Star Cursed

A square-jawed, olive-skinned man with a red flannel shirt saunters up. “Not so sure this one’s moral, Ted. Carrying on with two girls bold as brass. Hypocrites, the lot of them.”

“Keep a civil tongue in your head. These ladies are novitiates of the Sisterhood.” Finn pulls Tess behind him.

“Those convent girls are no better than the Brothers. Never done an honest day’s work in your life, I bet,” the dark-haired man drawls. He has the same Spanish accent as Sister Inez.

I’m surprised by my own outrage. “We do. We nurse the sick at the hospital. We take food to those who need it.”

“But you don’t go without, do you? You still go to sleep at night with full bellies on your fine feather pillows,” Ted points out.

“We don’t want your charity,” the Spaniard says. “We want to do for ourselves.”

I eye them both distastefully. “You hardly look like you’re starving.”

The dark-haired man laughs and grabs my arm, pulling me away from Finn. “Feisty one, aren’t you? I doubt he approves of that,” he says, nodding at Finn. “I could show you a good time, Sister.”

His breath smells of liquor, and now I understand why Finn was wary. This protest is a powder keg ripe for violence, heightened by alcohol and the hot sunshine and a mob mentality. I plant my feet as much as I can in the sodden ground. If this oaf thinks he can manhandle me, he’s sorely mistaken. “Take your hands off me. I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“Come on, just have a look around with me. I betcha I’m more fun than he is. You ever had whiskey?” He fumbles in his pocket for a flask, and his dark eyes rake over me. “You ever been kissed, Sister?”

Oh, this is too much. I slap him across the face.

His friend laughs. “She showed you, Marco!”

Flushing red, Marco rubs his cheek and glares at me. “Uppity chit.”

Finn steps toward us, eyes snapping. “Is this how you show your respect for women?”

Marco grins. “You’re right. My quarrel’s with you.”

He shoves Finn, who staggers back and bumps into Tess. She slips, falling to the ground. The mud is thick here—it splashes across her cloak and spatters her face. Finn comes up swinging, but the dark-haired man twists away easily and lands a punch. Finn reels back.

“Stop it! You should be ashamed of yourself,” I spit, helping Tess to her feet. “Look what you’ve done. Does hurting a child make you feel manly?”

Marco advances on me again, but this time he stumbles, tripping spectacularly over his own feet and sprawling in the mud.

Tess. I can hardly disapprove—I don’t suppose a subtle bit of magic’s much worse than public brawling. I flex my fingers, which are still tingling from slapping him.

“Come on, Marco, you’re foxed. This isn’t the kind of trouble we’re after,” Ted says, hustling his friend away into the crowd.

Finn takes my arm and Tess’s, hauling us speedily in the opposite direction. “Splendid protest, is it?” He glares at me. “Come on, I’ll see you home.”

I open my mouth to argue that he shouldn’t be seen anywhere near the convent, but he gives me such a murderous look that I don’t dare utter another word.

We pause when we reach the market district, a few blocks away from the city center.

“Here,” Tess says, handing Finn her handkerchief. Blood is trickling from his nose, and his cheek is already swelling. It looks painful.

Finn pauses and rips off his cloak, instructing us to do the same. “If the rest of the city’s in this mood, we’ll be safer this way.”

It is strange, walking down the city streets uncloaked, my hair uncovered. I haven’t risked it since I was a little girl. In any case, no one challenges us. That’s strange, too. I couldn’t walk the length of Church Street at home without someone greeting me or inquiring after Father. In the length of one block here we encounter two fine ladies leaving a dressmaker’s, a maid trailing after them carrying several new gowns; a mother dragging three squalling, sticky-faced boys out of a candy shop; a man standing outside a butcher’s hawking fresh cuts of meat while a pig’s head stares at us unnervingly from the picture window; and another man carrying four hatboxes stacked up to his chin, who jostles me and sends me tripping into Tess. No one smiles or wishes us good day. No one looks askance at us for not wearing our cloaks, either. They’re all intent upon their own business.

We walk in silence punctuated by the creaking of wagon wheels and the clip-clop of horseshoes, the shouts of Sentinel newspaper boys and vendors hawking flowers and roasted chestnuts and savory meat pies. It’s the end of the workday, and the streets are crowded. I press close to Finn, my arm brushing his, and keep Tess ahead of me where I can see her. As we pass into the residential neighborhood near the convent, the houses get bigger and the noise falls away, until there are only a few passing phaetons and the sound of water rushing down the gutters.

Finn stops a block away from the convent. “May I have a moment?” I ask Tess.

She nods. “Thank you for defending our honor, Finn.”

“Fat lot of good I was,” Finn mutters.

“You were brilliant,” Tess insists, touching his arm. Then she steps a discreet distance away, fussing with the holly that grows over the neighbor’s gate.

“I’m sorry I didn’t listen when you said we should leave. Are you terribly angry with me?” I reach out and touch his cheek, wincing in sympathy.

Finn shakes his head, not quite meeting my eyes. “It was hardly the first time I’ve been beaten in a fight, but I hate that you saw it.”

Oh. I always think of Finn as so certain of himself, so confident and clever. But the boy I knew growing up was altogether different—a pompous know-it-all, tall but skinny as a string bean, and prone to getting his arse kicked in the school yard.

“I don’t think any less of you. In fact, if we were somewhere a bit more private, I’d show you how very much I think of you,” I flirt, and his lips twitch in a reluctant smile. “Brawling isn’t the only way to be brave. Joining the Brotherhood for me and spying for us—that’s brave.”

“I want to be able to protect you,” he mutters.

“I can protect myself.” I squeeze his hand, concentrating on his injuries. It takes only a moment to heal them. This time I don’t even feel dizzy.

Finn examines his cheek with his fingertips, confirming that it’s no longer swollen. “You didn’t have to do that,” he mutters.

“It’s easy enough.” I’m hardly going to let him go around bruised and bleeding just to salvage his pride.

He shoves the stained handkerchief into his pocket, scuffing his boot against the sidewalk. “I wish there were more I could do to keep you safe. I want to be your husband, Cate. Sneaking around like this—”

“I know.” A stray tabby cat is rubbing against Tess’s ankles, and she’s bending to pet it, cooing endearments. This is the girl the Brothers are so terrified of? “It’s not what I want, either. Whatever Inez is planning, it’s got to work.”

Chapter 12

THE SIMMERING TENSION WITHIN THE convent comes to a head the next afternoon during history of witchery. Sister Sophia is teaching in place of ancient Sister Evelyn, who took a tumble down the front porch steps and broke her arm, just as Tess predicted. Most of our classes are based on magical skill rather than age, but history of witchery is an exception; it’s made up of twelve of the oldest convent girls. We sit at our desks—narrow wooden benches with slanted, scarred desktops attached—in neat rows of four by four, with the back row empty.