Sisters' Fate

As I watch, the ropes that bound the girls’ hands slither to the ground and then swoop toward the remaining guards. Some of the soldiers fight off the ropes, but Tess immobilizes them as they reach for their rifles. Others make a run for it, and we drop them as they go. They’re shoved to the ground and trampled by the crowd. As the girls’ laudanum-soaked brains finally grasp their chance at freedom, they begin to run.

Richmond Square is bedlam. All around us, panicked people push and shove and trip over one another, shouting in fear and anger. Tess and I are being jostled, but our hands are firmly linked, fingers interlaced. Alice and Rilla press close behind, the four of us an unmoving unit against the madness.

A man plucks at my sleeve. “Come on, Sisters! We’ve got to get out of here!”

“What the hell are you doing, standing around like sheep? We’re all going to be burnt alive!” his less-chivalrous friend insists.

I risk a glance at them before turning my attention back to the gallows. “Don’t you see we’re praying? Go!” I snap. If they distract Rilla and Alice, the glamour will give way, and we can’t have that yet.

Most of the Brothers are rushing for the exits, but a few are trying to stop the Harwood girls. “Tess,” I hiss, but Rilla and Alice beat me to it. A wall of flame leaps across the grass, encircling the flock of Brothers in a fiery prison. Tess and I scan the crowd for more guards, but it’s impossible to track them in the crush.

I hear gunshots and wince.

Everyone around us has fled, leaving the middle of the square empty. Behind us, Alice and Rilla are kneeling in the grass, grasping each other’s hands as they stare toward the gallows, lips moving as if in prayer. It’s a persuasive picture of two devout Sisters.

“We need to get closer,” Tess says, and we run, still hand in hand, toward the front of the square. Someone is ringing the fire bell atop the National Council building. Two horse-drawn, steam-powered fire engines pull up, firemen jumping down from the carriages. The machines block the street in front of the cathedral, adding to the chaos. In their hurry to get out of the square, people are pushing so close, they’re in danger of being burnt by the steam from the engines or trampled by the horses’ hooves.

Up ahead, a Harwood girl is struggling with a man twice her size. Her blouse rips across the shoulder as she tries to free herself. I cast silently, flinging him back, and the girl scrambles away.

Tess drops to her knees and crawls beneath the carriage of one of the fire engines. I follow her, figuring the lack of Sisterly dignity can be forgiven in such an emergency. Children are crying as they’re separated from their families. Shopkeepers on the surrounding streets are crawling out their upper windows to wet down their roofs, lest they catch fire from the sparks floating so convincingly on the wind. Throngs of people are flowing down Church Street.

I feel a grim satisfaction at causing such chaos.

As we run, I see a body—one of the Harwood prisoners—lying half in the street, half on the cobbled sidewalk. She’s been shot in the head; blood pools on the street around her and mats her long blond hair. She has staring blue eyes and looks strangely familiar. I bite my lip, and then—oh, Lord—I recognize her as the woman I healed in the Harwood infirmary, the one who’d lost her baby girl.

She won’t be going home to her sons after all.

Tess tugs on my hand, leading me onto a side street that’s less crowded. Women throw open their windows and lean out, modesty forgotten, as they call to neighbors to try and find out what’s happening. Men congregate on the street to share news, then march toward the square to see for themselves. Good. The more curiosity-seekers standing around the fence gawking, the more trouble the remaining guards will have controlling the crowd.

How much longer can Rilla and Alice keep this up?

I’ve got a stitch in my side and I’m exhausted from casting so many spells in quick succession, but I don’t slow my pace. We’ve got to find the prisoners and get them to safety before our magic runs out. How many have Mei and Mélisande and Elena managed to grab?

I spot four guards dodging into the alley that runs behind Fourth Street and pull Tess after them, sensing trouble. As we round the corner, Tess stops so abruptly, I knock into her.

Up ahead, an abandoned milk wagon blocks the road. Sachi, Rory, and the dark-haired girl who was with them are running pell-mell toward it. “Stop!” shouts one of the guards, but the girls keep running.

I cast silently, trying to immobilize the soldiers, but it doesn’t work.

“Intransito,” I mutter aloud, but nothing happens. My magic gives a weak flicker.

Three of the guards fire their rifles. Pop-pop-pop, just like Brenna said, Lord help us. Sachi screams. The skinny dark-haired girl stumbles and knocks into the side of the wagon, clutching her arm. Glass bottles crash and the horses skitter sideways in their harnesses.

I’m almost crying with frustration and panic, and in front of me, Tess is swaying dizzily, bracing her hands on her knees. She cannot be having a vision now, can she?

“Tess!” I cry, grabbing her shoulders, trying to draw magic from her, but it doesn’t work. Her gray eyes stare right through me, and I don’t feel any magic in her. We’re going to be too late. I hear boots pounding on the far side of the wagon and it must be another guard coming and I’m so useless; we’re all going to be killed. The dark-haired girl ducks under the wagon, reaching out a hand to pull Sachi forward. A guard fires again and I scream it this time, with everything in me: “Intransito!”

Two of the guards freeze. Rory turns back at the sound of my voice, hesitating just as another soldier lunges forward with his bayonet and—

“Rory!” It’s Brenna, ducking between the brick wall of the shop and the back of the wagon. She flings herself between Rory and the guard, arms outstretched.

Brenna impales herself on the bayonet. It slices into her, through her, the sound—

“Intransito!” Tess shouts, and the last two soldiers are immobilized a second too late.

“Brenna!” Rory screams. Tess and I run toward them, skirting the guard-statues.

Brenna’s pinned to the wagon. Red blossoms across her stomach, mimicking the peonies splashed across her skirt. Where did she come from? How did she find us?

Rory clings to my arm. “Cate, do something! Fix it!”

I swallow. “I can’t.” Brenna’s blue eyes are empty, staring past us at—what? What was she thinking in her last moments? It happened so fast.

Thank you, Cate. Did she know? Did she see this? How else would she have been here, at the exact right moment?

Rory pulls the rifle from the nearest soldier’s frozen hands and turns it on the guard who killed Brenna. He cannot move, but his eyes are aware, terrified, pleading.

“No.” I step between them.

“He killed Brenna! He would have killed me!” Rory lifts the rifle to her shoulder, shaking the dark hair from her face.

Sachi puts a restraining hand on Rory’s arm. “We have to get out of here before more guards come.”

“Get out of the way, Cate,” Rory commands, brandishing the bayonet. Tears are slipping silently down her face. “I’m going to run him through, just like he did her.”

“No. You’re not a murderer. You’re better than that,” I insist, planting my feet.