Sister Cate. My eyes fill with horrified tears.
“Yes, Sister Cate. And Sister Maura,” my traitorous sister says sweetly. “You came to call on us, inquiring about news from home. I’m sorry you’re not well. Why don’t you get into the carriage, out of the rain? We’ll fetch our coachman, and he can drive you.”
“Well, I don’t want to be any bother,” Finn says, “but my head does ache something fierce. I can hardly see straight.”
“No, it’s no bother. Not at all. Robert can walk back; it’s only a few blocks. I’ll send him right out.” Maura ushers him into the carriage while I watch, stricken.
Our first kiss, feathers and the gentle touch of his hands on my back: gone.
Talking about pirates in my garden: gone.
Asking me to marry him, giving me his mother’s ruby ring: gone.
Sneaking out to meet me at the convent gate: gone.
Showing me my very first library and the signed copy of Arabella: gone.
All of it has been erased. Everything that makes us Finn-and-Cate.
Maura clears her throat. “I’m sorry, Cate, but—he’s a member of the Brotherhood. He’s the enemy. He can’t know our secrets; you heard how he reacted about the council. You never should have told him about your magic.”
But that’s everything. Our romance and my magic have been intertwined since the very beginning. If I weren’t a witch, if I’d had no need to protect my sisters from the Brotherhood, I would never have sought out Finn or the banned books in his mother’s bookshop.
If I weren’t a witch, I wouldn’t be the woman that he loves.
I understand that now.
I raise my head. Ice tumbles through my veins. “Do you hate me so much?”
“It isn’t about you,” Maura says, but her eyes fall to the rain-darkened sidewalk. “Inez asked me to do it. To prove I could put my feelings aside and do what needs to be done. And when my visions start . . .”
I look at Maura, her red hair the only color in the New London night, and I know that she is the child who used to run after Paul and me, begging to play with us; she’s the girl who hid romance novels under her floorboards and dreamed of far-off adventures; she’s the sister I would have done anything to protect.
Now I feel nothing for her bu
t a weary contempt.
“They won’t,” I say. “You aren’t the oracle. It’s Tess. It’s been Tess all along. I wanted to tell you, but she wasn’t sure she could trust you. She was right, obviously; you cannot be trusted.”
Maura staggers backward, as though I’ve slapped her. “No.”
“Yes.” I give her a glittering, serrated smile. It is not Cate’s smile, but then I feel very little like Cate at the moment.
Finn looked at me as though I was a stranger. As though I’m not the girl he kissed and called beautiful five minutes ago. As though I’m not his Cate.
And I’m not. Not anymore. Countries are forged by war; perhaps girls are, too. New England and I will be reborn together in this war between the witches and the Brothers. Between Maura and me.
I am newly wrought—a girl of steel and snow and heartrending good-byes.
My magic is renewed by my heartbreak. It spills out my fingertips, swirling around me. The wind picks up, bitter cold now. The rain turns abruptly to snow, haloing the gas streetlamps like iron angels. Enormous snowflakes begin to fall—fast, fathofaster—obscuring my sister, hiding her and Brenna and the carriage and the gray stone building that has become my home.
I am all alone in a sea of whirling white.
It feels right that it should be so.
arm am">To th
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
BUILDING A BOOK AND SENDING IT OUT into the world to meet its readers is such a complex process—more so than I ever dreamed before I was published. Thank you to everyone who’s helped with the Cahill Witch Chronicles. Special thanks to:
Jim McCarthy, my agent, for answering all my newbie questions and paying me lovely compliments when I most needed to hear them.
Ari Lewin, brilliant editor extraordinaire, for pushing me to never settle for less than my absolute best. I worked harder on this book than I’ve ever worked on anything ever, and I’m so proud of what we’ve done. Paula Sadler, for your genius contributions and for sending me the best packages ever. Anna Jarzab and Dana Bergman, for your helpful notes. Ana Deboo, whose fabulous copyediting makes me realize my own writerly tics. Elizabeth Wood, for my gorgeous covers. Eileen Kreit and Jennifer Bonnell and the rest of the paperback team, for putting together a truly lovely new look. Elyse Marshall, Jessica Shoffel, and the rest of the marketing and publicity teams for all your hard work connecting the Cahill sisters with readers.
Andrea Cremer, Marie Lu, and Beth Revis—for being such generous, funny, and talented ladies to tour with.
My early team of readers—Kathleen Foucart, Andrea Lynn Colt, Miranda Kenneally, Caroline Richmond, Tiffany Schmidt, and Robin Talley—for asking clever questions, being fabulous cheerleaders, and talking me down when I need it.
All my friends—but especially Jenn Reeder, Liz Auclair, Laura Sauter, and Jill Coste—for being supportive every step of the way and recommending my books far and wide.
My parents, Connie and Chris Moore and John Emanuel. My sisters, Amber Emanuel and Shannon Moore. And my grandparents—Helen and Jack Emanuel, Mary and Frank Scott, and Norma and Gene Moore—for helping instill in me a love of stories of all kinds.
This book is dedicated to my husband, Steve, because without him reading new pages and reassuring me that it was getting better, I would have given up in a fit of despair. Thank you for believing in me even when I don’t.
To the wonderful booksellers, librarians, sales reps, and bloggers who’ve helped connect my books with readers. I may not know all of your names, but I am thankful for you every single day.
And to my readers, especially those who’ve taken the time to tweet, message, or e-mail me to tell me how much they love Cate and her sisters and Finn. I’m so privileged to write stories and share them with you. Thank you for choosing to spend your time with us.
arm am">To th
arm am">To th
arm am">To th
Star Cursed: The Cahill Witch Chronicles, Book Two Page 30