts within the convent’s gray stone walls today. The Gothic novels on the bookshelf have been transformed into books of Scripture. The fashion magazines from Dubai and Mexico City have been hidden. In the healing classroom, Bones the skeleton and charts of the human musculature have been locked away.

My eyes catch Maura where she stands with Alice next to the pink velvet settee. The severity of the Sisters’ uniform suits my sister; it emphasizes her flame-bright curls and pale skin. As she raises her teacup, her sapphire eyes meet mine. There is nothing of apology in them. Nothing of guilt or contrition.

I want to break her. I want the china cup to explode in her hands, the shards to cut her, staining her creamy skin scarlet.

I want to hurt her the way she’s hurt Finn and me. The second I think his name, the dull ache in my chest rises to a roar. His sweetness when I’m snappish. His revelation that my favorite childhood novel was written by a woman.
And a Catherine, no less.
His promise that whatever came next, we would work through it together.

He won’t keep that promise. I am the only one who remembers it.

My magic rises, inextricably bound to my anger. It burns through me. I try to shove it back down, but it sizzles through my muscles, scorching my throat, singeing my fingertips. My eyes dart away from my sister’s, but it’s too late.

Across the room, Maura stifles a cry.

I hurry from the room, but not before I see Alice bend to pick up the pieces of Maura’s cup. Maura’s cradling her hand where the jagged china cut through her thin satin glove. “So clumsy,” she apologizes, her clear voice ringing out like a bell, and her abashed smile seems to allay everyone’s concern. No one seems to notice that the cup broke in her hands, before it hit the floor. But Maura knows. At least, she suspects. I can feel the weight of her eyes on my back, right between my shoulder blades, following me out into the hall.

I am horrified. At my instinct to do my sister harm. At losing my temper like a reckless child.

“Cate!” a voice says as someone catches my elbow and draws me into the anatomy classroom. It’s Elena. She shuts the door softly behind us.

“Yes?” My voice is sharp. Did she see what I did?

Well, she’s not my governess any longer. She’s only a year and a half older than me; she’s got no right to chastise me.

Her chocolate eyes dip to the wooden floor. “I heard what Maura did.”

Oh. I set my jaw. “I don’t wish to discuss that.”

Elena’s brown fingers, lined with silver rings, twist in her skirts. “I’m worried about her. Why would she do something so cruel?”

I laugh without any real mirth. “Isn’t it obvious? She was jealous because I had Finn, and she lost you. She can’t forgive me for it. Likely she thinks we’re even now.”

“What happened between Maura and me—” Elena pauses, struggling with the words. “That was my mistake. Not yours. I should have been honest about my feelings, no matter what it cost me.”

I slump into a desk. What would my life be like if things had gone that way? I cast my mind back to that dreadful scene in Elena’s bedroom at our house. Only two months ago, though it feels a lifetime now. I was so certain that Elena was using Maura.

“Letting Maura think you care for her won’t win you any favors if I’m ever in a position of power.”

Elena looks at me for a long moment.

Finally, she turns to Maura. Puts a hand on her ruffled cream sleeve. “Maura,” she says, “I think you’ve misunderstood my feelings.”

Maura’s blue eyes fill with tears. “Don’t say that,” she begs, taking Elena’s other hand. “Don’t listen to Cate. Please. I—I love you!”

“I’m flattered by your regard,” Elena says, pulling away, “but I don’t return it.”

Maura reaches out a hand, then lets it fall. The same hand that cradled Elena’s face so gently. “But you kissed me!”

Elena shakes her head. “You took me by surprise. It was a mistake.”

Maura looks past Elena to me. “You were right,” she snaps, running from the room. “Are you happy now?”

I wish I could reach back in time and tell myself to choose differently, because I am the farthest thing from happy I can imagine.

“Well, you weren’t honest with Maura,” I tell Elena. “And I’m the one being punished for it.”

“There has to be more to it than that.” She hops onto the desk in front of me, her boots on the chair, elbows propped on her black-clad knees.

“Does there?” I ask. “I thought it was just the way sisters are, always fighting, always jealous. I’ve been jealous of her, too. Of how clever she is. How pretty. How vivacious. People have always been drawn to her, they—well, you’d know that better than anyone, I suppose.”

“I would,” Elena agrees. “She may be impulsive, but she’s not unkind. Not really. This is Inez’s influence. We’ve got to—”

“No.” I trace a finger across the scarred wooden desktop. “If you want her saved from Inez’s clutches, you’ll have to do it yourself. Maura’s not innocent in this. She knew what she was doing. She warned me, in her own way, that we couldn’t work with the Brothers anymore. She even told Finn to leave, that he wasn’t welcome here with Cora gone.”

“But he wouldn’t leave you.” There’s something envious in Elena’s eyes.

I sigh. “And Tess is the oracle anyway, so it was all for nothing. Maura will never lead the Sisterhood.”

“You’re glad of that, aren’t you?”

I leap up at the sound of Maura’s voice. My muscles go tight; my jaw clenches. I go to the front of the room, facing the chalkboard, with my back turned to her.

“You kept it from me. How long did you know?” Maura asks.

It takes me a moment to realize she means Tess.

She stalks closer, her boots tap-tap-tapping across the floor like Inez’s. I can smell her sweet citrusy scent, from the lemon verbena she dabs at her wrists and throat.

I hear Elena jump down from the desk. “Maura, not now.”

“What friends the two of you have become, having these cozy little chats,” Maura says. “Who would have thought?”

Jealous again. I curl my fingers into fists. She’s so
petty.

“Cate, I seem to have a cut on my hand. Since you’re the one who put it there, I think you ought to heal me.”

I turn. Take the five steps across the classroom and grab my sister’s bare hand. There’s a small red cut on her palm; the bleeding has already stopped. The second I touch her skin, I can feel the injury as well as see it. It’s a tiny needling thing.

Maura’s watching me, her pink lips pursed. She’s always said healing was the most useless form of magic. Naturally. Because it’s what I’m good at.

I squeeze her hand, unthinking, and blood trickles across her palm. “Ow,” she cries, trying to pull away, but my grip is tight. Instead of stitching the cut closed, I reach out with my magic and rip it open. The cut stretches. Gapes. Becomes a two-inch gash, splashing scarlet onto my own skin.

“Cate!” Elena grabs me, her fingers pinching the soft flesh above my elbow, pulling me away.

My sister stares at me, her blue eyes wide and shocked.

I hurt her. I used my magic—my
healing
magic—to hurt her. On purpose.

I turn, heading for the door.

“Stay away from me.” My breath is coming fast, my cheeks flushed. “I don’t want to talk to you. I don’t even want to
look
at you!”

As I step into the hallway, I hear a crash. Across the hall in the sitting room, the babble of voices continues.

To my left is Inez’s classroom. I open the door cautiously.

Alice is on her arse next to an overturned stool. She’s got her black skirts flipped up over her knee, and she’s massaging her ankle. Ordinary boots won’t do for her; she’s wearing heeled shoes with decorative buckles. They’re new, judging from the shiny, unmarked look of the leather.

“What do you want?” She scrambles to her feet, wincing.

Gracious as always. “I heard you fall. I wanted to see if you were all right.”

“I’m fine,” she snaps, limping to the nearest desk.

“What on earth were you doing?” My eyes travel up the wall and land on the open brass vent near the ceiling. It connects to the formal parlor next door. “You’re spying!” I declare, voice low, rather delighted to have caught her at it. “On whom? What’s going on in there?”

Her porcelain cheeks flush. “Sister Inez and Sister Johanna are meeting with Brother O’Shea. About his plans for the Sisterhood. Sister Inez—she said—”

“What? What did she say?” I demand, righting the stool.

Behind me, the door creaks open. Elena and Maura peer in. “What happened here?” Elena asks. She’s carrying a thick roll of bandages. Maura’s hand has been wrapped.

“I tripped,” Alice says crossly, tucking a stray golden tendril back into her pompadour.

“What were you doing?” Maura asks.

Alice’s blue eyes dart between Maura and me. “Nothing,” she lies. “I came in to fetch a book and wasn’t watching where I was going and walked right into that stool. I twisted my ankle something fierce.”

I bite my lip. Alice is the biggest gossip at the convent. Why isn’t she rushing to tell Maura what she heard?

“Is Cate going to heal you?” Maura smirks.

When Sister Sophia told me that there was a dark side to healing, I never imagined I’d be capable of using my magic to make someone’s pain worse.

Never thought there would be something in me, something small and dark and shameful, that would be
glad
of hurting my own sister.

“Excuse me,” I choke out. And then, coward that I am, I flee.

• • •

Later that night, Elena and I make our way through the market district, keeping to the shadowy, garbage-strewn alleys that run behind the shops. The air smells of rotting vegetables and spoiled meat, and we surprise more than one person digging through the bins in search of a meal. Up ahead, an open door spills light and music and men. Three sailors meander down the alley, weaving and laughing. Elena clutches my elbow, and we slip into a dark doorway until they pass.