Sisters' Fate
Page 33I head for the door. “It’s late, Maura. I’ll let you get back to your friends.”
• • •
The next morning, Tess is waiting for me in the hall between my illusions and advanced mathematics classes. “Cate!” she exclaims, grabbing me out of the crush of girls and pulling me into the library. “I have the most marvelous news! Guess what? Father’s coming for Christmas!”
“Here? To New London?” I ask stupidly.
“No, to Indo-China. Yes, here!” She waves a letter in my face. “I wrote him last week and asked him to come and he—”
“Do you think that’s a good idea?” I interrupt.
“Cate.” She frowns at me, hitching her stack of books higher on her pink-clad hip. “We agreed to tell him the truth at Christmas. How can we do that if we don’t see him? You promised.”
“I know.” Tess thinks it’s past time to tell Father that we’re witches, and I suppose I agree that he should learn the truth of it. But things seem so uncertain just now. Maura and I are barely speaking. How can we pretend to be a happy family for Father? Does Tess mean to tell him everything?
“He’ll stay in his flat above the Cahill Mercantile Company.” She bounces on her tiptoes, a grin spreading across her face, and I don’t have the heart to argue. It’s the happiest she’s looked in weeks. “He said he expects to get in late on Friday, and we ought to come to the flat for dinner on Christmas Eve. He’s bringing presents and a big surprise!”
“That sounds wonderful.” But I can’t help worrying. What if Father doesn’t react the way she hopes? “Speaking of presents, I’m going shopping before I head to the hospital this afternoon. Would you like to come with me?”
“Oh.” I bite back my disappointment. “I don’t have to go today. Perhaps we could play a game of checkers. Or I could help you bake scones for tea. Whatever you like.”
“I’ve already promised to help Lucy with her Latin.” Tess picks up the stack of books and edges her way toward the door.
“Oh. Well, perhaps I could—”
“Why don’t you just shackle me to your ankle?” she snaps.
I stare at her, taken aback. “Tess, I didn’t mean—”
“Forgive me.” Tess flushes as pink as one of Mother’s peonies. “I don’t mean to be unkind. But if I want people to take me seriously, I can’t be hanging on to your skirts all the time, Cate. You understand, don’t you?”
“Of—of course.” My fingers dig into the leather cover of my mathematics text. “I’ll ask Rilla if she’d like to come with me instead.”
“Perfect.” Tess gives me a sunny smile, but my throat aches as I watch her walk away. It’s natural that she wants to assert her independence, isn’t it? She will be thirteen next year.
Somehow, though, it feels as if I’m losing both my sisters.
VERY LATE ON THURSDAY NIGHT, PRUE, Rilla, and I head toward O’Neill’s Stationery. Prue is eager to be reunited with her brother, and Rilla insisted on coming because she “refuses to let that conceited fop of a Merriweather” off the hook regarding her ideas for the Gazette. As we hurry along the frozen city streets, tucked into our cloaks and fur muffs, they chatter about their ideas for interviewing former Harwood prisoners. I smile, feeling confident in their ability to browbeat Merriweather into running some pro-witch pieces, but butterflies tumble through my stomach at the promise of seeing Finn.
The occasional phaeton rumbles past, carrying young men home from their carousing or whatever it is young men have the freedom to do late at night. Two guards stop us once we reach the market district, but we tell them we’re on our way to Richmond Hospital to pray over the fever victims and they let us pass. No one seems to relish being out tonight. The wind whips furiously through my winter layers, numbing my thighs, sending my hair tumbling out of its careful braids. At least it isn’t snowing. It hasn’t since the night of the Harwood breakout. Has it been two weeks already?
The last two days have flown past. I’ve spent my mornings in class—illusions, advanced mathematics, and animations—and my afternoons nursing at Richmond Hospital. Inez has been strict in illusions, singling me out when my glamours don’t hold, but otherwise she’s been quiet. Too quiet, perhaps. This morning I caught her smiling in a way that sent terror tumbling through me. In the evenings, Sachi and Rory and I have been trying to determine what to do with the new girls. They can’t stay at the convent indefinitely, but most of them have nowhere else to go.
Tess and Maura have both kept their distance. It hurts more than I’d like to admit.
The Brothers have begun to preach about the pestilence brought on by the witches. The Sentinel ran an article today claiming that the witches have cast a plague onto the populace. Yesterday, on the way home from the hospital, I ducked into a flower shop to buy some of the yellow tulips Rilla loves and overheard two well-dressed women gossiping about how the witches have done spells to make people sick. They wore bright, gauzy scarves tied over their faces because the fever has begun to spread into the market district, but it’s a flimsy precaution. I suspect they think of the sickness as something that could only happen to other people—poorer, unluckier ones.
The alley behind Fifth Street is quiet. The wind has sent clouds scudding over the moon, plunging the night into shadow. I check to be sure there’s no one nearby before using my key to unlock the back door. In the storeroom, I shuck off my cloak. I’ve forgone my Sisterly black for a dove-gray dress with a blue sash that I know looks well on me. I pause to pat my hair back into place, wishing for a looking glass.
“Do I look a mess?” I ask, flushing. If Merriweather could see me, he’d think I was a silly chit indeed.
Rilla reaches up to fix a strand of my hair. “No. You look lovely.”
I lead the way down into the cellar, my eyes sweeping over the men assembled at the table: Merriweather, O’Neill, the ginger-whiskered Mr. Moore, a strapping man built like a dockworker but dressed like a dandy, and two others from last time. No Finn. My heart falls.
“Good to see you again, my girl,” O’Neill says, after Prue extricates herself.
“Welcome back, Prue. How long did they have you in that place?” the tall man asks.
Merriweather whirls on him. “Good Lord, John, have a little tact.”
“It was three years,” Prue says, smiling. “I don’t mind talking about it. In fact, I want to talk about it. I think people should know what we suffered.”
“See?” Rilla’s hazel eyes spark with the light of battle.
Merriweather sighs and turns to me. “Why did you bring this one? The other girl was lovely. Quiet.”
“If you say women should be seen and not heard, I’ll brain you myself,” Prue threatens. “I think Rilla’s idea is brilliant. Everyone who follows your paper knows where I was, Alistair, and they all know it wasn’t because I was a witch; it was because I refused to tell the Brothers how to find you. Some of the other girls wouldn’t want you using their real names, but you could use mine.”