Brother Ishida? I think of his cold eyes and his thin lips, and my skin crawls. It is always women who are punished.
I swallow my revulsion. There’s one more thing I need to see. I flip to last October and scan the row of names.Brenna Elliott, aged 16. Crime: witchery. Accuser: her father. Sentence: Harwood Asylum. Released summer 1896 at her grandfather’s insistence. Obvious attempts at suicide.
Ten months in that place and Brenna would rather have died. My godmother’s been there for almost tenyears.
I march to the front of the shop, where Finn is reading a book, his chin cupped in his hand, eyes moving rapidly across the page.
“Thank you, Mr. Belastra. That was very helpful.”
“Did you find what you were looking for?” Finn’s brown eyes search mine.
I did, but I’m no closer to learning anything new about the prophecy—or knowing what I’m going to do at my intention ceremony. “Yes. It turns out she was scandalous. Sentenced to Harwood.”
“I’m sorry to hear it.” Finn stands behind the counter. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“No. In fact, I’ll thank you to forget I was ever here.” I pull up my hood and head for the door. Outside the wide picture window, Chatham looks still and sleepy in the midafternoon sun. It’s enough to trick one into forgetting, sometimes.
“Wait! Miss Cahill, you haven’t been accused, have you? Or one of your sisters?”
I whip around. Finn’s shoulders are tense beneath his jacket, his jaw set. “No! Of course not. Why would you suggest that?”
He frowns. “You asked to see the register.”
“I told you, I was curious about my godmother! And besides, if wewereaccused, I hardly think I’d be sitting here reading a book! What use would that be?”
“What would you do? If you were accused?” Finn’s eyes are intent. Curious.
I suck in a deep breath. No one’s ever asked me that before, but it’s a question that haunts me. If someone unsympathetic caught us doing magic, I would be forced to erase his memory. I’m not without qualms about it. But I’d do it.
I can’t very well tell Finn Belastrathat.
“I don’t know,” I say. That’s true as well. If we didn’t know about the informant until it was too late—if the Brothers and their guards came to our home and made an accusation the way they did with Gabrielle—I don’t know what I’d do. I don’t think my magic would be strong enough to modify half a dozen memories.
I’ve spent hours strategizing, but I don’t have a solution. There aren’t any solutions.
That’s the point, I suppose. We are at the Brothers’ mercy.
“I would run,” Finn says, trailing his hand over the smooth oak of the counter.
My head snaps up. I don’t know what I expected him to say, but that wasn’t it.
“You’re a man. They’ll never accuse you of anything.”
There’s a grim look in his eyes. I didn’t imagine the bookseller’s awkward, clever son could look so foreboding. Like a force to be reckoned with. “I meant if Clara were accused. Or Mother. I would take them and run. We’d try to lose ourselves in the city.”
My hood falls down again. I ignore it, transfixed. I’ve never heard a man talk like this before. It’s treasonous. It’s—fascinating. “How would you escape the guards?”
Finn lowers his voice. “Kill them, if we had to.”
As if it’s as easy as that! Just a dash of murder!
“How?” I can’t keep the skepticism out of my voice. I can hardly imagine Finn Belastra prevailing in fisticuffs with the Brothers’ burly guards.
He bends and draws a pistol out of his boot. I drift closer. I should be horrified—a good girl would be—but I’m captivated. John has a hunting rifle, but he uses it for rabbits and deer for our dinner; it’s not meant for shootingpeople. Even the Brothers’ guards don’t carry guns—at least not openly. Murder is a sin.
But then so is witchery.
Finn balances the pistol in his hand. He seems easy with it. “I’m an excellent shot. Father took me out every Sunday after services.”
My eyes meet his. I have the sudden, unprecedented urge to confess. To tell him I’d do murder for my sisters, too, if it came to that. I’d do anything.
So would he. I can see it on his face, clear as day.
“Why would they be after you?” I ask. Is Marianne a witch, too? Is that why my mother confided in her?
“Mother’s too independent for their liking. They suspect she flouts their rules and sells banned books. They’re right,” he says, his mouth quirking into a smile. “And they’re none too happy with me, either. They offered me a spot on the council. Said they’d give me a place teaching in the school if I closed down the shop. I think I wounded their pride when I refused them.”
Foolish. No wonder they’re so intent on ruining his business. His family would be safer if he’d said yes. “Why did you say no?” I whisper.
He bends over the counter, lowering his voice to match mine. Our faces are only inches apart. He smells of tea and ink. “This place was my father’s livelihood. His dream. I won’t give in to their fearmongering.”
“It’s brave of you. To say no to them.”
His cherry lips twist. “Brave, or foolish? Brother Elliott passed away last night. I imagine they’ll be after me to take his place. If I refuse them again, they may retaliate.”
I freeze. Brenna’s prediction came true, then.
“Why are you telling me this?” My voice comes out strangled. He has to know I could report him: for the register, for the pistol, for threatening the Brothers.
Finn bends and slides the pistol back into his boot. “Perhaps I wanted to prove that you could trust me, too.”
I do. I want to. It stuns me, how much I want to. I’ve known Paul since I was a baby, and I’ve never come so close to telling him my secrets. “Why?”
He straightens. “Even Arabella needed help occasionally.”
Poor misguided, chivalrous man. If I were mad enough to confide in him, to tell him what I am, he’d have nothing at all to do with me. Not if he wants to protect his family.
“You—you’ve already been very helpful,” I stammer, raising my hood back over my hair. “Thank you, Mr. Belastra.”
He studies me for a moment, trying to read me like one of his books. Blessedly, he doesn’t ask questions that I can’t—won’t—answer.
“You’re welcome, Cate.”
Chapter 9
THE NEXT AFTERNOON I GRAB MYwatercolors and head to the garden under the pretense of finishing a painting for Elena. A goldfinch squawks nearby, lifting off with an angry flutter of wings. It swoops in a circle before settling in a nearby oak. I feel rather like squawking myself.
Instead I walk toward the hammering on the hillside. Finn is perched on the top rung of a ladder, nailing a roof beam into place. “Mr. Belastra!” I
call. Finn turns, startled. His movement sways the ladder, which slumps sideways, taking him with it. I cry out a warning, but it’s too late—Finn windmills his arms, snatching at empty air. He lands awkwardly, one ankle crumpled beneath him.