It was here that I slapped Mrs. Corbett—Sister Gillian Corbett, my former neighbor and chaperone on the trip to New London—the day I arrived. She assured me she would look after my sisters in my absence; she said they could only benefit from being out from under my thumb. I lost my temper, and I slapped her right across her smug fat face. I smile at the memory, but it disappears when I see the grim looks on the Brothers’ faces. They are familiar: Brother O’Shea is the same man who arrested Lavinia Anderson, and he’s brought his hulking accomplice with him.
“Sister Cora,” Brother O’Shea says, standing, “this is Brother Helmsley. And—Sister Gertrude, was it?”
“Gretchen,” Cora corrects him. “And this is one of our most promising young novitiates, Sister Catherine.”
I am taller than he is, but I don’t dare look him in the eye. Instead I bow my head, fighting not to shiver. The room is freezing, the fire no doubt hastily lit when callers turned up.
“It is a relief to find a young woman dedicating herself to the Lord instead of wantonly parading herself through the city streets,” O’Shea says. It’s obvious that he does not recognize me, and for once I’m glad of the anonymity of the Sisterhood.
Brother O’Shea gestures toward the floor, and the three of us kneel. “The Lord bless you and keep you this and all the days of your life,” he intones.
“Thanks be,” we chorus, hauling ourselves back to our feet. And though it is our home, we do not sit until Brother O’Shea lowers himself back to the settee and gestures at us again. Then Sister Cora takes the brown silk chair by the fire, with Sister Gretchen on the round, tasseled ottoman next to her. I stand like a sentinel behind them, nerves stretched thin.
“As you may know, the National Council session has begun,” Brother O’Shea says. As if we coul mems if wed forget. The city’s been flooded with hundreds of Brothers, and Sister Cora warned us to be particularly careful of our conduct during their three-week meeting. “It is a time of reflection. We pray to the Lord to guide us, to teach us how to better control our weak and rebellious flock. Today we were blessed with his wisdom. Two new measures have been passed.”
“Two?” Sister Cora gasps.
That’s unheard of. Sometimes entire years and National Council meetings pass without new measures. I clasp my hands in front of me, twisting Mother’s pearl ring round and round on my finger.
“When we heard the news from France, we realized measures had to be taken immediately to prevent the contagion from spreading,” O’Shea says, crossing his feet at the ankles.
Contagion? I don’t pay much attention to the news from overseas, but I don’t remember hearing of a sickness.
Helmsley is silent, dwarfing the settee with his bulk. It would seem his purpose is to manhandle women and frighten children, not to speak.
Brother O’Shea pauses, perhaps for dramatic effect. I look at his fingers, spread on his knee: clean and uncallused, with long, neatly trimmed nails. Somehow I think of Finn’s hands: freckled, splotched with ink, dirt beneath his nails from an honest day’s work in the garden.
Is Finn in New London? New members always accompany Brother Ishida to the National Council meeting for their initiation ceremony.
He must be here, but he hasn’t tried to see me.
Does he hate me?
He would have every right. He joined the Brotherhood to protect me and then I left him without an explanation.
But the notion of him giving up on me, on us, so easily—it stings.
“The French have given their women the right to vote,” Brother O’Shea continues. “Perhaps it is to be expected, given their close ties with Arabia. But it’s forced us to take stock. We must make certain that our women remain innocent of such worldly matters, focused on maintaining a cheerful home and raising good, Lord-fearing children. Our new measures are meant to remind women of their true purpose.”
Oh, no. This will be worse than a plague.
“Of course.” Sister Cora’s head is bowed slightly, like a tulip in the rain. “We are here to help you in any way we can.”
“I hope that your resolve will remain steadfast after you learn how the measures will affect the Sisterhood.” Brother O’Shea clears his throat. Helmsley smiles and flexes his big hands. Is he hoping that we will rebel and that he’ll get to arrest someone tonight?
My heart pounds in my chest. Is this some perverse sort of test?
“The first measure, effective immediately, forbids women from working outside the home.” O’Shea puffs out his chest, obviously pleased.
I think of Marianne Belastra, whose bookshop kept her family afloat after Finn’s father’s death. Of Mrs. Kosmoski, the dressmaker in Chatham. Of widows like Lavinia Anderson, who will now need to rely on the Brothers’ charity to feed their families. That’s what the Brothers want, I suppose. Utter dependence.
“Are there provisions for widows?” Sister Gretchen asks. She’s a widow herself. Childless. She returned to the Sisterhood after her husband’s death.
Brother O’Shea shakes his head. “The sole exception is for nurses—for modesty’s sake, you know. Now. The second measure, also effective immediately, forbids that girls should be taught to read. We cannot help those who already have such knowledge, of course, but in the future, we think it unnecessary and even dangerous. Girls can rely upon the knowledge of their fathers, their husbands, and the Brotherhood. They need not seek it elsewhere.”
The roomad em">The is shocked silent. There’s no sound save the hissing of the gas lamps on either side of the mantel.
I look down at Sister Cora and Sister Gretchen, at their carefully blank faces.
I cannot imagine a life without books.
Without Father’s stories of the ancient Greek gods and goddesses, without pirate stories and fairy tales and poems. Without the hope of another way, of freedom and adventure beyond what we have here and now. How dark life would be.
I think of the people I love, the ones I would trust with my own life. Maura. Tess. Finn. Marianne. Mad about books, all of them. What will this new decree do to them?
I find myself clenching my fists and force my fingers to relax. I mustn’t look as though I want to start a brawl.
“You will need to recall your governesses,” Brother O’Shea says.
“I understand.” Sister Cora’s voice is hushed, her shoulders rigid. “I will write them immediately. Is our school to remain open?”
“For the time being.” His clipped voice and lemon face make it clear he doesn’t approve. “There will be a bonfire in Richmond Square on Friday night, as there will be in each town in the coming days. We ask the faithful to bring books from their own libraries—fiction and fairy tales, that sort of thing—to burn.”
My hand flies, horrified, to my mouth. Brother O’Shea’s pale eyes follow it.
“Pardon me, sir,” I wheeze, forcing a cough.
He stiffens on the settee, back ramrod-straight. “We trust we can count on the Sisters for a contribution.”
“Oh, yes,” Sister Cora says, shifting in the slippery silk chair. “You can always count on us.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” He leans forward, his eyes narrow as he looks at each of us in turn. “There’s one more matter, and it’s the most vital. We’ve discovered an oracle in Harwood Asylum.”
I command my face not to betray a single emotion. Brenna Elliott. It has to be Brenna.
“An oracle?” Sister Cora echoes. “Are you quite sure?”
He nods. “We’ve been watching her for weeks now. It was little things at first. The storm we had, the identity of a girl who’s been stealing trinkets from the others, a nurse’s baby that died of the fever.” I hardly imagine that was a little thing to the nurse. “The nurse accused her of cursing the baby, and that’s when she came to our notice. Now she’s saying that another oracle is rising—one who has the power to sway the hearts of the people back to the witches, for she’s a powerful witch herself, cursed with mind-magic.”
Silence swells and fills the room, relieved only by the crackle of the fire. “Do you mean . . . ?” Cora asks.
For a moment, fear rumples O’Shea’s thin face. Then he swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing, and it’s gone. “Yes. This new oracle, on the brink of discovering her powers, is the prophesied witch. The one we’ve been hunting for a hundred years.”
Oh. I go so still that I can feel the blood surging through my veins, feel the air move in and out of my lungs. I am a Cate statue made of flesh and bone and pounding heart.
He’s talking about me.
But I haven’t had any premonitions. Not yet. On the brink of discovering her powers, he said. Prophecies are frustratingly vague. I could start having visions ten minutes from now or tomorrow or next week or next year.
Fear chatters through me. I don’t want to have visions. The responsibility of leading the Sisterhood is enough. Too much. I don’t want the weight of the future on my shoulders, too.
“Obviously, we must flush this creature out of hiding,” O’Shea says, and Helmsley pops his knuckles one by oe oles onene, as though he relishes the bloodthirsty prospect. “There has never been an oracle who was also a witch, much less one capable of altering people’s minds. There are always some whispers against us, but I fear the sort of frenzy she could whip the people into. She could use her magic to twist them against us. The future of New England rests on finding and containing her, Cora. Women’s tongues may be less guarded around you and your novitiates. If you hear the slightest whisper—even the barest suspicion of mind-magic or of premonitions—you must report it to us.”
“Y-yes, of course,” Sister Cora stammers. Sister Gretchen helps her to her feet as Brother O’Shea stands.
My heart hammers through the ritual blessings.
When the Brothers arrested Brenna, they said she was delusional. That it was presumptuous to think a woman could do the work of the Lord. Now they believe in her visions?
Perhaps she’s got it wrong. She is half mad.
Do all oracles go mad? The thought leaves me trembling.
When the Brothers take their leave, when the front door is shut firmly behind them, Sister Cora turns to me and puts her hands on my shoulders, her wrinkled face folding into an origami frown. “Have you had any visions? Premonitions of the future?”
I shake my head. “No.”
“No sense that something is about to happen, no dreams that came true later?” she presses. “I know this must be frightening, but I need you tell me the truth, Catherine, so that we can protect you.”
I gaze back at her solemnly. She’s just my height—tall for a woman. “Never. I swear it.”
Gretchen bustles back into the room from seeing the Brothers out. “Have your sisters?” Cora asks.
“Not to my knowledge.” They would tell me, wouldn’t they?
“It could have manifested in the time since you left Chatham,” Cora muses. “This confuses everything. I wish we knew the exact wording of the prophecy. You know the oracle they spoke of, don’t you? She’s from Chatham.”
“Brenna.” I nod, remembering the last time I saw her—cowering in the gutter, her yellow dress splashed with mud. She screamed, and the Brothers’ guards slapped her into silence.
“Does Brenna know what you are?” Sister Gretchen asks.
“That’s difficult to say. If you’re asking did I tell her, no. But she knows things without anyone telling her.” I turn away, warming my hands before the fire.
What if Brenna reveals me to the Brothers?
“An oracle who’s not of sound mind is the last thing we need,” Sister Cora mutters, staring out the window at the ice-covered trees.
Sister Inez, the illusions teacher, strides into the room. Within the privacy of the convent, most of the other teachers wear color, but not her. She is always dressed in unrelieved, funereal black. “It would be easy enough to eliminate a threat like Brenna,” she suggests.
Sister Sophia, the plump and pretty healing teacher, follows her. “She’s just a girl, Inez, and a sick one at that. I hardly think assassination is called for.”
Assassination? I gawk at them. They can’t just kill Brenna!
Inez shrugs. Her brown hair is pulled back into a bun at the nape of her neck, and between that and her sharp cheekbones, her face looks perpetually pinched. “They’ll have her watched night and day. It’d be easier than breaking her out of that place, and with an oracle, compelling her to keep her mouth shut might not work.”
“Listening at the vent again, Inez?” Gretchen glares.
“I knew there would be trouble as soon as I heard the news from France,” Inez says. “Who knows what this mad creature will tell
Controlling an oracle. I frown at her choice of words. The Sisterhood does not—will not—control me. I’m no one’s puppet, oracle or not.
“I have sources in Harwood. I’ll have them keep a closer eye on Brenna.” When Sister Cora speaks, they all quiet. “I think it’s too soon to suggest such dire methods. We may be able to use Brenna to our benefit.”
“They’ll be arresting girls left and right now,” Inez points out, “on any pretense they can. They won’t take any chances, not if this oracle could swing public opinion our way.”
I pluck at Sister Cora’s gray sleeve, careful not to touch her bare skin. “If things are getting worse, Maura and Tess should be here, with us.”
I bite my lip, praying that this is the right decision. Am I making a mistake or rectifying one?
Cora gestures at the others. “I’d like a moment alone with Catherine, please.”
Inez frowns, but she follows Gretchen and Sophia out. Cora shuts the door behind them. This time, she reaches up and pulls the chain to close the copper vent high in the wall. She grins as it creaks shut, then turns to examine me with her bright blue eyes.
“I’ll write to Elena immediately, summoning her and your sisters, but there’s something else I think we need to do, as soon as possible.” I take a deep breath—what more could she want from me?—but Cora barely pauses. “I think it’s time you met your godmother.”
My godmother, Zara Roth, is in Harwood Asylum. I don’t remember her; she was arrested for possessing banned books when I was only a child. But she was a scholar who studied the oracles, and I daresay she knows more about them than anyone else living.
“But she’s in Harwood,” I point out. Because Sister Cora didn’t intervene in her trial. My mother never forgave the Sisters for that.
Sister Cora sinks onto the settee with a groan. “Yes. I want you to go speak with her. Find out as much about the previous oracles as you can—how old they were when their visions began and how they first manifested. There were two oracles between the Great Temple fire and Brenna, and the Brothers caught both of them before we did. Zara will know how. We won’t let that happen to you. We will protect you, Catherine.”
“You’re sending me to Harwood? On purpose?” I can’t get past that. The asylum is the stuff of nightmares. All my life I’ve had the threat of it hanging over my head.
“You wouldn’t be alone,” Sister Cora rushes to reassure me. “Sophia goes every week on a nursing mission. If there were any other way—I don’t relish the thought of you in that place. But Zara is very stubborn. She won’t speak to anyone else; she hasn’t forgiven us for her imprisonment.”
I sit on the slippery silk chair, which threatens to dump me onto the floor. “What makes you think she’ll talk to me?”
Sister Cora smiles. “You’re her goddaughter. She owes you that much.”
“And suppose I owe you, for seeing to it that Maura and Tess are safe.”
“I’ll send for Maura and Tess regardless. This new prophecy—it does cast some doubt on which of you is the prophesied witch. It seems that your magic is the strongest, but if—when—one of you begins to manifest visions—well, that ought to answer the question for certain.” Cora’s blue eyes meet mine. “It’s your choice, Cate, but I do think it would be wise to seek Zara’s co
un
sel. She may be able to help you.”
I raise my chin, pushing past my fear. “You’re rigonsYou’rht. It’s past time I met my godmother.”
arm am">To th
CHAPTER
3
THE SKY IS THE COLOR OF ASH.
Flames throw hideous shadows over the crowd in Richmond Square. People are gathered, thousands of them: working men in jeans and patched jackets and slouchy felt hats; businessmen in tweed suits and crisp cravats; children playing. Vendors sell drumsticks, paper cones of hot roasted chestnuts, and mugs of cider, as though we’re at a fair. Women cluster together and gossip as they bounce babies in their arms, or shout merrily at their children, or keep quiet and curl into their cloaks. The air has a bite to it now that the sun’s gone down.
There may be others moving in secret, as the Sisters do. But no one will stand up to denounce the Brotherhood tonight. Alice has been full of brave talk since she heard the new edicts, but she won’t perform magic in a crowd like this. Not with hundreds of Brothers and their guards filling the square. Not with the bonfire right here, ready and waiting for us.
This could too easily be a night in 1796, when bonfires were held all over New England. When they burnt women instead of books.
The thought is not new, but it sickens me just the same.
I’ve never seen so many Brothers gathered in one place. They crowd around the makeshift wooden stage like a flock of ravens. It sets my heart racing, fear tumbling through my veins, and I hate that they frighten me.
Sister Cora has positioned us in the middle of the crowd, among dozens of families. In front of me, a woman in a gray cloak croons a lullaby to a baby in a red woolen hat. Her little boy, dressed in a matching red scarf, darts away to join a friend. “Jimmy, don’t go far!” she calls after him.
I’ve turned to Rilla to suggest we buy some cider when I see him.
Finn.
He’s at the edge of the crowd, standing next to Brother Ishida.
He looks just the same, but not.
Star Cursed: The Cahill Witch Chronicles, Book Two Page 4
