Star Cursed: The Cahill Witch Chronicles, Book Two

by Spotswood, Jessica

  “It’s beautiful,” I say. Be, yet autiful doesn’t feel like enough. There’s something of the divine in this room, something that makes me go hushed and reverent. Standing here in this palace of books, I feel humbled, the same way I do when lightning flashes across the sky during an enormous, pounding thunderstorm.

  Tess would love this beyond all reason. Bookstores are her church, and this is a cathedral.

  “In other countries, they have libraries like this in all the cities,” Finn says. “Anyone can borrow any book they like.”

  “I didn’t know there were so many books,” I confess, spinning around. I walk to the nearest shelf, lifting my candle to peer at them all.

  Finn reaches out, fingers tripping over a row of dark spines. “They keep the ones sanctioned by the Brothers down here: translations of Scriptures, approved histories of New England, philosophical treatises, language texts, dictionaries, science and natural histories. But upstairs there’s everything.” He gives me a playful, wicked grin. “Everything they don’t want us reading: mythology, plays, novels. Come, I want to show you something.”

  The guards just patrolled the main library; we waited until their lanterns passed to leave our hiding spot in the bushes outside. “Do we have time?” I ask.

  “You’ll want to see this,” Finn promises.

  I pick up my pink skirts and lead the way up the narrow, curving steps. I trip once, and Finn rights me, his hands gentle on my waist. His lips brush my neck, just above the pearl buttons that run up the back of my bodice, and my heart races.

  Upstairs, I set the flickering candle on a low, wheeled cart filled with books. I lean over the balcony, admiring the beautiful room below. Finn braces his hands on the railing on either side of me. His mouth weaves a warm trail down the side of my throat, across the bare shivery skin of my collarbone, to the pale arch of my shoulder. I lean back against him. My entire body suddenly feels flushed and full of wanting.

  “Cate,” he sighs, and I turn to face him.

  I’m wearing the new winter gown Elena had made up for me—the one Tess saw us together in. He loops one finger through the pink satin sash at my waist and tugs me against him.

  “You, in the moonlight, in this library, in this dress—” His eyes rove over me, from my frothy pink skirts embroidered with dark pink roses, past the swell of my breasts, up to the creamy skin of my neck. My breath comes fast as his gaze lingers on my lips. He’s barely touching me, but it feels as though he’s already undressed me with his eyes.

  “It’s the most beautiful thing. Like a dream.” His voice is hoarse and full of wonder.

  “Then it’s my dream, too,” I confess as I claim his lips with mine.

  It’s a long, slow delight of a kiss. We melt into each other, soft pink chiffon and gray cotton and hands and lips and—oh, I could stay here like this until the sun came up. I could stay here like this forever.

  When we finally part, I lay my head on his shoulder, my arms still twined around his waist. My mouth is a little swollen, chin tender from the sandpaper brush of his stubble, and my hair is falling down around my shoulders.

  Finn clears his throat. “This isn’t actually what I brought you up here for,” he says, though he doesn’t look displeased by the delay. He takes my hand, leading me across the balcony, heading right for a particular shelf, and hands me a book.

  “Arabella, Brave and True!” I beam up at him, taking the novel carefully in both hands. The red cover is cracking, the pages yellowed and ripped. “This looks old.”

  “A first edition, printed in 1821.” He gently opens the cover, pointing to a spidery swoop of handwriting on the title page. “Look, agehis lookshe signed her name.”

  “Who, Arabella?” I joke, bringing the page closer. Beneath the printed letters that read CARTER A. JENNING, the signature spells out clearly: Catherine Amelia Jenning.

  I gasp, tracing the imprint of her pen.

  “A woman, and a Catherine, no less.” Finn’s crooked smile is enormous.

  “This is marvelous.” I wrap my free arm around him, hugging him tight. “Thank you for showing me.”

  “I’m glad you like it. Just think—someday, if the Sisterhood wins this war—we could make this into a proper library.” Finn’s voice is hushed. “We could have more of all the forbidden books printed to replace the ones the Brothers burnt. Then we could invite people in to borrow them and take them home and read them, the way they’re meant to be read, without fear.”

  I slide the book reluctantly back onto its shelf. “I wish I could bring Tess here.”

  “Perhaps someday you will.” Finn glances at his pocket watch and picks up the candle from the traveling cart. “We should hurry. I expect they’ll be coming back through soon.”

  “And you know where the files are?” The Archives are much larger than I’d imagined.

  “In a locked cabinet in Brother Szymborska’s office. I saw them and filched the key yesterday while paying a brief call. Spilled a mug of tea on him, and in the hurry to clean it up—well, I daresay he’s got a dozen keys on that ring, at least. He hasn’t missed this one yet,” Finn says. He looks so proud of his derring-do that I won’t tell him I could have unlocked the cabinet without a key.

  At the end of the balcony, a small door leads to a hallway lined with offices. Finn enters the last office on the right, which is dominated by a heavy desk and a row of matching wooden cabinets. Only one has a brass lock. He fits it with a small, tarnished skeleton key.

  “Here we are,” he announces, rummaging through the towering stack of papers. “Right on top, there’s a file on Brenna Elliott.” He places it on top of the desk and flips it open. “Predictions she’s made so far, reports on her erratic behavior from the nurses. Looks like they sent someone to Chatham last week to speak with her parents and the council about her history. Interviewed Ishida as well. He didn’t mention that to me.”

  I grab a sheaf of paper and a fountain pen from Szymborska’s desk and shove them at Finn. “Here. Write down any of her predictions that seem useful.”

  Finn nods, peering into the drawer again. “Looks like the Harwood files are alphabetical, but there are a few on top marked High Security. Those might be what you’re looking for.”

  I glance out through the parted red damask curtains. The moon is lower in the sky, glinting off the white marble spire of Richmond Cathedral. Down the street, I can spot the imposing gray stone of the National Council building. How much time has passed since we left the convent? The walk itself took at least half an hour.

  The first dozen files are for girls who have tried to escape by climbing the fence or stealing away in supply wagons. Two summers ago, a woman stole the matron’s pistol and shot a nurse. Last year, a sixteen-year-old girl named Parvati Kapoor tried to strangle a visiting Brother Cabot with his own cravat, and when that failed, she tried to compel him to blind himself with the letter opener in the matron’s desk. He came to with the instrument pointed at his own eye.

  This girl seems like a good candidate for the Sisterhood, mind-magic or no.

  “I’ve written them all down. Eleven prophecies since they started watching Brenna,” Finn says, and I realize she’s roughly on par with Tess. I hand him a stack of folios.

  We make frus">WTwo summertratingly slow progress. There are dozens of girls sentenced to Harwood for ridiculous reasons, like refusing to marry old men the Brothers betrothed them to or being caught in compromising positions with men who subsequently refused to marry them. There’s a girl named Clementine who was arrested six months ago for turning her sister’s hair blue, and the file says a silencing spell intended for the sister backfired on her, so she hasn’t spoken since before her trial.

  While I feel compassion for these girls—and loads of curiosity about some of them, like Clementine—I’m looking for clear evidence of mind-magic. My frustration grows as I flip through the files, nearing the section at the bottom marked DECEASED. The records are hardly surefire proof of a witch’s capa
bilities. Zara, for instance, was never accused of compulsion, though I know she’s capable of it; her crime was possessing books on witchery.

  Eventually I find one more candidate: Olivia Price, accused of bewitching a member of the Brotherhood who tried to arrest her for possessing banned musical instruments and materials. This must be the brunette Mei and I ran into this afternoon, Livvy—the one who was reprimanded for singing in the kitchen.

  Out the window, the sky is fading from inky, star-studded black to indigo. I’m about to give up when Finn crows beneath his breath.

  “Did you find something?”

  “Cordelia Alexander,” he announces, waving a file triumphantly.

  “What was she accused of?”

  He sobers. “Irreparably damaging her older brother’s mind. She was only twelve when it happened. She was playing dress-up with her mother’s diamonds and lost one, and she tried to compel him not to tell. Her parents turned her in.”

  “Good Lord.” I clap a hand over my mouth. “How awful.”

  Finn cocks his head. “Shh,” he says, blowing out the candle. “Someone’s coming.”

  I hear jingling keys and loud male voices. Finn bends down, and I think he’s picking up the folios from the desk, but he reaches for his boot instead.

  “What are you doing?” I hiss, pushing the cabinet closed.

  “The pistol,” he whispers.

  “They have guns, too, I imagine. No one’s getting shot if I can help it. Get under the desk.” I snatch up the candle in one hand and the pile of folios in the other. “Perhaps they’ll just peek in—if not, I can take care of them.”

  Finn shoves the leather chair aside and crawls beneath the desk. I squeeze in next to him, curling myself as small as possible.

  “I think it was this one where I saw the light,” one voice growls as footsteps hesitate outside.

  Stupid. I should have drawn the curtains first thing.

  “It was probably just the moon off the glass,” another guard argues.

  “Best check to be sure,” the first insists. Light slides across the room as the door creaks op

  en, and I hold my breath, heart hammering.

  There are only two of them. Should I compel them to leave now?

  Maura’s right. My caution is going to get someone hurt.

  Finn’s hand finds mine in the darkness.

  “Nothing. I told you.” The second man chuckles. “Who’d be wandering around here in the dead of night? Even old Szymborska’s not that mad about his books.”

  The door creaks closed, leaving us in silence and shadows.

  We wait a long moment, listening as the footsteps recede back down the hall, and then I unfold myself and climb out. Finn follows, stretching his lanky body.

  “That was a near miss. I was ready to do something utterly rash. Thank the Lord for your cool head,” he says, looking at me admiringly. But I admly.one hm shaken by the close call.

  “Do you really believe this will work?” I blurt. “Do you believe we can save them?”

  Finn doesn’t need to ask what I mean. He leans forward, his lips brushing mine. Behind his spectacles, his brown eyes are very serious. “I believe in you, Cate Cahill, and in us together. I’m here to help whenever you need me. No matter how mad the scheme, or what the risk. Don’t you know that by now?”

  arm am">To th

  CHAPTER

  18

  TUESDAY PASSES IN A BLUR. I LOSE focus and shatter a plate in animations, I can’t maintain my glamours for more than two minutes together in illusions, and I mistake my maxilla for my patella in anatomy. I’m exhausted; I crept back into the convent at dawn and slept for all of two hours before breakfast, and I can’t think of anything but the Harwood mutiny. The freedom of hundreds of girls seems to hinge on all the details falling perfectly into place. I pray that Inez is busy enough with her own scheme that she won’t try to interfere with ours.

  I’ve obtained promises of help from Sophia, Mei, Rory, and Rilla, and Elena’s been spreading the word to everyone she thinks will support us. During afternoon tea, she stands next to the sideboard in a shimmering green silk gown that glows against her brown skin, and she pulls teachers and students aside to whisper with them.

  I’m heading upstairs to take a nap when she catches at my sleeve. “I think we ought to have a meeting tonight for everyone who wants to help, so they all understand what’s involved. Honestly, though, I think we’ll be turning girls away for lack of transportation. We want to leave as much room as we can for the actual patients.”

  “That many girls have expressed interest?” I gasp, looking down into her pretty face.

  “Everyone I approached.” Elena picks up a cranberry scone from the platter. “Harwood’s the specter that’s been hanging over all our heads, Cate. The notion that we could rescue the girls who’ve been unlucky enough to land there—it’s lit a match under everyone. Made us all feel hopeful again. And with Cora on her deathbed and the Brothers arresting all those girls, that’s what everyone needs most right now. Truth be told, as your former governess, I’m—rather proud of you.”

  My gaze falls on Maura, sitting across the room on the pink love seat with Alice. Her blue eyes meet mine and narrow to a glare. “Not everyone’s so delighted with me,” I say, tilting my head in Maura’s direction.

  Elena turns, flushing scarlet as her gaze collides with Maura’s. She turns back to me hastily. “Well, we expected that, didn’t we?”

  I did. I just didn’t know it would hurt so much, having Maura here in the same room, not speaking to me. She’s been avoiding Tess and me ever since our fight by the river. I daresay seeing me whispering with Elena hasn’t helped matters. But Elena’s become a powerful ally, and I can’t give her up just to soothe Maura’s temper.

  She’ll get over it, won’t she? She’s got to.

  • • •

  When Tess and I enter Elena’s room just as the clock downstairs strikes eleven, I’m shocked.

  The room is packed. Girls sit elbow to elbow on Elena’s bed, rumpling her pink duvet, and sprawl across the wooden floor. Three governesses lounge on the yellow settee. Sister Sophia sits on the padded bench at Elena’s dressing table, flanked by skinny Sister Edith, the art teacher, and shocking Sister Mélisande, who teaches French and wears trousers. As I take neither class, I hardly know either of them; I didn’t dmlskinexpect to find them here. There are surprises among the convent girls, too. Eugenia and Maud both sit next to Vi on the bed.

  All my friends are here: Rory and Rilla and Daisy, Mei and Addie and Pearl, Lucy and Rebekah. Tess squeezes my hand and joins the younger girls on the floor.

  Elena comes to stand next to me. The convent girls are all dressed in their nightgowns, including me, but Elena still wears her pretty green frock. She claps her hands together. “Good evening,” she says, and everyone stops chattering and stares at us.

  Perspiration pools at the base of my neck, beneath my hair, and I don’t know what to do with my hands. My ivory nightgown hasn’t got pockets, so I clasp them behind my back.

  “Thank you all for coming,” Elena says. Though it’s late, none of the girls look the least bit sleepy. “I’ve spoken to many of you over the last few days, but I just want to say this again now, here, in front of everyone. I believe freeing the Harwood patients is the right thing to do at this time. But we’ll need your help tomorrow to carry it off. Cate, can you explain?”

  I tell my audience the scheme we’ve worked out. Elena, Rory, Rilla and I will go first, in Finn’s carriage, disguised as a contingent of Brothers. We need several volunteers to follow us in the Sisters’ two carriages, free the patients from their locked rooms, and help guide them. We plan to split the prisoners into four groups: Brenna Elliott and known witches, who will accompany us back to the convent, and a wagon full of patients to be sent to each of Zara’s three safe houses. Sophia saw two construction wagons in the courtyard at Harwood, and we intend to commandeer those. We still need one more wagon, plu
s volunteers to drive to the safe houses and stay long enough to see the patients settled.

  “I’ll drive one of the wagons,” Sister Sophia offers, and my eyes meet Tess’s. I’d be willing to bet Sophia will end up driving girls to the safe house by the ocean, just as Tess saw in her vision.

  Maud raises her hand, and I nod at her to speak. She tosses her carroty hair. “Genie’s father’s got a wagon he uses to make deliveries,” she says, elbowing her friend.

  Eugenia scowls, tugging the cuffs of her blue nightgown down over her skinny wrists. “I’m not stealing from my father.”

  “We’ll bring it back eventually,” Maud argues.

  “What if he loses customers because he misses deliveries?” Eugenia’s voice is hoarse, as though she’s getting a cold. “What if he’s implicated in this somehow?”

  “Come on, Genie, everyone’s got to pitch in.” Vi bounces on Elena’s thick feather mattress. “I’ll drive one of the carriages.”

  “You know how to drive a carriage?” Maud gapes.

  “My father’s a coachman.” Vi rolls her eyes. “Course I do.”

  “You intend to help all the girls, not just the witches?” Sister Mélisande asks.

  “Of course. We won’t leave anyone behind,” I assure her.

  She tosses her short mop of dark hair. “Then I will help, too. I will drive another of the wagons.”

  “And we’ll take the third together,” two of the governesses offer.

  Lucy Wheeler waves her hand wildly from her spot next to the radiator. “Bekah and I want to help!”

  I smile down at them. “You’re very brave to offer. I thank you for it. But I think perhaps we ought to limit this mission to girls fourteen and up. It’s going to be very dangerous.”

  Lucy’s brown eyes go wide. “But my sister—I’ve got to see her—”

  “You will. We’ll bring Grace here,” I tell her.

  Lucy claps a hand to her heart. “Here? But she’s not a witch!”