I stare at the pew in front of me, at the mass of blond curls bobbing as Elinor Evans nods, and I feel sick with guilt. Mother taught me how to do mind-magic in the months before she died, letting me practice on her. I still remember the look on her face when she realized I could do it—a mix of pride and fear.
The Brothers act as though mind-magic is common as dirt, as though there are witches practicing it all around us and we must be ever vigilant. But if I’m to believe Elena, it’s a rare gift. If there are only a few hundred witches left in total, how many of us are capable of it? Thirty? Ten? Fewer? There was Mother. Zara. Elena. And me.
“You might think that erasing one little memory isn’t so bad. But it is,” Brother Sutton insists. “What if your grandmother gave that vase to your mother as a present on her wedding day? What if she bequeathed it on her deathbed, along with her last words of motherly love and advice? What if those memories are gone now, too? Mind-magic is never noble, girls. It is always a selfish, wicked thing to do.”
Twice now, I’ve modified people’s memories. Both times I’ve convinced myself it was justified. But in protecting us, I’ve hurt them. What if the thought of sending me away to school was linked to Father’s memories of me as a baby, of my first words or steps, of some precious moment over my cradle with Mother?
And Finn. There’s no way to know what memories I erased along with the feathers. It could be one of his shooting sessions with his dead father, or his favorite book, or some other memory he cherished. But I can’t help praying: please,pleaselet him remember kissing me.
I am wicked in many ways.
“Cate?” Maura elbows me. The sermon is over and girls are stretching, standing, moving to their customary pews to await their families. “Elena and I are going to take a turn around the room to stretch our legs. Would you like to join us?”
“No, thank you.” I stand to let them leave, then sit back down, determinedly facing front. I want to squirm in my seat and look for Finn, but I won’t. I’ve got more sense than that—and more important things to fret about.
Sachi and Rory pause their promenade at the end of my row. “Good morning, Miss Cahill!” Sachi chirps.
“Do you mind if we sit with you for services?” Rory asks. I can hardly say no. She doesn’t wait for an answer anyway, pressing in beside me, her yellow taffeta skirt taking up an enormous amount of room. Sachi squeezes in after her. It’s a good thing Father’s not here—he’d never fit. But why do they want to sit with us? They usually sit with Mrs. Ishida and the Winfields in one of the front pews. Tess stares at me, flabbergasted, but scoots over to make extra room.
“Are you engaged after church?” Rory asks. Her cheeks are suspiciously rosy despite the Brothers’ stance against women making up their faces. “Would you like to join us for tea at my house?”
I shake my head, staggered by the sudden attention. We’ve known each other since we were children—why are they so interested in me now? Is it really just because I’ve got new dresses and a man’s attention?
“Please say yes,” Sachi says, fluttering her thick, dark lashes at me. “There’s something we’d like to talk to you about.”
That sounds dire—and quite mysterious. I don’t dare say no. “I—yes. All right.”
“Excellent. Don’t bring your sister. Just the three of us. It’ll be very intimate.”
When Maura and Elena come back, they’re astonished to see Sachi and Rory, but well mannered enough not to comment on it. I barely hear the sermon, too busy wondering and worrying about Sachi’s invitation. Then it’s time for Cristina to get up on the dais and declare her intention to marry Matthew. Intention ceremonies can be odious, particularly when it’s a match forced by the Brothers or a girl’s parents. Today isn’t like that. Cristina’s beautiful, her pale hair done up in elaborate curls, her cornflower-blue eyes shining as she looks down at Matthew, sitting in the second pew behind his father. Cristina promises to serve him faithfully for the rest of her life, and his answering grin lights up the plain wooden church. The congregation fairly roars its support.
Will that be me, in a few weeks, announcing my engagement to Paul? My resolve wavers, thinking of Elena’s promises. The Sisterhood could take all three of us. They’d make sure we were safe. But what would they expect of us in return?
Afterward, I whisper to Maura that I’m going to Rory’s for tea and will see them at home. Then I’m surrounded as a flock of town girls rushes to pay court to Sachi and Rory—and now to me.
Rose Collier, thrilled with her brother’s betrothal to her best friend, chatters on about how excited she and Cristina are to attend our tea on Tuesday. Rose links her arm through mine as though we’re bosom friends, and I have to force myself not to jerk away. Two weeks ago I overheard her and Cristina laughing at me outside the dry-goods store. They were poking fun at my old blue-checked frock and the unfashionable way I braided my hair. Rose said I’d never catch a husband looking like such a sourpuss, and Cristina imagined I thought I was too good for the boys in town anyway.
Now they adore me, just because Sachi’s marked me as her new favorite. Because I’ve let Elena do my hair and dress me like a doll. Because I smile even when I think they’re cabbageheads.
By the time Paul rescues me from the crowd, my face hurts from smiling. He tucks my hand into the crook of his elbow and leads me out onto the lawn. Eyes follow us, and our neighbors’ whispers fill my ears.
“What a throng. May I escort you home, milady?” he asks.
“Thank you, but I’m having tea with Sachi and Rory.” They’ve left already, Rory winking at me and Sachi promising they’d have the maid hunt up some scones.
“I thought Mrs. Ishida’s grand teas were on Wednesdays.”
“No, this is just tea at Ror—how on earth do you remember that?” I laugh, pulling my skirts in close to keep from trampling the flowers lining the sidewalk.
“You weren’t home on Wednesday afternoon when I called. Lily told me where you were, and I have an excellent memory when it pertains to my favorite girl.” Paul smiles.
He’s shaved off his beard and mustache, and his cheeks and the tip of his nose are red, as though he’s been spending time outdoors.
“You’re staring,” he notes, voice low.
His face looks familiar now—like the boy I used to play with. “You’re sunburned.”
“I’ve been fixing up the barn,” he says, “and building a shed behind the house. My shoulders are red as a lobster. Wearing this suit hurts like the dickens.”
I look at his broad shoulders admiringly. His lips twitch as though he’s guessed what I’m thinking. “I’ve shaved as well,” he points out.
“I noticed. I like you clean shaven,” I say, then realize how proprietary it sounds.
“I understand mustaches tickle.” He grins, and when I catch his meaning, I stare at the chrysanthemums in confusion. What would it be like, kissing Paul? Different from kissing Finn? I imagine Paul has more experience with girls, but I can’t imagine anything nicer than the kiss in the closet. I go hot and prickly all over, remembering Finn’s mouth on mine, his hands on my waist.