If Mother’s spirit could give me answers, I’d welcome it and gladly.
You must watch over your sisters for me. Keep them safe. There’s so much I wanted to tell you. And nowI haven’t time,Mother lamented the last time I saw her. She was pale as a ghost and fought for each breath. Her sapphire eyes, so much like Maura’s, had dimmed, as though part of her had already gone ahead into the next world.
I promised, of course. What else could I do? But it was a heavy promise for a girl of thirteen.
I flip open the diary, eager for advice. It begins in my twelfth year. Her first real mention of me comes after my magic has already manifested:
I worry for Cate. It is not an easy burden to be a woman, much less one with powers such as ours, and she is a bold, outspoken child. The combination will be dangerous if she does not learn to hide her true self. When she is a little older, I will teach her all I know, lest she suffer the same fate as her godmother. I must go into town at the earliest opportunity, before my condition begins to show, and see Marianne. Perhaps she will have some news of Zara.
I break away from the page for a moment. I can feel my pulse twitching in my fingertips as the questions tumble through me. Zara? Was Z. R. my godmother? Was she a witch, too? What happened to her? I don’t remember her; I don’t remember Mother even mentioning her. Later, in another entry:
I have been to visit Marianne. Together, we read the registry of trials. Neither my knowledge of magical history nor all of Marianne’s scholarship can make sense of the Brothers’sentencing. Some girls are condemned for witchery and sentenced to a lifetime at Harwood on precious little evidence, whereas others are acquitted and simply disappear. I fear they have been murdered; we find no trace of them after they leave Chatham, and we hear of similar disappearances throughout the country. I can find no rhyme or reason to it. I do not think I will ever see Zara again. And what of her research into the prophecy? It is vital to our future and the future of every witch still in New England.
I skim over Mother’s joyous accounts of her pregnancy, her fervent, futile hopes that this child would be born healthy and male. Three weeks later:
Today was my last visit to town; perhaps I should not be jostling about the roads even now, but I would not trust John or even Brendan — [Father!]—to deliver Zara’s book back to Marianne. I worry for my daughters. What concessions will they make to keep themselves safe? What if Emily Carruthers is right and I do not survive this confinement—who will teach them? Cate is already capable of mind-magic, a gift so rare and frightening, I would not have anyone but Zara or myself instruct her in it. I have tried to make her aware of howvery, very wrong it can be to invade others’minds. It puts her at such great risk—from the Brothers and from those who would seek to use her as a weapon.
I bite my lip. So my godmother was a witch, then—and capable of mind-magic. I remember how horrified Mother was when she discovered what I could do. She made me swear on the family Bible—then on my sisters’ lives—that I would never use it except to protect them, and that I would never tellanyoneI could do it. Mother claimed it made women go just as power mad and wrongheaded as the Brothers;that, she said, was why the witches fell.
Then, two months later:
Maura has come into her power overnight. She is not as careful as Cate. I have warned her that she must not be seen, even by her father or Mrs. O’Hare. I have tried to impress upon her that she can trust only Cate. I hope she will heed me, but I am too tired to be stern with her. I have not the vigor of earlier confinements. Emily is worried about my successful delivery, but I worry only for my girls. What if Tess is cursed with this magic, too? I cannot stop thinking of that damned prophecy. Emily says I am thrice blessed with daughters. Howlittle she knows of blessings and curses. I wish Zara were here.
By the time I come to the end, the candle has burned down. The fire is only ashes in the grate; I’m shivering, huddled beneath the quilt. I’ve been so absorbed, I barely registered the sounds of Mrs. Corbett’s carriage rumbling away or of Tess calling my name outside my door. I ignored her and she went away eventually.
Mother’s handwriting goes fainter as her confinement progresses, as though she hasn’t the strength to push the pen into the page. She begins to write every day—rambling entries full of worry and doubt. She worries whenever Maura and I have one of our rows; she frets over whether Tess, only nine at the time, might prove a witch as well. But there’s nothing here for me. No message to guide me, no helpful words on what she would have me do when I came of age.
Eventually I come to the last page, dated the day before she died. After the last little grave was dug on the hillside. Her handwriting changes here: it’s all dark slashes. There are places where it’s torn clean through, as though she used all her energy to convey one last vehement message.
To my relief, it is addressed to me.
My dearest, brave Cate:
I am so sorry. I did not want to burden you too young, but it seems that instead I waited too long. I have not taught you enough about your magic—what you are capable of, and what you must guard against.
Before the Great Temple of New London fell, the oracle made one last prophecy. She foresaw that before the dawn of the twentieth century, a trio of sisters will come of age, all witches. One of the sisters, who will be gifted with mind-magic, will be the most powerful witch born in centuries—powerful enough to change the course of history—to bring about a resurgence of the witches’power or a second Terror.
Cate, I am so worried for you. It is very rare to have three witches in one generation. If Tess manifests as well, it seems terribly likely that you are the ones they have prophesied. You will—
No. Please, Lord, no.
I slide off the settee onto the floor. I just lie there for a moment, in a heap of petticoats, my mind reeling. This is mad. It’s impossible. Only—there are three of us, all witches. I can do mind-magic. Tess will come of age just before the turn of the century. We fit the bill exactly. The Lord does not hear the pleas of wicked girls.
I do not feel brave. I feel small and frightened and furious. I have enough on my plate without worrying about some damned prophecy made a hundred years ago. I came to this diary looking for help, for guidance, and instead Mother’s heaped more responsibility onto my head. But there was more. Perhaps some of it’s actually useful. Something to tell me what I ought to do, besides cowering here in the corner.
I pick up the diary again.
You will be hunted by those who would use you for their own ends. You must be very, very careful. You cannot trust anyone with your secrets.
There is more, and it is worse. I have been frightened to write it all here, lest it fall into the wrong hands. You must seek answers. Those who love knowledge for its own sake will help. Until you knowthe whole truth of the prophecy, you must not share it with anyone. I am so sorry I am not there to protect you, but I trust you to take care of Maura and Tess for me.
Love always,
Mother
I hurl the diary across the room. It hits the wall with a satisfying crack.
It’s rare that I’ve let myself feel angry with Mother. She’s dead; she can’t defend herself. But now I’m shaking with it. How could she? How could she die and leave me here to deal with all of this alone?
My magic rises, baited by my fury. I haven’t lost control in years, not since the episode with Mrs. Corbett and the sheep, but now I’m tempted to let go.
I could smash everything in this room and take pleasure in the breaking.
But I don’t.
I’d only have to fix it before Father or Mrs. O’Hare saw.
I close my eyes. I take deep breaths, the way Mother taught me.
When I feel convinced of my own calm, I pick up the diary. I go back and reread the last page. It’s mad. Perhaps Mother was delirious when she wrote it. Even if she’s correct—even if there is such a prophecy—there must be other sisters who are witches. Other girls who can do mind-magic besides me. I�
�m notthatpowerful.
An uncomfortable voice niggles at me.Howdo you know? You don’t knowwhat other witches are capable of,it points out logically.You don’t evenknowany other witches.I’ve always known more must exist besides Mother and my sisters and me, but I’ve never met one. At least, I’ve never met one who’s admitted what she was. I went to Sunday school with Brenna Elliott, and Marguerite and Gwen and Betsy. But I never saw any signs of magic in them, and most of the Brothers’ claims seem rather dubious—
Fear prickles my arms with gooseflesh. What if it’s true? What if itisme?
If I’m fated to bring about the resurgence of the witches’ power—if the Brothers found out, they would kill me. Immediately and without trial. They would believe they were doing it for the good of New England. Perhaps they’d make an example of all three of us—burn us at the stake, or hang us in the town square, the way they did in Great-Grandmother’s day. They stopped because normal people began to object to the brutality of it. But they’d bring those methods back to show their strength, to frighten witches and normal girls alike into submission. I have no doubt they’re capable of it.
How can I have that on my head?
I curl into myself, wishing there were someone else who could take this burden for me.
Mother must have written more. She couldn’t leave me like this, without telling me what todo! I find the magic coiled inside my chest, waiting. “Acclaro,”I whisper. I turn the pages frantically, hoping that more words will appear in the black endpapers.
Nothing happens. I say it again, louder, and push down the tide of rising panic. I scrutinize each page, waiting for a message to leap out at me. But there’s nothing added to the blank pages at the beginning or end—no secret words crisscrossing the other entries, nothing circled or underlined in code. Nothing at all.
I feel for a trace of her magic, but I don’t sense anything. Did her strength fail before she had time to write more?
I try again and again. I try different spells; I try until I’m exhausted and my power feels faint and far off. Tears begin to blur her words. I swipe irritably at my eyes and toss the diary onto the bed, striding to the window, the quilt falling to the floor behind me.
The gibbous moon peeks in through the daylily-dotted curtains. I look down at the statue of Athena in the garden, stark in the moonlight. Goddess of wisdom and war.
Mother didn’t trust Father to fight for us. Truth be told, she didn’t do a very good job of it herself. She left me with a diary full of cryptic warnings and a responsibility that should have been hers.
I will keep my sisters safe. Whatever happened to Mother’s friend Zara, whatever happened to Brenna Elliott, I will not let it happen to Maura and Tess. Not while I have breath left in my body.
CHAPTER 6
I’M STANDING ON THE RAISED DAIS in the back room of Mrs. Kosmoski’s dress shop, wearing only my chemise and corset, with all of them examining me like livestock on the block.
“Too thin,” Mrs. Kosmoski says, clucking disapprovingly.
“That can be fixed,” Elena insists. “We’ll give the illusion of curves. Padding in the bust and a bustle in back?”
Mrs. Kosmoski nods. “It’ll mean more work. I’ll need to have both my seamstresses up all night.”
“Whatever you need,” Elena promises. “As long as they’re ready by next Wednesday. We can have the girls come in the morning for last-minute alterations. This tea is their equivalent of a coming-out party. They can’t go looking like this.”
Mrs. Kosmoski eyes Maura’s high-necked green sprigged muslin. “Indeed,” she agrees, her voice dry. She’s been arguing with my orders for years now, suggesting brighter colors, busier patterns, more current fashions. I’ve resolutely ignored her advice—until now, when I have no choice.
Elena’s gotten Father to loosen his purse strings; the three of us are to have new wardrobes. She declared all our old things frightfully outdated and frumpy. Tess is pleased at the thought of graduating to longer, grown-up dresses; I’m the only one who isn’t elated.
I’m too preoccupied with wondering if I might be the most powerful witch in centuries.
Elena circles around me. “What a waist, though. Twenty inches, Cate?”
I nod and she lets out a low, unladylike whistle. “Most girls would murder for that.”
Across the room, Maura glowers. Much to her chagrin, she’s never been able to cinch her corset tighter than twenty-four.
“At least I don’t need a padded arse!” she mutters, glaring at me.
Tess hides her giggles behind her hand.
Mrs. Kosmoski’s lips tighten. For someone who works with ladies’ fashions and forms all day, she’s something of a prude.
“Maura!” Elena touches one of the perfect black ringlets that frame her perfect, heart-shaped face. “Please. We do not use such unladylike words.”
Mrs. Kosmoski takes my measurements. She’s a tall woman with a head of thick, dark hair perched on a swanlike neck. Her pearl earbobs swing back and forth as she and Elena talk.
I let her poke and prod me as I watch my sisters whispering on the pink love seat. Tess is paging through a book of patterns, the dimple in her left cheek coming out as she mocks the outlandish fashions from Mexico City.
The dress shop is meant to be a feminine oasis, and perhaps that should make me feel safe here, but everything from the rosebud paper on the walls to the pink velvet love seats sets my teeth on edge. Bouquets of roses litter every available surface, perfuming the air with their sweet scent. It feels gaudy and oppressive to me, but Maura adores it. She’s like a child at the chocolatier’s, giddy with all the choices before her.
Elena encourages it. And Mrs. Kosmoski is taking Elena’s every suggestion as gospel truth, hungry to hear what the ladies are wearing on the streets of New London. Aren’t Sisters meant to forgo sins like vanity and pride? Surely Elena’s love of fashion falls into one of those categories. Today she’s wearing a gorgeous peach silk that Maura keeps reaching out to stroke. It practically glows against her dark skin.
“I’m finished, Miss Cahill,” Mrs. Kosmoski says. Her breath smells like peppermints.
“Excuse me, ma’am.” Gabrielle Dolamore, one of Mrs. Kosmoski’s seamstresses, pokes her dark head into the room. Oh good, another person to see me in my underclothes. “Miss Collier is here for her alterations.”
I pull on my chemise cover and petticoats and my plain brown dress. It used to be a rich chocolate, but now it’s faded from repeated washings and looks more mud colored. Maura does up the buttons in back, her fingers nimble and familiar against my skin. “Stop being such a grump,” she admonishes. “This is meant to be fun.”
“I’ve got a headache.” It’s been present for two days straight, since I read Mother’s diary. I reach up and massage my right temple. I’ve got to share this secret with someone, and soon, before it drives me mad. Mother confided in Marianne Belastra. Dare I do the same?Those who love knowledge for its own sake—that describes the bookseller more than anyone else.
“Just think of Paul’s face when he sees you in these dresses. He’ll be mad with lust,” Maura teases, eyes dancing.
“Hush!” But now I can’t avoid thinking of it. Paul must be used to city girls and city fashions. It strikes me, all of a sudden, that Idowant him to think I’m pretty. I want him struck dumb with it.
I lean down and button my boots, wretched all over again. Perhaps Ishouldmarry him and move away—the farther the better. If this prophecy is true, I’m putting my sisters at risk every moment of every day.
“Hello,” Rose Collier says, passing us on her way to the inner sanctum.
Tess practically skips to the counter to examine the bright spools of ribbon.
“Oh,” Maura breathes, running her hand over a bolt of luxurious sapphire silk.
I slouch on a settee in the corner. It’s impossible to care about new dresses with so much to fret about. But that’s my conundrum, isn’t it? I’ve still got to find a h
usband, still got to look pretty and proper, no matter what terrible thoughts lurk inside my head. I cringe as Rose’s giggles swoop through the air and attack my eardrums.
“This violet would be divine on you, Cate,” Elena says, handing me a color sample. “It would make your eyes look lavender.”
I examine the swatch and shudder. “But it’s so—bright!”
“Exactly,” Elena agrees. “You’re a pretty girl. Why hide away in those dark dresses? What do you think, pink for the sash? All your dresses should have sashes to show off your waist.”
She’s determined to involve me in this. “Notpink.” Pink is for empty-headed girls like Sachi Ishida. Like—I wince as her laugh pierces my skull again—Rose Collier.
“Blue then. Peacock blue,” Elena presses, undeterred.
The bells above the shop door chime, and we all look up. It’s Brothers Ishida and Winfield, flanked by two enormous guards. My heart drops like a stone.
At the counter, my sisters inch toward one another. Behind them, Gabrielle Dolamore drops a skein of pink ribbon. It unspools slowly across the floor, coming to rest right at the Brothers’ feet.
“Good morning.” Elena curtsies, her face smooth and unconcerned. I suppose that’s the security of being a Sister; she knows they’ll never come forher. “Mrs. Kosmoski is in the back with a customer. Shall I fetch her for you?”
“No.” Brother Ishida’s pause seems to stretch out for eternity, a leaden weight in my lungs. “Gabrielle Dolamore, you are under arrest for crimes of witchery.”
Thank the Lord.It’s my first, uncharitable thought, even as Gabrielle lets out a strangled scream. The Brothers’ guards approach her from either side, and she shrinks back against the rack of ribbons. It’s no use. They turn her roughly and grab her wrists, binding them with coarse rope—as though that would keep her if she had magic to stop them! But it makes her seem very small, helpless against the two hulking men dressed all in black. One of them has a hooked nose and a jagged scar over his chin, and he smiles as though arresting wicked girls is a good day’s work.
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