“I have asked the faithful to bring fodder for our fire. I am pleased to see so many of you have brought books.” People in the crowd wave their offerings in the air, delighted by his approval. “In a moment, I will ask you to step forward, but first—”
Two guards drag a woman forward. She is crying, struggling against them, her hands bound behind her. A third guard pulls a cart piled high with books. “This woman, Hannah Maclay,” Brother Covington says, “has been dealing in forbidden books. Selling them right here in the streets of New London.”
The crowd boos. People crane their necks to see around their neighbors; children dance forward and are yanked back by their mothers.
Finn’s mother is—was, until very recently—a bookseller.
“She has been poisoning the minds of our women and children with the kind of tawdry romances and macabre tales that are popular overseas. She claims that these novels are a treasure rather than treason. I would like to show her—show all of you gathered here tonight—just how little they are worth.”
Two of the guards gather up great handfuls of books and toss them into the fire. The pages begin to blacken and curl, the words inside rendered dead and useless. Hannah Maclay lurches away from the guard holding her, and he shoves her, and—
She falls, shrieking, right into the bonfire.
Her black cloak catches fire. Her long brown hair.
Good Lord, will they just let her burn? Will no one help her?
No one is moving. The crowd seems frozen. A few children begin to shriek, and their fathers, unprepared for this spectacle, set them hastily on their feet. I want to shriek, too.
My magic bristles, rising in my throat. I’m about to cast a silent animation spell to move her out of harm’s way when I realize I won’t be the one the Brothers blame. They’ll assume she used magic to save herself. And if they think she’s a witch, they might toss her right back into the fire.
I force the magic down and pray instead. Please don’t let the guards be as heartless as they seem.
It is a long moment before they reach in and haul her out. She is flailing, screaming. They push her to the ground and throw a cloak over her, dousing the flames, hiding her from view. She goes quiet.
The crowd is silent. I look to the Sisterhood. This time I spot Rilla, her freckled hands clasped over her mouth in horror. In front of her, the woman with the baby in the red hat is cuddling him close, turned slightly away from the stage as if to shield him from the sight. Her son is clutching at her skirts.
I look up at Brother Covington. Everyone is looking to him.
His handsome face is arranged in solemn lines. He shakes his head as the guards carry the woman away. Is she alive? She is so quiet. “A regrettable accident,” he says. “Caused by her own disobedience.”
That did not seem an accident. It seemed a carefully orchestrated statement. A warning.
Sachi and Rory are huddled close together, their hands clasped, faces ashen.
The ceremony continues as though nothing’s amiss. As though we haven’t just seen a woman set on fire, perhaps killed. Certainly burnt and scarred for life.
A row of Brothers moves forward, each holding a book or two in his hands. They toss them into the fire and nod as if performing a sacrament. It’s silent as a church service.
Have Maura and Tess received Sister Cora’s letter yet? Are they still in Chatham, being forced to witness a bonfire of their own tonight? I know they’ll think it sacrilege; I know they’ll want to intervene. Even Father will be hard-pressed to stand by and watch this.
The woman pushed into the fire could have so easily been Marianne Belastra.
“That woman wasn’t hurting anyone,” Rory hisses suddenly. “And neither is my book. This is ridiculous!”
Her father has moved to the front of the line. Her eyes are focused on the book in his hands—a slim book with a painting of a doll on it and pink letters that spell out the name Cassandra.
“He’s got to follow the rules.” Sachi’s shoulders have gone tight with worry. “You know that. He doesn’t believe in exceptions.”
“Even for his own daughters?” A muscle jumps in Rory’s jaw.
Daughters? I almost fall over with shock. Rory knows?
“Even then,” Sachi says, her guilty eyes meeting mine. When did she tell Rory?
“Are you defending him?” Rory’s voice rises, and around us, people begin to stare.
“Hush!” Sachi drags her backward, under the shelter of the maple, and I trail after them. “No. Of course not. I am on your side. I am always on your side, Rory.”
Rory is trembling with anger. “I hate him,” she spits, staring across the square as Brother Ishida drops Cassandra into the fire.
And the fire leaps higher, flames jumping twenty feet. The Brothers scramble backward to avoid the heat of the sudden inferno. Women in the crowd are screaming. People are beating sparks from their cloaks, stamping them out with boots, muttering in consternation.
“Witchery!” Brother Covington barks.
I turn to Sachi and Rory, and then I see it: the book winging its way through the smoky air, over the heads of the terrified crowd, over the heads of the Sisters, and straight toward us.
The bonfire is reflected in Rory’s vacant brown eyes.
It’s Rory. She’s the one doing this. She’s lost control.
“Rory,” I whisper, trying to bring her back to herself. The book is almost upon us, and then—
Sachi stretches up on tiptoe and snatches it. She hugs it to her chest with both hands, arms clasped around it as though it’s a precious, precious treasure.
Around us, the crowd draws away, erupting in cries of horror and fear. People point and gasp. “Witchery!” “Magic!” “Lord help us!” Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpse a rich girl in white fur fainting dead away. A thickset man with muttonchop whiskers and plaid pants catches her. I suppose most of these people have never seen true magic before. Two dirty-faced boys dash toward us, curious, before their mother screeches at them to stay back.
I throw a quick glance toward the Sisters and find everyone—Sister Cora, Inez, Alice, Rilla—staring not at Sachi or Rory, but at me. I flush. I shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t draw any attention to myself, but I can’t slip away now; I can’t just leave them like this.
“Sachi, no!” Rory tries to wrestle the book away from her sister, but Sachi shoves her, hard. Rory falls to the ground.
“Stay away from me,” Sachi growls.
Good Lord, what has Rory done?
My mind spins helplessly. There’s nothing I can do to fix this. The Brothers’ guards are pushing through the crowd, almost upon us. Everyone saw Sachi do magic—or seem to do it.
Rory scrambles to her feet, mud on her chin, on her hands, on her fine fur hood. I grab her arm and yank her away just as the guards reach us. A tall bearded man slams a rifle into Sachi’s temple, and she crumples to the ground.
I wrap my arm around Rory, restraining her even as I appear to give comfort. Rory fights me, her nails sharp against my wrists.
“Let me go!” she cries, her breath hot against my ear. “I have to tell them it was me. Let me go!”
What good is Sachi’s sacrifice if Rory gets arrested, too?
“No,” I say, voice loud. “Stay away from her. She’s a witch.”