“I am! I’m trying,” I insist, stung.
Since healing Mei two days ago, I’ve been shifted out of botany—the one class I loved—and into advanced healing. Mei’s been partnering with me for lessons and keeps asking me to play chess with her during afternoon tea. Rilla’s made a point of sitting with me during meals and in the classes we share, though it would certainly be easier—and more fun for her—to sit with other chattering, laughing girls instead of the one who barely speaks.
Have I ever thanked them for their pains?
“Are you really?” Rilla echoes my thoughts, her tone uncharacteristically tart. She rubs a hand over her cheek, dusted with freckles that remind me of Finn every time I look at her. “I don’t mean studying magic and delivering food to the poor; I mean making this your home. Just look at your side of the room!”
Oh. I notice, suddenly, the difference between hers—the yellow quilt with uneven stitches covering her bed, the novels and mugs and dresses scattered everywhere—and mine, which is barren. I never sent for my rose-patterned rug or Mother’s watercolor painting of the garden. I never even unpacked my spring dresses. I tell myself it’s because I don’t want to take up too much space—but is it, or do I just want to be prepared to pack up and leave at a moment’s notice?
“I’m trying to be your friend, Cate. But half the time you act as though I’m some pesky fly you’d like to swat. You never ask how my day was. You’ve never even asked me how I came to be here!”
The complaints pour out, a litany against me, and I’m staggered. Rilla is so relentlessly good-natured; I had no idea she’d noticed my rebuffs, much less was hurt by them.
“I defend you, you know, when the other girls say your dirls sa’re proud and standoffish. So does Mei. But you’ve got to start making more of an effort.” Rilla swings her legs off the edge of her bed. She’s wearing a new dress today—a yellow brocade with enormous orange gigot sleeves, an orange taffeta bow at the breast, and orange chiffon ruffles at the hem. It looks well on her. Did I think to tell her that? I get so caught up in my lessons, in missing Maura and Tess and—
“Perhaps sometimes I just want to be alone for five minutes! Perhaps I have more important things on my mind than who got a new dress, or what mean thing Alice said today,” I snap, hunching my shoulders and hugging the book to my chest.
Rilla’s face flushes. “That’s not all I care about, and you know it—or you would, if you ever bothered to talk to me. We all know how bad things are getting, but we don’t have to dwell on it every single second. It wouldn’t kill you to have a little fun, sometimes.”
“Perhaps,” I whisper, undone by the disappointment in her voice.
I could try harder. Join in the games of chess and draughts and charades after dinner, look through the fashion magazines from Dubai, talk about the Brothers’ latest arrests and what the Sisterhood should do next. I know it’s what the other girls want from me. I could have friends here, if I wanted them.
But that would mean accepting that this is my home now—that my place is here among these strangers, that my future lies with the Sisterhood, not with Finn. It would require accepting that there’s no going back—and despite the ugly machinations they used, despite all my objections, the Sisters were right to bring me here, because this is where I belong.
I take a deep breath, leaning back against the brass headboard and stretching my legs out in front of me. “How did you end up here, Rilla?”
She scowls. “Are you asking because you want to know or because you feel obliged?”
“I want to know,” I say, truthfully. “And I’m sorry for not asking you before.”
“Well. I did something very foolish.” Even in the candlelight, I can see Rilla’s ears flush red. “There was a boy I fancied. Charlie Mott. He had black hair and he rode a black horse, and he was so handsome! I was desperate for him to notice me. A group of us went on a sleigh ride one Saturday night, and I made sure I was sitting next to him. But Emma Carrick was sitting on his other side, and he put his arm around her instead. I was so jealous. It all got a bit out of hand. I wished she weren’t so pretty, and then suddenly she wasn’t; she was hideous! Her face erupted in these awful hives, and her nose grew out to here—” Rilla gestures six inches away from her own pert nose. “When Charlie saw, he scooted away from her right quick. I—well, I couldn’t help it. I laughed.”
Good Lord, what a goose. But I imagine Finn holding another girl’s hand, and my heart twists in sympathy.
“Emma was crying about her nose, and I felt sort of bad about the whole thing, honestly, so I put it back. But then she started screaming her head off about how I’d cast a spell on her because I was so jealous. The boys drove the sleigh down to the church and turned me in. Charlie Mott wouldn’t even look at me after that,” Rilla sighs.
“But Sister Cora interceded in your trial.”
“Yes.” Rilla brings her knees to her chest, propping her chin on the yellow brocade skirt. “And she brought me here. Otherwise, I would have been sent to Harwood for sure.”
Sister Cora has an extensive network of spies made up of governesses and former convent girls. They send word when they suspect one of the Brothers’ accusations of witchery is actually true. If Sister Cora can get there in time, she intervenes on the girl’s behalf, using mind-magito ng mindc to compel the Brothers and the witnesses. Then she brings the girl back to the Sisterhood.
“Do girls ever refuse to come with her?”
Rilla looks at me as though I’m mad. “Why would they? Once you’ve seen the Brothers turn on you—” She shakes her head, flipping a brown curl away from her face. “We’re safer here. We learn to control our magic, and the Sisters protect us.”
The Sisterhood was founded in 1815 by Brother Thomas Dolan, as a refuge for his sister Leah. At first, there were only a handful of witches operating in secret behind a smoke screen of piety. Then, in 1842, they decided to take in young witches and teach them magic. Sister Cora was among the convent school’s first students. She’s been intervening in trials and working to increase our numbers ever since. At present, there are fifty students and a dozen teachers, with twodozen governesses spread out across New England and at least a hundred graduates—like Mrs. Corbett, our neighbor in Chatham—operating as spies. Most girls who study here don’t become full members; once they turn seventeen, they go off and live normal lives as mothers and wives.
That won’t be an option for me, of course. Not if I’m the prophesied witch.
“Aren’t you ever homesick?” I press. “Don’t you miss your brothers?”
“I do,” Rilla says, glancing at a tintype that she’s hung by her bed: herself and her ten-year-old twin brothers, Teddy and Robby; Jeremiah, twelve; and Jamie, fourteen. Five mischievous, curly-headed, freckled little imps. “But it was hard being the only girl, you know, and the only witch. Hard keeping it a secret.”
I can scarcely imagine Rilla keeping anything secret. She’s such a chatterbox.
“I think Jamie—oh, I’m meant to call him James now, I keep forgetting—might suspect. And Mama knows, of course. She’s a witch, too, but not very good; she can only do a few basic illusions. Not that I’m so much better. I’m sure you’ve noticed how hopeless I am at animation, and I can’t do healing magic at all,” Rilla says, blushing. “I’m lucky the Sisters wanted me, really.”
“I wish I felt that way. Lucky,” I blurt out. Our room has high ceilings, but it feels small and cozy now, with the curtains drawn, the candlelight flickering, and just me and Rilla whispering. “Don’t you ever wonder what life would have been like if you hadn’t gotten caught?”
“I imagine I would have gone along making maple candies and gotten married and raised a passel of troublesome boys, just like Mama.” Rilla tosses me a piece of candy, and I pop it into my mouth. “But I did get caught, so there’s no use thinking about that. I’ve always wanted sisters, and now I’ve got dozens. I’m happy here.”
I lean forward, smooth
ing the rumpled blue quilt. “You don’t mind that you didn’t have a choice in it?”
“It’s a sight better than being in Harwood.” Rilla sighs. “We’re warm and fed, and we have a roof over our heads. It’s hardly a prison, Cate.”
But it feels like a prison to me. Even though coming here was my choice, it really wasn’t much of one.
I can’t stop mourning the life that wasn’t.
I’m not supposed to think about him, but the memories are devious. They sneak up on me without warning; everything seems to prompt them. They play over and over in my head, wonderful and torturous at the same time: Finn, teasing me about reading pirate stories; Finn, kissing me senseless in the gazebo; Finn, asking me to marry him and giving me his mother’s ruby ring.
And the last: Finn, as I left the church where I was supposed to announce our betrothal, asking me why.
I honestly thought I could marry him and stay in Chatham and be happy.
Stupid. ligem">StuThe Sisterhood never would have allowed it. Not when one of the Cahill witches could restore them to power.
What must Finn think of me now?
That line of questioning will only make me miserable.
Rilla’s right. I’ve got to stop sulking.
I stand. “Shall we go downstairs, then?”
“Really?” Rilla pops up like a jack-in-the-box.
“Yes. I’m going to be a better friend, Rilla. Don’t give up on me just yet?”
She grins and hops off her bed. “Oh, don’t worry. I’m loads more persistent than that.”
I’m picking up my books and Rilla’s gathering candy to take down to the sitting room when there’s a knock on our door. Rilla flings it open to reveal Sister Cora herself.
“Good evening, Marilla. How are you?” Sister Cora’s eyes are a vivid blue, like sapphires; they remind me of Maura’s.
“F-fine,” Rilla stutters, astonished. “How are you, ma’am?”
“I’ve had better days,” the headmistress admits, her lips pursed. “Catherine, could I trouble you to join me for a cup of tea?”
• • •
Sister Cora looks like a regal old queen with her shining white hair braided into a pretty crown around her head. She sits in her flowered chair, in a dove-gray dress lined with soft white fur, and she makes small talk. She pours me tea.
She makes me wait.
Worries race through my head. Has something happened to Maura or Tess? Has she learned more about the prophecy? The headmistress does not summon girls to her office to take tea without cause.
“Can I help you with something, Sister?” I ask finally.
She considers me over her gold-rimmed teacup. “I would like to trust you, Catherine.”
She says it as though she has her doubts.
“I feel the same about you,” I say evenly, smoothing my navy skirts.
She gives a rich, throaty cackle that seems more befitting a barmaid than a queen. “Fair enough. I know you aren’t here on your own terms. I would apologize, but that would make me a bit of a hypocrite, wouldn’t it? I would like you to trust me, but I understand that such trust is not built quickly. Unfortunately, I’m afraid we haven’t much time. Here.”
As she hands me the cup of tea, her little finger brushes mine.
The second my skin touches hers, I gasp.
Sister Cora is ill. Sickness lurks in her body, malignant. I reach out with my magic, feel it like a black cloud in her stomach, and wrench away with a sense of self-preservation. My cup smashes on the floor. Tea splashes across my taffeta gown and mingles with shards of white china on the bright green rug.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, mortified, but I can’t shake my eyes loose from hers.
She waves a hand, and pieces of the shattered cup fly into the garbage bin beside her desk. “You can feel it, then,” she says.
“You’re ill,” I whisper. Even the flickering, flattering candlelight reveals the wrinkles of her face and throat and the blue veins lining the parchment-thin skin of her hands. She must be near seventy.
“I’m dying,” she corrects. “Sophia’s tried her best, but she can only buy me a few hours’ peace. What troubles me most is the question of who will succeed me. It has been agreed that Inez will lead until the prophesied witch comes of age. I will be blunt with you, Catherine. You will be seventeen in March, and I would prefer Inez not guide the Sisterhood any longer than necessary. I need you to understand what is at stake here.”
Fear skitters up my spine. I’m not ready for this. I’m used to protecting my sisters, but being responsnd eing reible for over a hundred witches? I don’t know what to do, how to keep them safe. I thought it would be years yet before I was required to step up and lead!
“I’m aware of what’s at stake.” I stand up, planting my hands on my hips. My fear makes me snappish. “I’m a witch; my sisters are witches; my friends are witches. Do you think I want to see girls like us drowned or hanged or burnt? I wish to heaven I knew how to prevent it, but I don’t! I don’t know what you want from me.”
Sister Cora takes another sip of her tea. “If you’ll sit down, I’ll explain.”
I situate myself in the tall flowered chair next to hers, wrapping both hands around the new teacup she gives me. The convent is a thoroughly modern building; it has been renovated to include radiators with gas heat and water closets with flushing toilets. But every room has high ceilings and arched Gothic windows, and the November wind is drafty. I can never get entirely warm here.
“You’re a clever girl, Catherine. I trust you have noticed the divide within the Sisterhood at present,” Sister Cora begins. “Some have grown tired of waiting, weary of the injustices against witches and women alike. Now that we’ve found you, they want outright war with the Brothers. The time is coming, they say, for us to take back our power, to strike using whatever means necessary. Have you heard that sort of talk?”
“I have.” I’ve heard Alice give impassioned speeches in the sitting room after dinner.
“Then there are those of us who would bide our time. Who are afraid of what the human cost of such a war could be. I fall into the latter camp,” Sister Cora admits. “I think waging war before we are ready could be disastrous.”
I take a sip of my tea, which is delicious and spicy; I think it must have powdered ginger in it. “What would you have us do in the meantime?”
“Wait for you to come into your own. I have faith in Persephone and in this prophecy, Catherine, even if we don’t fully understand it yet.” Even if I haven’t proved useful yet, she means. “I would gather intelligence. I have spies within the Brotherhood. One of them is a member of the Head Council. He’ll be in line for succession after Covington, and he’s working to see to it that those on our side are placed in positions of power. It won’t happen overnight, but I think it’s the best way.”
“The safest, probably,” I say. “Less chance of us all being murdered in our beds.”
She smiles wryly, and I can see that, once, she must have been a very beautiful woman. It’s still there in the curve of her jaw, the tilt of her head. “I am trying to prevent that, yes. The odds are stacked against us if it comes to outright war. There are thousands of Brothers and only a few hundred of us.”
“Brother Covington could lead for another twenty years,” I point out. “He’s popular. Charming.”
“We could see to it that he doesn’t. Things are changing, Catherine. The general populace is becoming dissatisfied with the Brothers’ heavy hand.” I nod, remembering the boys throwing rocks at O’Shea and Helmsley. “But if we move too fast—if we lead by fear—well. I would hate to see us repeat the mistakes of the past.”
I run a finger around the edge of my teacup. Her caution appeals to me. How often has Maura chided me for being too plodding and careful? “I’m in no hurry to lead a war, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Her smile has more warmth in it now. “I’m glad to hear that, because I—”
The door bursts
open, and Sister Gretchen clatters in, flushed and panting from her climb up the stairs. “Cora! Forgive the intrusion. Two members of the New London council have just turned up, requesting an audience with you. I’ve put them in the parlor.hem in trlor.h
Sister Cora grabs a leather-bound diary from the tea table and slips on her half-moon spectacles. “We had no appointment. Did they say what’s the matter?”
Sister Gretchen shakes her head, thick gray curls bouncing. “No, but O’Shea doesn’t seem like the patient sort.”
“He’s not. Odious creature. I wish they’d sent Brennan,” Sister Cora mutters, bracing herself against the back of the chair as she stands. Pain flits across her face. “Blast.”
Her blue eyes meet Sister Gretchen’s, warm and hazel. They seem to have a whole conversation without words. Rilla told me that they’re thick as thieves, these two, that they’ve been best friends since they were girls together in the convent school. If Mother and Zara were both still alive, would they be able to talk with their eyes, too?
Will Rilla and I, someday?
“Why don’t you accompany us, Catherine?” Sister Cora asks. “A call like this, coming out of the blue—it’s almost certain to be trouble. If not for us, then for others. But it’s imperative that you stay quiet, no matter what they say. Can you do that?”
“Yes.” But I can’t help feeling nervous. What could the Brothers want at this hour? What is so important that it couldn’t wait for morning?
“Let’s go, then. It won’t do to keep them waiting.”
Sister Gretchen offers her arm, but Cora waves her off. She doesn’t limp, but she walks gingerly, as though each movement causes her pain. Gretchen and I follow.
When we finally reach the front parlor, two Brothers are sitting side by side on the olive settee. This room is an austere affair, all stiff horsehair furniture with ornately carved arms and subdued dark hues. Dead headmistresses’ portraits adorn the walls; heavy velvet curtains shroud us in darkness. Sister Cora meets with girls’ parents and liaisons from the Brotherhood here.
Star Cursed: The Cahill Witch Chronicles, Book Two Page 3
