I don’t understand their church any more than I understand the Brothers’.
Finn Belastra strolls out from behind a row of bookshelves. He’s wearing a proper jacket today instead of shirtsleeves. “Can I help you find—oh, good day, Miss Cahill.”
I shrink back toward the door, feeling shy after our arboreal encounter yesterday. “Good day, Mr. Belastra. Is your mother here?”
Finn shakes his head. “She’s feeling poorly. Headache. I’m looking after the shop for her. Is there something I can help you with?” He sorts through a stack of books on the counter. “We don’t have a package for your father. Did he have something shipped?”
It’s been difficult to slip away from my sisters and Elena’s interminable etiquette lessons to see Marianne. It never occurred to me that when I finally got up the nerve and the opportunity to ask, she wouldn’t be here to answer my questions.
“I’m not here for Father.” I fidget, trying to tamp down my irritation. It’s not Finn’s fault that his mother’s ill, or that today is unlike any other day I’ve set foot here.
“Oh.” Finn gives me that winsome grin of his. “Have you come looking for Arabella?”
“No. I’d hoped—is there any chance your mother could come down and see me, just for a moment? It’s important.”
Finn pushes his spectacles up his nose. “I know you lack confidence in my skill as a gardener, but I can assure you I’m a very good bookseller. What is it you’re looking for?”
I can’t ask him for books on magic. But if I turn around and leave, my trip will be a waste. Who knows when I’ll get another chance to come into town without my sisters?
“I’ve heard you keep a register of trials.” The words are out of my mouth before I can think of the consequences. What if Finn doesn’t know his mother keeps it?
He squints at me. “Where did you hear that?” There’s a touch of iron in his voice. “And even if we had such a thing—what would a girl like you want with it?”
“A girl like me? What sort of girl would that be, exactly?” I ask, hurt. “A girl who doesn’t go around with her nose stuck in a book all day? I’m not allowed to have an interest in—in local history?”
“That’s not what I meant,” Finn says hurriedly. “It’s not something we go lending out on a whim, is all. Why do you want to see it?”
“I had a godmother,” I say slowly. “She and my mother were school friends. But she was arrested for witchery. I wanted to read about her.”
Finn comes closer. “And I can trust you with it?”
I throw my hands up into the air, frustrated. “Yes! I trust you not to go murdering my flowers, don’t I? We all take our chances.”
Finn tilts his head and studies me for a long minute. Evidently, I pass muster. “All right. Wait here.” He opens the door beside the stairs and disappears inside the closet. A moment later, he emerges with a ledger, the sort used to keep records in a shop. “Follow me.”
I follow him down the twisting rows of books, nerves swarming like butterflies. He stops before a desk in the very back. “Do you know what year she was arrested?”
“No. Well—less than sixteen years ago, but more than ten. If she was my godmother, she would have been present at my christening, but I don’t remember her at all.”
“The entries are chronological, of course,” Finn says. He leans against a bookshelf while I situate myself in the desk chair.
“Of course,” I mock. I look up to find him staring at me. “What?”
“Your hair.” My hood’s fallen off, revealing the braids wound around the crown of my head. Maura did them for me this morning, practicing one of the styles in Elena’s fashion magazines. “It’s pretty. That style suits you.”
“Thank you.” My eyes fall to the ledger, my cheeks burning. “Are you going to hover? I promise I won’t run off with this.”
“No, I’ll leave you to it.” But he hesitates. “Mother would prefer the Brotherhood not know about this record. If the bell above the door rings, you might put it in the drawer and occupy yourself with something else. For your own safety, as well as ours.”
“I—yes. Of course. Thank you.”
I wait until his footsteps have receded to the counter. I can hear every step of his shoes against the creaking wooden floor. It’s so quiet in here, I can barely think—not like the quiet of outdoors, where there are always insects buzzing, birds singing and scolding, and wind rustling through the trees. This is an eerie, dead silence.
When I flip open the book, the cover falls back against the desk with a sharp crack. I page back sixteen years to 1880 and scan the list of names in the left-hand column.
Margot Levieux, aged 16, and Cora Schadl, aged 15,the first entry reads.12 January 1880. Crime: caught kissing in the Schadls’blueberry fields. Accused of deviance and lust. Sentence: Harwood Asylum for both.
Sent to Harwood for the rest of their lives for kissing another girl? That seems unduly severe.
This register is fascinating! I’ve never seen the Brotherhood’s accusations and judgments laid out plainly before. Normally they’re shrouded in mystery and spoken of only in whispers, like bogeymen under the bed.
Halfway through 1886, I find the name I’m looking for.
Sister Zara Roth, aged 27. 26 July 1886. Crime: witchery (known). Accused of possessing forbidden books on the subject of magic and spying on the trials of the Brotherhood. Accusers: Brothers Ishida and Winfield. Sentence: Harwood Asylum. It’s no more than what I discovered at the Ishidas’ tea. My godmother managed to smuggle a letter out of an asylum for the criminally insane. Only —how did she know that we’re not safe? Unless—did Brenna predict something?
I continue my reading. Mrs. Belastra writes about the sentencing of girls here in Chatham and also notes what she hears of trials in nearby towns. The vast majority of girls are transported to the coast and put to hard labor. A few, like Brenna, are sentenced to Harwood. A few more are dismissed with only warnings, and Mrs. Belastra notes that all of them subsequently moved away or disappeared.
What happened to those women? Living in Chatham after a trial would be difficult, knowing the Brothers’ vigilant eyes—and spies—are everywhere. Did the women flee to a bigger city, where it might be easier to slip into the crowd unnoticed? Or did something more sinister befall them?
Mother noted in her diary that there was no discernible pattern to the sentencing, and as far as I can tell, that still holds true. Women who steal bread from shops or take a lover are sentenced to backbreaking years at sea, whereas some women accused of witchery are found innocent and dismissed outright. How is that possible, with all the Brothers’ paranoia about magic? Unless—unless they aren’t as oblivious as I thought, and they know how rare true witchery is. That’s almost worse. It would mean the increase in arrests isn’t due to any wrongdoing at all; it’s only meant to keep us frightened.
I turn back to the register. The accused are anywhere from little girls of twelve like Tess to housewives of forty like Mrs. Clay, one of the most notorious cases of the last ten years. Mrs. Clay confessed she had lain with a man not her husband. The town’s gossips never revealed his identity, but it is written here in Marianne Belastra’s neat penmanship:Mrs. Clay charged that if she were deemed guilty, so was Brother Ishida, for he was the man with whom she had committed the crime of adultery.