Sisters' Fate (7 page)

“Is this some sort of trap? Are you going to shove me into a closet?” I demand.

She rolls her eyes. “Don’t be absurd.”

Her imperiousness grates, but I’m curious, so I follow her down to the formal sitting room. The gaslights on either side of the hearth are lit, there’s a fire burning in the grate, and a blanket is piled on one end of the uncomfortable olive settee. “Wait, are you sleeping down here?”

She flushes. “Maura and I are in a fight.”

Alice shuts the door, then crosses the room and stretches up on tiptoe to pull the cord that shuts the copper grate. When she’s finished with her precautions, she paces to the window.

“Why all the secrecy?” I’m still in my itchy black bombazine, and exhausted enough that the blanket on the settee looks inviting.

“This is important,” she snaps. The burgundy drapes are pulled shut, but she pushes one aside and peers out to the street. “After the funeral, Sister Inez spoke privately with Brother O’Shea. I was listening through the grate. That’s how I fell off that stool. I was trying to hear better.”

“I remember.” Alice is an inveterate snoop. We all know that.

Alice presses her knuckles to her lips. She seems genuinely distraught. “Cate, what I heard—the reason I fell—I thought I must have misunderstood. I
prayed
I’d misunderstood. I couldn’t imagine . . .”

Suspicion swoops through me. “Alice, what did you hear?”

She turns to face me. “Inez told Brother O’Shea where to find those girls.”

Of course she did.

“Did you already know?” Alice asks, and I shake my head. “But you aren’t surprised.” I shake my head again, blond hair falling over my shoulders. “I think she was bargaining to keep the Sisterhood open, to prove her loyalty. But even then, it doesn’t—it doesn’t excuse it. She had to know what would happen.”

Did Inez know they would all be executed? She must have realized it was a strong possibility. But I think she honestly hopes that if the Brothers are dreadful enough, the people will rise up against them, and the witches will seem a promising alternative. What are a few dozen girls’ deaths in comparison to that kind of power?

I almost feel sorry for Alice. She’s always been Inez’s pet. Before my sisters and I arrived, she was the only pupil at the convent who could do mind-magic. It must be galling to see her hero fall.

“Inez means exactly what she said,” I explain, leaning against the marble mantel. “She only cares about the Sisterhood. Specifically, she wants to overthrow the Brothers and put herself in charge. She does not care who gets killed in the process. How is this different from what you did to the Head Council? That’s eleven men dead—as good as. You didn’t see anything wrong in that.”

“But these are
girls.
” Alice sinks onto the brown chair by the fire. Her satin skirt pools against the dun-colored carpet. “The Head Council made our lives a hell. These girls—they’ve been careless, perhaps, or just unlucky. They don’t deserve—”

“You never cared what happened to the Harwood girls before.”

“I didn’t want them dead!” she shrieks, then claps a hand over her mouth. “If they’re all killed tomorrow, it will be my fault, won’t it? For not telling you sooner?”

It’s still all about her.

But even Alice shouldn’t have to think she’s responsible for this. “I don’t know that we could have gotten word to them in time. It’s not your fault, Alice. It’s the Brothers’, for voting to allow the hangings. It’s Inez’s, for telling O’Shea where the safe house was.”

But who told Inez? Did she compel one of my girls, or do we have a traitor in our midst? It wasn’t me. It wasn’t Tess. And—strange as it is to admit after our rocky start—I trust Elena implicitly.

Unless Elena confided in Maura—and Maura told Inez.

“Why are you being kind? I know you don’t like me.”

I shrug. “The truth is, we could use your knack for illusions tomorrow. You say you’re sorry? Prove it. Help us stop this.”

Alice’s hands are clasped together in her lap. “All right.”

“Good. Rilla and I will fill you in on the plan before services. You can walk over with us, and we’ll sit together in church. I don’t want you out of her sight until the whole thing is over, understand? And you’ll work with her without arguing?”

Alice nods. “Good night, Cate.”

I turn in the doorway, curious despite myself. “Did you tell Maura what you heard? Is that why she threw you out?”

Alice rises and blows out the lamps. The only light comes from the orange ashes in the grate. “She didn’t believe me. Accused me of making it up because I was jealous of Inez paying her so much attention.”

I walk upstairs in the dark, feeling my way. My sister is so far gone, I don’t see any hope of reaching her. Even if I wanted to.

CHAPTER

7

HOW DOES ONE DRESS FOR A HANGING?

I’m wearing my Sisterly black bombazine with black boots and slipping the last hairpins into my chignon when Brenna creeps into my room on silent cat feet. She never seems to walk like a normal person; she’s always dancing or twirling or skulking. I jump when I catch her reflection in the mirror above the dressing table.

“Hello, Cate,” she says.

“Hello, Brenna.” I put my silver brush down. “Is everything all right?”

“You’re going to save Rory after church. There’ll be fire and lots of people screaming.” Brenna creeps closer, until she’s standing right behind me. Her breath smells sweet and her fingers are stained red from the raspberry jam she must have spread on her toast. “The guns go
pop-pop-pop.
”

Oh, I hope it will be less dire than she makes it sound. Please Lord, let this work.

“All around the gallows stage, explosions chase the people. And after them in double haste, pop! go the weasels!”
Brenna sings. I twist to face her, and she smiles. “The Brothers are weasels. Guns go pop. We mustn’t let them pop Rory.”

“Er—no.” I swallow. “I’ll go to church and then to Richmond Square, and I’ll bring Rory back home. Don’t worry.”

Unless, of course, she knows there’s something I ought to worry about.

My heart thumps in my chest. Not Rory; please not Rory. She’s already had such a rough time of it, with her drunk of a mother and lout of a father.

“I’m dressed for church, too.” Brenna pivots. She’s been in her cousin’s closet again. Today she’s wearing a gold dress with red peonies splashed all over the skirt and red fringe at the hem. Truth be told, it looks more like curtains. “I want to help.”

“Oh, Brenna, no.” I can’t be worrying about a mad oracle on top of everything else. “Someone might see you. It isn’t safe for you to go out.”

Brenna brings a strand of chestnut hair to her mouth and chews on it, staring at me with her eerie blue eyes. “I thought you would say that.”

How is it that we’ve got two oracles, and neither of them are one bit of use in this? I bite my tongue before I say something tart. It isn’t as if they can call up visions on command, after all. “Is there something else you wanted, then?”

Brenna shuffles barefoot against the wooden floor. “The little one knows more than she’s telling.”

I freeze. “What do you mean?”

“Shhh.” She mimes locking her lips and throwing away the key. “Promised.”

“Tess saw something, and she asked you not to tell me?”

Brenna nods. “It hurts her, keeping secrets from you. I don’t want her broken. She’s so little yet.”

“I know.” Downstairs, the grandfather clock begins to chime the half hour, and I stand. “I’ve got to go now. Church and then saving Rory. I’ll bring her home.” I pray I’m not telling a lie.

“You will.” Brenna’s hand whips out, lightning quick, catching mine. Her sharp nails bite into my wrist. “Thank you, Cate.”

I tug away. “You’re welcome, Brenna.”

• • •

Sitting through services is torturous. O’Shea himself takes the dais. He speaks at length about hell and the agony that awaits the damned souls of witches. Eventually we’re all released, blind as baby mice, blinking into the chilly morning sunshine. About half of the crowd flows out of the cathedral and right across the narrow cobbled street into Richmond Square.

I stroll arm in arm with Tess, boots crunching through the frozen grass as though we’re on our way to a picnic instead of a hanging, but I’m careful to note the squadrons of black-and-gold-liveried guards. There are nine guards at each front corner of the square, and I’d bet a third squadron is in position at the back gate.

The Brothers are expecting trouble, and they want us to know it. The guards are armed with guns and bayonets. My fingers tighten on Tess’s sleeve, and behind us, I hear Rilla suck in a jagged breath. Alice is chattering on about the money the bazaar raised, as if she’s ever cared one whit about the poor. She’s good at this deception. I scan the crowd until I find Mei, dressed in an old, battered gray cloak, a mandarin-orange hem peering out beneath. She and Mélisande skipped services to explore the back alleys and plot out ways to shepherd the girls back to the convent.

One of the benefits of a busy city like New London is that no one knows if you attend church or not.

We come around the front of the scaffolding. The gallows are built of rough-hewn oak. Two upright beams support a thick crossbeam, and from that crossbeam hang six nooses. The floor—a platform a dozen feet off the ground—is a trapdoor that will give way when the lever is pushed, and beneath it is a dirt trench to hold the bodies.

I pray there won’t be any bodies.

Tess’s ungloved fingers tremble on my arm. We’re ten feet away from a gallows where our friends are about to be hanged.

We keep walking, joining the crowd farther back. I count the Brothers in their black cloaks—twenty, thirty, forty, more. We are terribly outnumbered.

One Brother turns, and his brown eyes collide with mine. Finn.

My steps falter as he strides toward us. “Good day, Brother Belastra.”

Is it my imagination, or does he look disturbed by the salutation? “May I speak to you for a moment, Miss Cahill?”

I nod. “Go ahead and find a spot for us to watch, Tess. I’ll be right there.”

Finn and I step aside, a few paces from the streaming crowd. His hood is up, but his unruly copper hair peeks out beneath. “I’m not sure how to tell you this, so I’ll come straight out with it. Two of the girls being executed today are from Chatham. Sachi Ishida and Rory Elliott.”

I fake surprise, my hand hovering over my mouth. “I knew Sachi was arrested last month, but Rory too?”

“She and Sachi have always been thick as thieves.” His gaze falls to the brown winter grass. “I thought you would want to know. To prepare yourself.”

Oh, I’m as prepared as I can be. I give an uneasy glance at the gallows and then the National Council building next to the cathedral, where, any second now, the prisoners will be escorted out under heavy guard. “Thank you. It’s all just awful.”

Finn’s head snaps up. “I voted against it. Reinstating this.” His cherry mouth curls in disgust. “I just—I wanted you to know that. I’m not the kind of man who thinks murder is a solution.”

I smile. “I know.”

“Do you?” He steps close. Closer than is appropriate, given that we’re in full view of half of New London. Behind his spectacles, his brown eyes lock onto mine. “How do you know me so well, Cate Cahill?”

Oh, just that—the sound of my name on his tongue. It makes my toes curl in my boots, my face flush. “I—I’ve got to go,” I mutter. What am I doing, playing at being his friend? “I need to join the other Sisters.”

“Wait.” His callused fingers are rough against the thin skin at my wrist. My pulse hammers at his touch. “You know something, don’t you?”

I should pull away. “I know a great many somethings. I don’t know what you mean.”

“You’re an awful liar.” His voice is low, private. Words only I can hear. “Something’s happened to me, and I don’t know what it is, but you—I was with you when I came to. The night these girls escaped from Harwood.”

I glance at the cluster of Brothers near the gallows. Brother Ishida has turned; he’s watching us. I yank my arm away, and Finn shoves his hands in his pockets. “I don’t know anything about that.”

“Sean Brennan’s in hiding because he’s been accused of treason. I may not remember much, but I know he’s a good man. He sure as hell wouldn’t have voted for this.” Finn looks furious. “Someone set him up and they used me to do it. They found a handkerchief in Harwood on the body of a dead witch. A handkerchief embroidered with a
B.
And it’s not Brennan’s. I know that because I recognize it. Because it’s
mine.
”

“Shhh! Are you mad?” I demand. “Do you want to be arrested and strung up yourself?”

“You don’t seem shocked.” He stares me down. “Was I there at Harwood? Were you?”

He’s figured things out quicker than I thought, but I play dumb. “Wouldn’t you remember if you were there?”

His eyebrows slant down. “No,” he says quietly. “Strangely enough, I don’t think I would.”

He knows. I work to keep the panic off my face. “We cannot talk about this here.”

“Then where? When?” he asks. “Should I call on you this afternoon?”

“No! You can’t come to the convent.” I glance behind me, seeking out Tess and Rilla. Alice is standing a few feet away from the others, arguing with Maura—but Maura’s watching me with Finn. “I can’t be seen with you, I— It’s dangerous.
Please,
Finn.”

He doesn’t back down, but his face softens at my use of his given name. “I need answers.”

“I understand that, but—you can’t risk coming to the convent. It isn’t safe.” I think quickly. “O’Neill’s Stationery. It’s on Fifth Street. Meet me in the back alley tonight at ten. Now—go away.”

Finn nods. “Very well. I’ll see you then.”

I hurry to join the others. Maura’s vanished back into the crowd, which now fills the square. The audience is penned in on three sides by the tall wrought-iron fence. Unless people are panicked enough to scale it and risk the pointy fleurs-de-lis at the top, the only exits are along the front and the small gate at the back. If all goes according to plan, it’s going to be a madhouse.

“What did Maura want?” I ask.

“To accuse me of being a turncoat.” Alice looks put out, her color high, her blue eyes snapping. “What did
he
want?”

“To warn me that we know two of the girls being executed, that they’re from Chatham. He thought I might find it
upsetting,
” I explain.

“That was kind.” Rilla watches Finn stroll back into the crowd of Brothers. There are hundreds of them right down front, ready to watch their vote being carried out. I wonder if their attendance here was mandatory. Surely some of them aren’t eager for this spectacle; surely some of them voted, like Finn, against this?

“It looked a bit more personal than that,” Alice says.

“It wasn’t,” I snap. “And I hardly think you’re in a position to question
my
loyalty.”

I’m spared Alice’s reply by the sudden furor. Guards are shepherding the sixty prisoners down the steps of the National Council building and across the street into the square. Despite the cold, the girls aren’t wearing cloaks. They’re dressed in the same coarse brown skirts and thin white blouses that constituted the Harwood uniform.

Blast. I’d hoped they’d managed to scrounge up other dresses before their capture. It would be easier for them to get lost in the crowd that way. I scan their faces as they get closer, squinting to find Sachi and Rory. They march next to each other, their hands bound behind them. Rory, tall and voluptuous, towers over her petite sister.

Around us, the crowd rustles, craning their necks to see. What do they think? Are they surprised at how young most of the prisoners are, how thin and malnourished? Or do they believe the Brothers’ lies that such innocent faces hide the most insidious sins?

The guards clear a path. Can we fend them off? Can this possibly work? I stare at the girls. There are no bruises—at least not where I can see—and they seem remarkably composed. I’d have thought some would be struggling or crying or mumbling prayers.

Alice pinches my upper arm. “They’re drugged,” she whispers, her breath hot on my ear.

Oh no. I hadn’t even considered—but of course. The Brothers must have forced laudanum on the girls, the way they did at Harwood. It accounts for how slow and sleepy the prisoners look, their eyes narrowed into slits against the sunshine.

We can’t count on their magic. It’s all on us.

The guards herd six of the girls onto the platform and direct the rest into a roped-off holding area to the left of the gallows. Sachi and Rory are in the first group. The more fervent members of the crowd are calling out epithets:

“Damned witches!” a burly, bearded man nearby shouts.

“Devils!” another man yells, making the sign of the cross.

“Go back to hell!” an old woman screams. The effort brings on a fit of coughing that leaves her red-faced, clutching her tattered cloak around her. I purse my lips, remembering Mei’s warning about the fever down in the river district. We mustn’t be the only people who’ve heard the rumors; people around the old woman edge away, raising their scarves around their mouths.

“Damned river rats. Ought to hang them right alongside the witches,” the bearded man mutters to his friend, glaring at the sick old woman.

Some enterprising souls have brought rotten food, which they hurl at the girls. Sachi twitches as a pulpy tomato splatters on her brown skirt and splashes her face. I wonder if the Brothers handed it out. The poor people in the crowd haven’t got food to spare, not even for something as entertaining as this.

Sachi’s dark eyes search the crowd and I wonder if she’s looking for me. Does she have faith that I’ll stop this? I couldn’t prevent her arrest, after all. But her gaze lingers on a figure nearer the front. Her father. How does Brother Ishida feel, seeing both his daughters up on the gallows? Has he hardened his heart so thoroughly that he can stand there with impunity, or does his conscience give a weak stirring?

Lord, but I loathe that man.

Tess grabs my hand. I let my rage rise up, magic stirring my muscles, flexing my fingers against her palm.

The executioners step forward to lift their nooses around the girls’ necks.

“Now,” Alice says under her breath.

The gallows bursts into flames. Fire leaps across the heavy crossbeam and eats its way down the support beams. Gray smoke curls around the stage, scattering sparks.

It’s not real—just an illusion. But it’s a convincing one. Together, Alice and Rilla are tremendous.

People begin to flee, shrieking and pushing and shoving toward the exits. O’Shea and his cronies are being shepherded away from the gallows by a squadron of guards, knocking common people aside as they go. I scan the crowd of remaining Brothers for Finn, but he’s impossible to make out in the sea of black cloaks.

“Hurry, hurry. It’ll be a stampede soon and we’ll all be trampled!” a middle-aged woman wails, yanking on her husband’s arm. They’re rushing toward the back gate, which is closest, but it’ll take an age for everyone to fit through that way. It’s only wide enough to allow two people at once.