Sisters' Fate (5 page)

Two doors down, a man with a toothless black smile whistles at us. “Hey, darlin’,” he says, grinning, indiscriminate in his interest. Elena gives him such a look that he scuttles away in the opposite direction.

We cross the street onto a quieter block. The back of O’Neill’s Stationery is unassuming; there are no windows, only a wooden door and a small sign directing deliveries. A tiny sliver of lantern light creeps beneath the door. I glance over my shoulder, making sure we’re quite alone, before pulling the ruby necklace over my head, transforming it into the key Gretchen gave me, and quickly fitting it into the lock. We slip into the storeroom. Boxes of stationery and calling cards join wedding, funeral, and birth announcements in neat stacks on floor-to-ceiling shelves. The room is small, but utterly organized.

There are three doors: one to the alley, one into the shop, and a third that must lead to the basement and the Resistance meeting.

I loop the necklace back around my neck, nerves swarming like bumblebees, and open the third door. Starting down the steps, I trail my gloved hand over the rickety wooden rail. Elena follows. I blink as my eyes grow adjusted to the light.

In the cellar, seven men lounge around a long table covered with newspapers, mugs of ale, and a few candles. Fear spins spiderwebs down my spine. What if this is some kind of trap? What if they lure us into revealing our witchery and then turn us in? What if, what if, what if—my brain chants the fears.

“Sister Cate.” Mr. O’Neill stands. “Welcome.”

Are we? The other six men stare at us without rising to their feet, their faces arranged in solemn, suspicious lines. They do not want us here; that much is clear. But is it because we’re witches or because we’re women?

“Thank you.” I shake his hand, quite businesslike. “Mr. O’Neill, this is Sister Elena. Elena, this is Mr. O’Neill, the proprietor here. And please, call me Cate. I’m not a full member of the Sisterhood yet.”

Elena smiles up at him. “Thank you for letting us join you.”

“Wasn’t aware we had much of a choice.” The man at the head of the table stalks over, peering down his patrician nose at us. “Cora gave
her
the key? She’s a child! Barely out of short skirts!”

I bristle. I haven’t worn short skirts since I was thirteen, and I haven’t been a true child since then, either. Not since Mother died and I assumed the responsibility of looking after my sisters.

O’Neill hides a grin behind one wrinkled, liver-spotted hand. “Sister Elena, Cate, this is Alistair Merriweather, publisher and editor in chief of the
Gazette.
”

This
is Alistair Merriweather? I gape at him. From Gretchen’s description, I was expecting some old curmudgeon, but he can’t be more than twenty-five himself, and he looks more poet than revolutionary. He’s tall and angular, with a square jaw and black hair that flops over his pale forehead. He may be in hiding like Brennan, but he’s dressed like a dandy, with a purple silk cravat wrapped around his throat and a brocade vest and black jacket over a snowy white shirt.

“Hugh, this is mad. Surely you see that!” Merriweather throws up his hands. His fingers are streaked with black newsprint and blue ink, which reminds me of Finn. “It was one thing to allow Cora access to our meetings. She brought us valuable intelligence. We may have disagreed at times”—here, O’Neill snorts—“but she was clever enough—for a woman. What can this child offer us?”

Clever enough—for a
woman
? And he calls himself a progressive? I grit my teeth. “I can hear, you know. As for what I’ve got to offer”—I touch the key around my neck, transforming it back into a ruby. “Magic.”

“More witches from within the Sisterhood? How . . . interesting.” Merriweather glances at me and then, obviously finding me wanting in some way, he turns to Elena. “Where’s Gretchen? I thought she’d be the replacement.”

“Sister Gretchen is ill.” Elena doesn’t wait to be invited to sit at the table. She crosses the room, slim hips swaying, black skirts rustling, and takes an empty chair. “She’s been keeping vigil for Cora all week.”

“I was sorry to hear of Cora’s passing.” Merriweather bows his head, and the five men around the table follow suit. “But I’ve got to confess, I don’t see the need to have
any
of you here.”

“Any of us?” I ask, voice tart. “Witches, or women?”

“Either. Both.” He’s got delicate winged brows over those penetrating gray eyes. “I’m not a proponent of giving women the vote. We already face an uphill battle in giving men from every race, every class, and every religion a voice in the new government. Insisting on giving women the vote—or on permitting the practice of magic—will make our battle well near impossible.”

“Well, that’s a rather defeatist view to take.” I prop one hand on my hip. “I thought you were a progressive, sir. Don’t you believe in equal rights for everyone?”

“For all
men.
” Merriweather paces, his footsteps muffled against the dirt floor. “The common men are the best thinkers of our age. The philosophers and writers, those standing up to fight against—”

“Because you’re seldom arrested for it!” I interrupt, temper boiling over. “Women step one toe out of line and we’re accused of being witches and thrown into Harwood. More often than not, the women there can’t do a lick of magic. It’s punishment for wanting more than the cages of wife and mother and daughter that the Brothers would put us in.”

There’s a pause, and then an older man with muttonchop whiskers laughs, rocking back in his chair and taking a long swallow from his mug. “Sounds familiar, don’t it, Alistair?”

“Just like Prue.” O’Neill grins, taking the empty seat across from Elena. “Have you heard from her yet?”

“Not yet.” Merriweather’s jaw clenches.

Who is Prue? A girl he fancies? I can’t imagine a woman putting up with him. “We need to work together, Mr. Merriweather,” I insist, striding forward. “Witches and all those who oppose the Brotherhood. If we’ve got any hope of effecting change—”

“After what you did to the Head Council?” Merriweather shakes his head. “Aligning ourselves with the witches is impossible now. You’ve read my editorial on the attack?” He says it with such faith that even though I have—even though I made a point of it—I am tempted to deny it.

“Yes, and I agree with you. The attack was shortsighted and morally wrong.” I sigh. He may be conceited, but I need Merriweather’s help. His newspaper reaches a great many men that I cannot, and his good opinion may come in handy. “I opposed it.”

His eyes narrow. “Wait—you know who was responsible for it?”

I cross my arms over my chest, fighting the urge to run into the cobwebby corner. “I do.”

He moves closer, grasping my elbow in his excitement, heedless of propriety. “Tell me. We’ll out them in the paper. What better way to show we don’t endorse such tactics?”

I’m tall for a woman, but he must be over six feet, and broad shouldered. I have to remind myself that he isn’t trying to restrain me—and that I could toss him across the room in a trice with my magic. “No.” I glare down at his fingers on my arm.

“You don’t think they deserve punishment?” He releases me. “If that’s the case, I don’t see how we can possibly—”

“They want to rule New England the way the Brothers do, through fear and intimidation. The best punishment is making sure that doesn’t happen. I support the notion of a shared government. Isn’t that what you want, too?” I ask.

Merriweather purses his mouth. “It’s rare that anyone with true power wants to share it. Whom exactly are you speaking for?”

Elena laughs. The sound draws the attention of every man in the room. “We could deliver at least half the witches in New England. They would follow Cate. Not because she’s compelled them or frightened them into it, mind you, but because they respect her. She’s sacrificed a great deal to help us.”

Not willingly. I would never have given up Finn, had I a choice in it. But she’s right. Somehow, in addition to being the girl who engineered the Harwood breakout, I’ve become something of a tragic romantic heroine. For the last two days, the girls at the convent have been falling over themselves offering me sympathy. Worse, they want to know the details of my romance with Finn, details both too painful and too private to share.

“Half the witches in New England? That is impressive. Almost as impressive as the fifth of the city who buys my newspaper.” Merriweather preens, adjusting his cravat, then freezes. “You’re not the oracle?”

“How do you know about the oracle?” I wonder how he’d take the news that she actually
is
a child.

“We have sources within the Brotherhood,” Merriweather explains. “Don’t try to misdirect me.”

He turns to Elena and she shakes her head, black curls bouncing. “Do you think we would be so foolish as to send the oracle to a meeting like this?”

“Is she here, in New London? Have her powers manifested?”

“Mr. Merriweather.” I sigh. “If I did know, would I hold her safety so lightly as to tell
you
?”

He shoves his hands in his coat pockets. “Tell me just one thing. Did the oracle support the attack on Covington?”

“No. I’m not protecting the people who did that,” I insist, glancing around the table. In the wavering candlelight, it’s difficult to read the men’s faces. Do they agree with Merriweather, that we’ve got no place here and no hope of one in our own country? “But revealing them right now would put us all in danger and give up secrets better kept hidden for the time being.” Like the fact that the Sisterhood is made up entirely of witches.

“What kind of secrets?” Merriweather demands.

I jut my chin at him. “If I told you, they wouldn’t stay secrets for long, would they?”

“Stop hounding the girl, Alistair. There are other stories to tell.” The muttonchop man crashes his chair back down to all four legs. “That O’Shea is a mean son of a bitch. Interview any family that’s ever come in contact with him and they’ll tell you.”

“We’ve got to work on clearing Brennan’s name,” O’Neill adds. “That should be your priority now. I don’t agree with the attack on the Head Council, but if we could get Brennan in charge, it’d be a boon for everyone.”

“Interview the nurses at Harwood. None of ’em remember seeing Brennan. They don’t remember anything. That handkerchief is just—what do you call it?—circumstational evidence,” a wiry gray-haired man adds. “Someone could have planted it there, O’Shea himself maybe. He ain’t above it.”

“Brennan’s wife swears he was sick as a dog and didn’t leave his house that night. His wife and daughters all vouched for him. That’s not good enough for O’Shea and his cronies, though.” O’Neill thumps an angry fist against the wooden table.

“Have you spoken with him directly? Did you give him my note?” I ask.

“I did, but he won’t be here tonight. Too dangerous coming into the city proper right now. If he’s caught—well, I wouldn’t put it past O’Shea to have him shot for resisting arrest or some such. He’s a sneaky bastard.” O’Neill nods at Elena and me. “Pardon the figure of speech.”

“He’s staying outside New London, then? Nearby? Can you arrange a meeting?” I ask.

“Gentlemen.” Merriweather doesn’t raise his voice, but all eyes flock to him. “We will continue our investigation and clear Brennan’s name. That is the
Gazette
’s highest priority. Never fear—we will find out the truth of this handkerchief.”

My eyes fly to the dirt floor, cheeks flushing. He can’t find out the truth. Then it will be Finn in trouble, and he won’t even know why or how to defend himself. He’ll be accused of treason and—

Merriweather runs a hand through his tousled black hair. “Before we share any other confidential information, I think we ought to vote on whether to allow Cate and her cohort a say in the proceedings.”

“Vote?” I ask. “I thought we inherited Cora’s seat.”

“The key, perhaps, but not the right to use it.” Merriweather gives an elegant, insufferable shrug. “We’ll let you know our decision.”

He strides back to the table, taking his seat at the head of it, and it’s obvious that we’ve been dismissed.

Elena stands. “How?”

He smirks, reaching for his mug of ale. “Don’t worry. We’ll find you.”

I want to argue, but it will only make me look childish. Instead, I give a curt nod and follow Elena up the stairs into the storeroom.

We’re quiet until we slip out into the freezing midnight air.

“It’s only his arrogance getting in the way.” A scowl scrunches Elena’s pert nose. “We’d be dead useful to him. He’s got to see that.”

“Does he? He doesn’t seem to think very highly of women. We are half the population. The half that no politician has appealed to for a whole century,” I add. “If the new government gave women the vote—”

“Would their husbands let them exercise it?” Elena interrupts.

Around us, the back alleys are deserted. I snuggle into my cloak, wondering where the men who were searching the bins for scraps went. Wondering if they’ve got a warm place to sleep. “I can’t think all husbands would be so small-minded.”

Finn wouldn’t be.

“We could compel Merriweather,” Elena suggests. “If he fell in line, they all would.”

“I don’t want to resort to that. Not if they’re to be our allies,” I argue.

I don’t say what’s in my heart: I don’t want to compel the Resistance leaders, but if Merriweather’s investigation leads him to Finn—if it were the only way to keep Finn safe—I would do it in a heartbeat.

CHAPTER

5

THE FOLLOWING SATURDAY NIGHT IS THE
Brothers’ Christmas bazaar—an annual tradition in New London. Vendors set up booths around the duck pond in Richmond Square Gardens, and the public must buy tickets to enter the gates. The proceeds go to the Sisterhood so that we can deliver extra rations and Christmas presents to the poor.

I’m curled up on my bed, listening to the swish of petticoats as girls run down the hall to borrow brooches or earbobs. They have to wear the black uniform of the Sisterhood, but it’s still a night out. They call to each other in bright, excited voices and help one another fix their hair, though it’ll be hidden by hoods and blown askew by the sharp December wind.

Tess is sitting at my dressing table, arranging her pale blond curls in a pompadour. “Are you sure you won’t come?”

There was some question as to whether any of us should attend this year, since we’re ostensibly in mourning. Wouldn’t it be disrespectful to Sister Cora, whose body was laid to rest only a week ago? But we’re supposed to have a booth, selling hats and mittens and scarves we knitted ourselves, so Inez decided we should go through with it.

“Quite.” I’m not in the mood for a bazaar. “Are you sure you won’t stay home? We’ll have the place almost to ourselves. We can make cocoa and . . .” I cast about for something that Tess would like. “Play chess?”

“You’re terrible at chess.” Tess wrinkles her nose. “I’m not going to lock myself up here forever, Cate.”

“Not
forever.
” I hug my knees to my chin. “Just until things settle down a bit.”

“That could be years.” She stands, retying the black satin sash at her waist. “I’m going.”

“Fine. But no magic. Not for any reason,” I say, last week’s recklessness still fresh in my mind. “There will be hundreds of Brothers there.”

The National Council meeting was supposed to end yesterday, but they’ve called an emergency extension because of the attack on the Head Council. I felt curiously relieved when I heard of it. Finn’s been working as a clerk for Brother Denisof, but now that Denisof’s lying comatose in Richmond Hospital, what will he do? Go back to Chatham to teach in the Brothers’ school? He might be safer there, but the thought of him being so far away makes my chest ache.

“I know that.” Tess scowls at me. “I just want one night out. I want to shop for little trinkets for Father and Mrs. O’Hare, and walk around with Lucy and Bekah like a normal girl! Like the world isn’t falling in on my head all the time! Is that too much to ask?”

“Of course not. I’m sorry.” Chagrined, I press my fingertips to my temple, where a headache is beginning to bloom.

There’s a wild rapping on the door and Brenna pokes her head in, her chestnut hair falling in a tangled curtain to her waist. “I need to talk to the little one.”

“Are you all right?” I ask. Brenna is wearing a dress of Rory’s, though she hasn’t the curves to fill it out properly. The vibrant red velvet seems strange on her, like a child playing dress-up.

I wonder how Rory and Sachi are faring. They should be settled into their safe house by now—a farmhouse in the woods of Connecticut. Will they come back to the convent once they’ve seen the other girls established, or will they opt to stay there?

I never thought I’d miss Rory Elliott’s company, but I do. She has a way of making me laugh when I need it most.

“I had a vision. You told me to say when I had a vision.” Brenna’s all-seeing eyes dominate her narrow face—gaunt from two months of being half starved.

“Yes.” Tess glances at me and then away. “Should we go to your room and talk about it?”

I cross my arms over the green ruffles of my bodice, stung by her secrecy. “You can talk about it in front of me.”

“Something terrible is going to happen,” Brenna says, plucking nervously at her red skirt. “He’ll announce it tonight.”

“What? Who?” I jump to my feet.

Brenna scrunches up her face, squeezing her eyes shut. “There’s a man with a horse face on a stage, in front of lots of people. It’s dark out. He says something and they all gasp and you—you’re there, little one, and you look sad. And you”—she whirls, pointing at me, almost smacking me in the face—“you’re angry.”

I’m angry all the time these days; that’s no surprise. But it seems I will be going to the bazaar after all. “What does the man say?”

“I can’t hear him. He’s underwater, like a fish. It’s like talking to someone in the ocean.” Brenna mimes a breaststroke. “We used to go to the seashore sometimes, Mama and Papa and Jake and me. Before.”

Before her father turned her in to the Brothers. Before Alice broke her brain.

“The man was underwater, and he has a horse’s head?” Tess asks, clearly perplexed.

“Not a real horse’s head, silly!” Brenna giggles. “A great long face. And a shiny bald head.”

I take a deep breath, trying to stave off my frustration. This is the trouble with a broken oracle: She can tell us O’Shea will announce something terrible tonight, but not what. “Did you see anything like this?” I ask Tess. She shakes her head. “You haven’t had any visions since Zara?”

Tess turns her back to me, but I catch her blush in the mirror over the dressing table. “I don’t have to tell you everything.”

“I know.” I promised myself I wouldn’t push her, but it’s so hard. “I really don’t think you should go tonight, Tess. Not if—”

Tess rolls her eyes at me in the mirror. “I’m not discussing this with you any more. I’m going and that’s that. So are you, according to Brenna, so you ought to start getting ready,” she snaps. “Come, Brenna. Let me take you back to your room.”

She strides out of the room, Brenna dancing after her. Brenna is still skittish with everyone else, cringing like a whipped puppy if anyone touches her or stares—and everyone stares at Brenna. She ran into Alice again yesterday in the hall and screamed like a banshee. For the most part, though, she stays in her room. Tess brings her meals and visits her between classes to keep her company. I don’t know what they talk about. Visions, perhaps, trying to piece together how things will play out.

I’ve just changed into my Sisterly black when Rilla pops back into our room. She’s all ready for the bazaar, her short brown curls artfully arranged around her freckled face.

“You’ve decided to come?” she asks. “You look pretty.”

I glare at her. “I do not.” I look like a tall, skinny blond vulture in the Sisters’ uniform. I always do.

“Hush and take the compliment,” she insists, braving a hug. She smells like hot cocoa and the maple candies her mother’s always sending from their farm in Vermont. “Are you all right? You seem . . . pricklier than usual.”

“I’m fine.” I’m not fine. What’s O’Shea cooking up now? Hundreds of Brothers will be at the bazaar. Any of us could make a misstep and be arrested. Things seem so on edge. And beyond that—

“Are you worried Finn will be there?” Rilla cuts right to the heart of it.

My breath catches in my throat, and I feel such a coward. Am I that obvious, that pitiful, that everyone can see the truth written on my face?

“I don’t know,” I whisper, burying my head in my hands. “I miss him. So much. I want to see him but—he won’t know me. Not really. It’s so awful, Rilla.”

Rilla plants her hands on her sturdy hips and gives a fierce little scowl. “I could slap that sister of yours.”

“Me too.” I give her a weak smile, sliding on a pair of earbobs and glamouring them to look like rubies, to match my new necklace. “But it’s done now, isn’t it? There’s nothing I can do.”

“Are you sure of that?” Rilla picks up one of her Gothic novels. “You know, in
The Duke and I,
the duke is in a hunting accident; he falls off his horse and knocks his head and loses his memory. It’s amnesia, not magic. But he and the duchess fall in love with each other all over again.”

“That’s impossible,” I say shortly.

“Is it?” Rilla guides me to the dressing table, sits me down, and begins to braid my hair. “If Finn fell in love with you once, what’s to say he couldn’t do it again? You know him. Know what he likes. You could orchestrate things in your favor.”

Hope thrums through my chest, but I quash it. “That seems dishonest. Starting off with secrets between us.” Like my parents. Mother erased Father’s memory, leaving him unaware that she was a witch and he had three witchy daughters. It kept him safe from the Brothers, but I can’t imagine their marriage was ever the same.

Rilla skewers the braids into place around the crown of my head. “You could tell him the truth, then. How you fell in love and what Maura did.”

“Just like that?” I snap my fingers. “What if he turned her in?” I shake my head. Furious as I am, I cannot be responsible for Maura ending up—where? Without Harwood, where would they send a witch guilty of mind-magic? She would be executed.

I smooth my black skirts. “And it could be dangerous for him. What if she saw us together? What’s to keep her or Inez from attacking him again and leaving him like—like Covington and the others? I can’t take that chance.”

Rilla’s shoulders slump. “I suppose you’re right. I just hate to see you so unhappy, Cate.”

I stare down at my clenched hands. “Me too.”

• • •

Hundreds of people mill through Richmond Square Gardens, all bundled up in their winter finery: ladies in fur hoods and men with their collars turned up against the cold. Lanterns swing from majestic red maples, sending light skittering over the crowd. Children run up and down the makeshift aisles playing tag while their mamas examine the merchandise. The bazaar is meant to benefit the poor, but I don’t see many of them here. Now that the Brothers have outlawed women working, more families are struggling to make ends meet than ever. They’ve barely got money for food and shoes and coal, never mind Christmas treats.

The air smells of hot apple cider. People carry roasted chestnuts wrapped in cones of newspaper, and at the far end of the bazaar a hurdy-gurdy man performs with his monkey on a makeshift stage. Earlier, a pair of clowns delighted the audience with their pratfalls and juggling. Next up is a Christmas puppet show, according to the program.

I’m stationed at the Sisters’ booth with Rilla, Mei, Vi, and two of the younger girls. The six of us volunteered for the middle shift, while the others wander the aisles and watch the performances.

“Yang would love those.” Mei eyes the booth next to ours, where a man and his son sell clockwork toys. “He’s always been a great one for taking things apart and putting them back together.”

“Why don’t you get him one for Christmas?” I suggest.

Mei laughs. “With what? I haven’t any pocket money.”

Of course. I flush, feeling thoughtless. Unlike Mei and some of the other convent girls, I’ve never had to worry about money. I fumble in my pocket for coins, then press them into Mei’s hand. “Here.”

She shakes her head. “No, I couldn’t.”

“Not for yourself. But for a Christmas gift for your brother, you can,” I insist. “You ought to get something for your little sisters, too.”

Mei glances wistfully, uneasily, at the coins in my hand. “I don’t know.”

“Christmas will be hard this year, won’t it, without Li and Hua? Get some gifts for the others to make it brighter.” Her two middle sisters are serving time on a prison ship for taking part in the Richmond Square protest last month, but she’s still got two small sisters and a brother at home. “I’ve got plenty left to buy presents for Tess and my father.” And something for Rilla and for Mei herself. “I’m happy to help, truly.”

“It’s just a loan. I’ll pay it back,” Mei promises, taking the coins. “Thank you, Cate.”

I smile as she leans over the counter, angling for a better view of the merchandise next door. “Get them now! Before the ones you like are sold.”

She looks around our booth, at Vi and Rilla selling mittens and the younger girls huddled in the back whispering. “I’ll be right back.”

“Take your time.” I watch her push out of the booth and dodge other shoppers.

My heart leaps into my throat when a pair of black-cloaked Brothers turns into our aisle. The one on the left is about Finn’s height, tall and lean. My pulse hammers in my ears, and I swallow, mouth suddenly dry.

As he strolls toward us, I realize his gait is all wrong. Too purposeful. Finn
ambles,
taking in everything around him with his quick eyes and quicker wit. Still, I wait for the man to get closer and confirm that he isn’t wearing spectacles before I look away.

Stupid. It’s the fifth time I’ve done this in the two hours I’ve been here.

There are hundreds of Brothers in attendance. Even if Finn
is
roaming around the bazaar, we could very well miss each other.

It’s not as though he has any cause to seek me out.

I straighten the scarves on my side of the booth. Some are more expert than others. Mei, having grown up with a tailor for a father, has a steady hand and a good eye for color. Pearl and Addie often knit in the evenings while they chat, and their stitches are as meticulous as everything else about them. We’ve already sold five of Pearl’s scarves, all a beautiful, soft gray wool. And Lucy’s sister Grace has been sewing nonstop since she arrived from Harwood. The repetitive motions seem to comfort her. She sews. Livvy plays the piano night and day. Sister Edith’s niece paints. Caroline chatters at anything, even potted ferns. And Parvati—

What
does
Parvati do? She’s been having lessons with Inez, I know that much, and taking her meals with Maura and Alice.

I botched that.

A man’s callused hand picks up a small blue scarf, startling me out of my thoughts. “I’d like this one, please.”

I glance up, right into the face of the muttonchop man from the Resistance meeting. He smiles at me from behind his gingery whiskers. “Hello, Cate.”

“Hello.” I glance over my shoulder. Vi and Rilla are busy with other customers; the two younger girls are oblivious.

“The answer is yes, miss,” he says. “It was unanimous. Alistair’s bark is worse than his bite.”

“I’m glad to hear it, Mr. . . . ?” I trail off.

“Moore.” He watches as I fold the scarf for him. “I’ve got a lad at home, nine years old. I hope the world will be a better place by the time he’s grown.”