Sisters' Fate
Page 52

Prue kneels beside her and takes up the tinderbox. “Was anyone arrested?”
“No. Not yet, anyway. When I left, the Brothers were still there, questioning everyone and making dire threats. Of course everyone was claiming they hadn’t the foggiest notion where you might have gone, or when your sisters disappeared, or that you were in league with the Merriweathers.” Alice settles back onto the love seat, kicking off her fine velvet slippers and tucking her feet beneath her. “Cate, you don’t keep a diary, do you?”
I frown at her. “Of course not. Do you think I’m stupid?”
“No?” Her voice leaves room for doubt. “The Brothers found one when they searched your room. In it, you claim responsibility for the attacks at Harwood Asylum and Richmond Square—as well as the assassination of the Head Council. You boast about how easy it was to pull the wool over the good Sisters’ eyes, how the convent provided the perfect ruse.”
“What an excellent villain I am.” I grit my teeth, clenching the carved wooden arm of the chair. “Inez must have planted it.”
“She’s quick, I’ll give her that.” Alice smiles. “Fortunately, she’s not immune to a bit of flattery. I made out like you and Prue escaped together, and begged her forgiveness for going against her at the hanging. I think she believed me.”
“Clever,” I say, because Alice is clearly expecting it. “You’re certain Maura and Tess are all right?”
“As long as they stay put and don’t do anything reckless,” Alice says. “O’Shea’s keeping a squadron of guards at the convent. He’s furious! You should have heard him thundering about the Sisterhood making him look a fool, nursing a viper in its bosom!”
“How did you manage to sneak out?” Prue rocks back on her heels as the fire blazes. “I assume they aren’t letting girls walk out willy-nilly.”
“I told them the truth: that my father’s sick and I was going to nurse him. When they heard who he was, they were happy enough to let me go. He donates quite generously to their coffers, so they wouldn’t want him turning up his toes.” Alice frowns. “One of them suggested I take him to see Brother Kenneally, but I don’t know what good that could do, exposing him to the riffraff down at the hospital!”
“That’s not the first time Kenneally’s name has come up. Merriweather’s trying to see what he can find out.” I sigh, tracing a finger over the wallpaper, which is all pink stripes and roses. This is the most garishly feminine room I’ve ever seen—even worse than Mrs. Kosmoski’s dress shop back in Chatham. “Your father should be right as rain in a few days. I didn’t heal him entirely; I didn’t have enough magic left. I’ll need a few days to figure out where to go next anyway.”
“You can’t spend the rest of your life in hiding.” Alice’s blue eyes are piercing. “You’re a very powerful witch, Cate. If I ever doubted that—and we both know I did—I saw proof of it today. The Sisterhood can’t afford to lose you.”
“I’m not leaving New London. I’d never leave Maura and Tess.” Or Finn.
“This affects more than you and your sisters,” Alice snaps. “You’ve cast doubt on the entire Sisterhood. It gives O’Shea the perfect excuse to toss us all out into the streets. Then what will we do? I for one have no intention of marrying some empty-headed dandy selected by my father. And if we disperse, it’ll be impossible to organize properly and overthrow the Brothers.”
“At least you have somewhere to go. Options. Most of the others don’t,” Prue points out.
She and Alice are both staring at me as though pearls of wisdom will fall from my lips at any moment.
“We’ve got to do something,” I agree slowly. “Soon.”
I’ve just got to figure out what. Before we lose our chance.
• • •
We’re in the midst of a makeshift dinner of fried eggs and salted ham when there’s an odd series of knocks on the kitchen door: one short, one long, one short, one long. Alice startles, but Prue jumps out of her chair and races for the door with a laugh. She flings it open to reveal her brother, stamping his feet to keep warm, breath clouding the air.
“Pru-dennn-ci-aaaaa!” he sings, echoing his knock.
She throws her arms around his waist, hugging him tight. “Hurry up, come in, before anyone sees you.”
“Just in time for dinner, I see,” he notes. “Good evening, Cate. Glad to see you here and not dancing at the end of a rope. The whole town’s buzzing about what happened.”
I wince at his jest and glance back at Alice. “This is Alice Auclair. This is her father’s home.”
“Oh, I know. Everyone knows George Auclair.” Merriweather gazes around the immense kitchen, which boasts a shining new range and extravagantly tiled walls. “One of the Brothers’ most generous supporters. Made a bundle off his contracts with them.”
“There’s no need to be vulgar,” Alice says crisply, but she flushes, obviously nettled. “Besides, you’re hardly one to talk!”
I squint at them in confusion. Merriweather bows low, theatrically. “The Merriweathers were rich as Midas before yours truly sank it all into the newspaper. All thanks to Walter Merriweather, head of the Brotherhood, 1816 to 1818. Our august ancestor was the last man to order witches hanged—up until O’Shea, of course.”
“Marvelous legacy,” I say dryly.
“Isn’t it?” he returns.
“Have you eaten? Shall I make you a fried egg?” Prue picks up the skillet.
“My, how domestic. Mama would be proud.” Alistair steals Prue’s seat at the rectangular wooden table, his back to the crackling fire. “No, thank you. I can’t tarry; I’ve got to redo the front page of the paper. I’d take a cup of tea, though.”
Prue reaches for the china teapot and pours. “Are you writing about Cate?”
Her brother steals a bite of her ham. “Yes. The Gazette will draw a distinction between those responsible for the attack on the Head Council and those responsible for saving the Harwood girls. I daresay I’ll be accused of favoritism, seeing as how you’ve saved Prue’s neck three times now, Cate. But I am grateful.” He reaches up and tugs on her braid, eliciting a yelp. “What were you doing in church anyway, you heathen?”
“I heard a rumor that you were up to something,” Prue explains. “Nice work with the leaflets.”
“I’m grateful for your support,” I say, ignoring Merriweather’s preening. “I hope it will mean something to those who’d normally be fearful of magic.”
“The working class, you mean.” Alice rolls her eyes.
“That attitude is precisely what’s got the Brothers in trouble. The working and merchant classes are your best bet for change,” Merriweather argues. “They’re suffering. They’d turn on the Brothers quick enough if they thought their day-to-day life would be better under a new government. I’m suggesting that new government ought to be composed of a triumvirate—like the old days of Rome—consisting of a Brother, a witch, and a commoner. That way, everyone’s concerns will be represented.”