Star Cursed
Page 62

“They might as well be,” I mutter. Father’s always away on business, and even when he’s home, he’s not present in any way that matters.
“No. If you’d been orphaned, the Sisters would have taken you in, even if your powers hadn’t manifested yet. Because of the prophecy, they might have separated you. That wasn’t what your mother wanted. She wanted you to have a normal childhood, together, no matter what your destiny.”
Destiny. The word sounds so grand, and yet it promises such a horrible fate. One of us will not live to see the twentieth century. One of us will murder another.
“She came to regret it—keeping your father from knowing you. From knowing her. Once she erased Brendan’s memory, she had to keep up the pretense. She was afraid of what it would mean to him if he found out.”
Oh, Lord. Ever since I became a witch, I’ve resented him, thought of him as someone to fool and scorn, instead of someone who would love and protect us. It’s difficult to accept; I’m so accustomed to thinking of him as weak.
“I knew it,” Tess cries, pearly teeth bared. “He has his faults, Lord knows—I share most of them. But Mother’s reasons never made sense to me.”
Tess was only nine when Mother died and Father’s business trips began to get longer and longer. She used to mope when he left, fretting that he would be in a carriage accident, or robbed by highwaymen, or come down with influenza in the city with no one to look after him. She has always depended on him—wanted to depend on him—far more than Maura or me.
I stare at the scuffed wooden floor. It feels like treachery even to think it, much less say it, but I have to. For Tess. “I loved Mother, but I think she was wrong in this.”
Tess nods. “Father said he’ll come to New London for Christmas, to celebrate the feast with us. I want to tell him the truth. I insist.”
I look at Tess: her pointy chin set, her hands in loose fists by her sides, her entire stance prepared for an argument. She is not the sort to insist on much. She wants peace and quiet and libraries full of books, and the right to read them.
I stand up. “All right, then.”
“He deserves to know us. We deserve for him to know us, and—wait. Did you agree with me?” She throws her arms around me, bumping her head right into my chin. “Really? You won’t fight me on it?”
I extricate myself, massaging my chin. “Really, truly. I’ll even help you tell him.”
“Thank you. Oh, you’re the very best sister.” Tess hesitates, bouncing back onto the narrow bed. “Do you think he’ll be very hurt that we’ve kept it a secret so long?”
I love that Tess does not doubt Father for a second. She has perfect faith in his ability to accept three witchy daughters; she’s worried only for his feelings, not her own.
I tuck a strand of hair back up into my simple chignon. “I don’t know. I hope he’ll understand that we were following Mother’s wishes. I wonder that she didn’t tell him the truth when she knew she was dying.”
The truth is, Mother kept loads of secrets. If Zara hadn’t written me, who knows whether I would have ever looked for her diary. We could have been utterly oblivious to the prophecy, pawns in the Sisterhood’s manipulations.
“She was wrong to do it, but she did it because she wanted to keep us safe. That should count for something. She wasn’t perfect, but she loved us, Cate.”
“She did her best,” I admit. As will I. I promised her I’d look after Maura and Tess, and perhaps they’re not children anymore, but that doesn’t mean I’ll ever stop wanting to keep them safe and happy. “Will you do me a favor in return, Tess? Will you stay here with Zara while I go take care of a few things?”
Zara’s gone quiet, staring dreamily out the window. She comes back to herself now, touching the locket again. “Where are you going?”
“Tess isn’t the only oracle we know. I mean to pay the other one a visit, and see whether she can tell me anything useful.”
Chapter 17
HEART HAMMERING, I SCURRY UP TO the south wing of the third floor, where Paul’s floor plans showed isolation—maximum security. There’s a nurse sitting on a stool just inside the door, a thickset woman with gray curls and a double chin, reading Scriptures by light of a candle.
“What are you doing, Sister?” she asks. “No one’s to be in here.”
I gather my magic and arrow in on the blue shadows beneath her eyes, the droop of her shoulders. Sleep, I compel her. You’re exhausted. Forget you saw me.
In a moment, her head is propped against the plaster wall, her soft snores filling the empty hallway, her book open on her ample bosom.
I find that I am not overly troubled by performing mind-magic on her. Zara’s confession about Mother has lightened my conscience considerably. We’ve all got to do what we think best, when it comes down to it, and hope that those who love us won’t judge us too harshly.
I pick up the nurse’s candle and head down the hall, wet boots squeaking against the tile floor. The other wings are grim and depressing places, but this one is positively desolate. There are no windows and only two gas lamps, one at each end of the corridor. Two buckets squat in the middle of the hall, catching water from a leak in the roof.
I hear faint scuffling inside one room and peer in the narrow window. There’s a girl pacing back and forth, her white blouse stark in the darkness. She runs to the door when she sees the light, and I recognize the wild features and blond hair of the tiny girl who tried to refuse her tea last week. She hisses, scratching at the door like a cat. The sound is strangely muted; I wonder why until I glimpse the walls, which look to be made of cloth. The girl yowls, and I back away hastily.
Brenna ought to be very nearby.
I squint into the next cell—empty. Across the hall, though, there is a name tag. Neat handwriting spells out B. Elliott. I suppose, unlike the other patients rotated in and out depending on their behavior, Brenna has taken up permanent residence in this isolated place.
I squint through the tiny window beneath Brenna’s name. It’s hard to see in the darkness, but I finally glimpse a figure hunched in the corner. The small room seems empty except for a mattress and a few blankets lying tangled on the floor. Even the window’s been bricked over and covered in that pale cloth.
Agito, I think, and the pins of the lock slide open.
Brenna jumps at the sound. I tense, readying a silencing spell. But when I push open the door and slip inside, my candle casting wavering shadows, Brenna just stares at me with her eerie blue eyes.
“Brenna, it’s me. It’s Cate Cahill, come to visit you.”
“You look like one of the crows,” Brenna says, pressing back against the soft wall. Her white blouse is buttoned crooked, and her coarse-looking brown skirt pools around her bare feet. “Did they send you to break me again?”
“No. No, that was—” How do I tell her that ruining her mind was an accident? “I’m so sorry you’re broken, Brenna. I wish I could help.”
“You can’t. No one can. They’re going to kill me.” Brenna keens softly, rocking back and forth behind her knotted chestnut hair. “It’s a very strange thing, knowing your own fate, Cate. Oh. Fate. Cate. That rhymes.” She giggles.