Sisters' Fate
Page 12“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?”
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.
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.”
“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—