She would have every right to refuse me.
“I don’t know what Finn told you,” I say, squaring my shoulders. “But I’ve just discovered my mother’s diary, and she wrote about some curious things—things that I found rather alarming. I would appreciate any help you can give me.”
I’m at her mercy. I don’t know what else to do. If Marianne decides not to help me, I’m sunk.
“I’ll do what I can.” Marianne doesn’t quite smile, but her shoulders relax. “I was very fond of your mother.”
“I didn’t know you were friends. Not until I came across her diary. She mentioned you in it. She said—that is—” I crane my neck, looking toward the back of the shop.
Mrs. Belastra catches my meaning. “We’re alone. Finn’s upstairs. I thought you might prefer to keep this conversation between us.”
“I would, thank you.”
I hover just inside the door. The sunlight from the wide picture window catches at the small ruby on her ring finger. Her hair is pulled back in a tight chignon—like the rest of her appearance, more serviceable than fashionable. There are crows’ feet at the corners of her brown eyes, and permanent lines of worry etched on her forehead, but there are laugh lines around her mouth, too. She was a beauty once, I can tell. She has Finn’s square jaw and full, red lips and his handsome snub nose.
When did I come to think Finn’s nose handsome?
“My friendship with your mother came about because of our mutual love of books,” Marianne explains, waving a slim volume of poetry at me. “We were both very fond of the Romantic poets. And after Zara came to town—”
“You knew Zara, too?”
A smile tugs at her lips. “As well as anyone could. She was a private sort of person. Very brave—foolhardy, some would say, about her own safety. Her research was her guiding passion. Finn said you came to read the registry and find out what happened to her.”
I stare down at the gleaming wooden floorboards. The shop smells of wax and lemons, as though Marianne’s been doing her fall cleaning.
If Zara was so important to Mother, why didn’t she ever mention her? Was she afraid to frighten us with stories of girls being locked up in Harwood? “I didn’t even know I had a godmother until I read the diary. I don’t remember her at all.”
“You would have been only six when she was sent away. That last year, she traveled a great deal—and when she was in town, the Brothers were watching. It was only a matter of time for her. She and your mother met here sometimes, but Zara was afraid of casting suspicion on Anna.”
Anna.It’s been so long since I’ve heard my mother’s given name. I force back a desperate swell of missing her.
“Why did you stay friends with her? If it was dangerous?”
Marianne smiles as though it’s a reasonable question and not an impertinent one. “Some things are worth the danger, aren’t they? I don’t believe anyone should be allowed to dictate what I read or who my friends are. It gives me pleasure to know that I can thwart the Brotherhood in some small way. And I thought Zara’s work was important. She studied the oracles of Persephone, and that last year she was researching a prophecy, which, if it comes to fruition, could very well influence the course of history.”
I bite my lip. “Mother wrote about the prophecy, but not much. Do you—do you know more about it?” I ask, praying that Mother’s faith in Marianne was not misplaced.
Marianne gives a brisk nod. “A bit. I have something that might help. Why don’t you go sit at the desk in back, and I’ll fetch some books.”
I wind my way back to the desk where I read the register of trials. Marianne’s spectacles lie on the desk, along with a cold cup of tea and a note jotted in her neat penmanship.
Is Marianne a witch herself, or just a scholar and purveyor of books? Does Finn know how deeply his mother is involved in the study of magic? Women have been murdered for less.
Marianne joins me, carrying two packages wrapped in cheesecloth. She unwraps them to reveal two handwritten manuscripts. According to the ornate blue script, the first is calledThe Tragic Fall of the Daughters of Persephone. The second is badly water damaged, the bottom right corners stained, the ink illegible in places. It is titled simplyThe Oracles of Persephone.In small letters beneath the title it saysZ. Roth.
My fingers dart out, running over the words. When the Daughters of Persephone made the laws, education was available for everyone. Girls like Tess were allowed to study mathematics and philosophy right alongside boys, and some of them became scholars of great renown. Now girls aren’t permitted in the village schools; the desire to learn anything beyond needlework from one’s governess is suspect. The writings of women have been banned and burned, witches or no.
“Zara wrote this?” I feel a dash of pride at having such a progressive godmother.
Marianne slips on her spectacles. She looks even more like Finn now. “She did. Her research on that last prophecy is what had Anna so worried.”
I stare at her expectantly, but she flips openThe Oracles of Persephoneand turns it toward me. “You ought to read it for yourself. Words mean more that way.”
I lean over and read the section she’s indicated.
By the time of this writing, the author suspects there are only a fewhundred witches alive in NewEngland. All of the priestesses in temples across the country have been dead since the summer of 1780. Women suspected of witchery were burned and beheaded in mass numbers into the early nineteenth century.
The Great Temple of Persephone was burned to the ground at sunrise on 10 January 1780. The doors to the temple were locked and barred from the outside to prevent escape. Several priestesses jumped from the roof rather than be consumed by fire.
The Book of Prophecy was burned to ashes—and with it, records of hundreds of years’worth of the oracles’work. But it was rumored that one final prophecy was made—a prophecy that gave hope to the doomed priestesses. It foresaw that before the turn of the twentieth century, three sisters—all witches—will come of age. One of them, gifted with mind-magic, will be the most powerful witch in centuries, capable of bringing about a newgolden age of magic—or a second Terror. This family will be both blessed and cursed, for one sister will
The words end abruptly. The bottom right corner of the page is smudged, completely illegible.
“One sister will what?” I demand, my eyes flying up to Marianne’s.
“I’m afraid I don’t know. Zara hid the manuscript on the porch roof of the Coste boardinghouse before she was arrested. Fortunately, the Brothers
did not find it. Unfortunately, parts of it were destroyed before I was able to retrieve it.”
“But I need to know. Mother was worried—was afraid thatwewere the sisters of the prophecy,” I whisper.
“I know,” Marianne says. Her face furrows. “I think Anna knew the rest of the prophecy, but she didn’t share it with me. Neither did Zara. I was their
friend, yes, but I was not privy to all their secrets.”
I dig my nails into my palms. “It can’t be right.”
“The oracles were never false. You can read more about the other prophecies in—”
“I don’t care about the other prophecies!” I stand so quickly, the chair tumbles over. “This—it can’t be about us. There must be other sisters who