Sisters' Fate

“I don’t know if that’s better or worse.” He picks up the pipe lying on the tea table and turns it over in his hands. “How long has this been going on?”

Tess glances at me. “My magic manifested when I was eleven,” I explain. My instinct is to keep my head down, but instead I raise my eyes to his—a pale blue like my own. I am not ashamed of being a witch, not anymore, and I won’t act as if I am. “Mother helped me learn to control it and keep it a secret. When it was their turn, I helped Maura and Tess.”

“Your mother knew?” Father walks to the sideboard next to the picture window. He pours a glass of amber liquor, then pauses with it halfway to his lips. “Magic is hereditary, isn’t it? No one in my family—Anna never got on with her mother, she was raised by her grandmother, but she never said . . .”

“Mother was a witch. Like her grandmother.” Tess swallows. “That’s why she and her mother didn’t get on. It skipped a generation.”

“That’s impossible.” Father puts the glass down on the sideboard, staring at Tess as though she’s grown horns.

“It’s not. Watch.” My magic is already stirring. I float his glass across the room and set it gently on the tea table without spilling a drop. “See?”

“Good Lord.” Father’s eyes go round as saucers. “Cate, you’re a—a—”

“A witch,” I supply, raising my chin. “Everything Tess is telling you is true.”

He leans heavily on the sideboard, breathing fast, and for a minute I worry that he’s going to have a fit of apoplexy. But he doesn’t clutch his chest, just turns back to us, plainly puzzled. “I don’t see why Anna would keep this from me.”

“She didn’t,” Tess says. “Not always.”

“We were married for fourteen years, Teresa. I think I would remember if my own wife had been a witch,” Father snaps. He gets halfway across the room when it hits him and he stares at us, dumbfounded. “Or would I?”

Tess jumps up, reaching for his arm, but he flinches away. The look on his face makes my stomach hurt. It’s too close to the way Finn looked at me two nights ago. It’s as though Father doesn’t know us anymore, as though his charming kittens have grown into fearsome tigers right before his eyes.

“Did one of you erase my memory? Like the Brothers are always preaching on about?” His face is flushed, his eyes dark and snapping.

“No!” Tess cries. Only—I have erased his memory. So has Maura. He has every right to look at me like that. “It wasn’t us, Papa. I know this must be very hard for you to hear, but—”

“She wouldn’t,” Father interrupts Tess, his voice very sure, and I envy him that—that absolute certainty. He sinks back into his armchair. “Whatever my faults, I loved your mother. If Anna were a witch—if I’d known—I would never have turned my back on her. She wouldn’t have needed to hide it from me. I—good Lord, whatever else you think of me, you’ve got to know that much. I would never have turned her in to the Brothers!”

Tess goes to him, kneeling on the soft red rug. “We know.”

Father looks down at her. “I would have died before giving her up.”

I cross the room and kneel on the other side of his chair. “We know. Mother knew, too. That was why she did it.”

• • •

We do not tell Father everything; Tess thought it best not to overwhelm him with the prophecy or her visions. Still, Father handles the revelations far better than I had expected.

“What about Maura? Why isn’t she here?” Father tilts the empty glass in his hands, watching the crystal catch the candlelight. Tess, curled up on the other chair, gazes at the floor. “Ah. Maura didn’t want you to tell me,” he guesses.

“We’ve had to be so cautious for so long,” Tess explains.

“I’m sorry she didn’t feel she could trust me. You can, girls.” Father sets the glass down. His watery blue eyes meet mine and then travel to Tess’s. “I’ve been remiss in not telling you this more often since your mother died, but I love you, and I’m terribly proud of you. You’ve been very brave to shoulder this alone.”

I feel a warm glow that is not entirely from my proximity to the fireplace. “Thank you, Father,” I say, and Tess’s grin lights up the room. “But we haven’t been entirely alone in it. Marianne’s been a great friend to us.”

Father’s head swivels toward the kitchen. “Marianne is a witch, too?”

His disbelief is comical. “No. But she was one of Mother’s best friends.”

“She’s always been quite progressive. And damned clever, too, for a woman,” Father says. I chuckle at the outrage on Tess’s face as I uncurl myself from the sofa and slide my feet back into my red slippers. Sachi insisted that I borrow a festive red plaid dress of Rory’s instead of wearing my usual blues and grays. I gave in because I sensed she was feeling a bit homesick; I suppose even if your father’s a tyrant and your mother’s useless, you might miss them at Christmas. And now that I know Finn will be here, I’m glad I took a bit more care with my appearance. The dress brings color to my cheeks and darkens my eyes to thunderclouds.

“I’d better go help Marianne,” I say. Tess starts to rise, but I wave her down. This is my reckoning, not hers. “Why don’t you stay and chat with Father for a bit?”

Tess acquiesces easily enough. I follow my nose to the kitchen, where Marianne is peeling potatoes and Clara’s just started to roll out a piecrust. “It smells delicious in here.”

“Thank you, Cate.” Marianne swipes a stray curl from her flushed face. With the goose in the oven, the small kitchen is very warm. “Clara, would you finish setting the table, please? I’ll take care of the pie.”

Clara scurries off. “I’m no good with pies, but I think I can manage the potatoes,” I offer.

Marianne nods. “Is everything all right with your father?”

I pick up the paring knife and set to work. “We told him the truth. That we’re witches.”

“It went well? No . . . extraordinary measures were employed?” Marianne’s use of the rolling pin is more vehement than necessary.

“It went very well. Even if it hadn’t, we wouldn’t—” I set the knife down and turn to her. “I won’t lie to you. Tess wouldn’t have let me alter his memory. I would have done it in a heartbeat if I thought it were necessary to protect her.”

“Is that what happened to Finn?”

“No! I would never— It wasn’t me. I swear it.”

“But you were involved somehow, weren’t you?” Marianne turns to me, brown eyes blazing. “I told you once that we can’t choose who we love. And I like you, Cate, I do. But this is my son, and now—well, I daresay I wish he’d chosen differently. This would never have happened if he hadn’t come chasing after you to New London.”

I flinch away from her recrimination, setting to work again. There’s a long silence broken only by the snick of my knife. Words and tears build a knot in my throat until it feels like I can’t breathe unless I let something escape.