“Cabbagehead,” I pronounce gleefully.
“Indeed,” Sachi agrees. We pause to greet Mrs. Ralston and Mrs. Malcolm as Maura ushers them into the dining room. “So. Have you found any books for us yet?”
“I haven’t been able to get away, but I asked Mrs. Belastra to bring one with her.”
Sachi arches her eyebrows. “You invited her here? Today?”
“I did. Why?” I tamp down the rush of defensiveness.
“She’s a shopkeeper, Cate.”
“That’s snobbery.”
“No, it’s fact,” Sachi says, leaning down to smell the roses. “The other ladies will cut her. Everyone will whisper behind her back, and she’ll be miserable. Did you invite Angeline Kosmoski and her mother? Or Elinor Evans?”
The dressmaker’s daughter and the chocolatier’s. “No.”
“No, of course you wouldn’t, and Marianne Belastra is less respectable than any of them. You know the Brothers have it in for her. My father loathes the idea of all that information just sitting there in her shop, available to anyone.”
“People would still buy books without Belastras’. They’d order them from New London.”
“People with money, perhaps. And then they’d have to come through the post. Father has a source at the post office. Old man Carruthers reports on forbidden materials.”
“He goes through people’s mail?” My eyes widen, momentarily diverted. “Imagine all the gossip he must have!”
Sachi glances into the sitting room, where her mother is holding court, her green silk fan waving briskly. “My point is, you’re taking a risk. It’s one thing to drop by the bookshop. People will assume you’re running errands for your father. If you associate with Mrs. Belastra socially, people will talk.”
I don’t like it, but I’m practical enough to recognize the truth when I hear it. It’s just what Finn was warning me about. A love match might be romantic in Maura’s novels, but not here. Not involving a family with two strikes against them—their poverty and their willingness to go against the Brothers.
If I married Finn, it would put my sisters in danger.
But am I strong enough to give him up?
All day I’ve been turning the problem over in my head like a mathematics equation. I wish it were possible, but I don’t see how I could marry him, no matter how much I want it. Wanthim. A nervous blush sweeps over me. I’ve never thought of what goes on between man and wife before, but now—I can’t help but wonder what it would be like to share Finn’s bed.
Sachi elbows me. “That’s a secretive look. Do tell.”
I hesitate, caught. I do need advice. Both times my magic’s run amok lately, it’s been because of Finn. Because of kissing Finn, to be more precise. Is that a normal thing for magic to do? The only person who would know is another witch, and I certainly can’t ask Elena. But I can’t ask Sachi either—not here, not with half the town coming and going.
I pitch my voice low. “I can’t tell you here.”
Sachi leans in. She smells of powder and lemon verbena.
I shrink back against the wooden banister of the staircase, blushing hotter. “My magic has been—unwieldy. In certain—situations. Certain company.”
Sachi smooths her black hair. “What kind of company?”
“Men. Well. One man,” I amend.
“Intriguing. I’ll bring Rory, that’s her specialty,” Sachi giggles.
“Do you have to? I’d rather keep this private.” I look nervously at the cluster of ladies in the sitting room, sipping tea, nibbling on Tess’s lemon poppy-seed cakes. Rory stands out in her orange dress, prowling like a restless tiger from group to group.
“I daresay you would. But I’m hardly an expert. Do you want help or not? If it’s got to do with a man, Rory will know.”
“I do want help. But Rory—well, she is a bit—flighty. Can I trust her?”
Sachi purses her lips. “You trust me, don’t you?” I nod. “Then I give you my word on Rory. Can you meet us Friday night? Late?”
I’m no coward, but I don’t relish the thought of traipsing into town alone in the dark. “I thought—can’t we meet at Rory’s tomorrow?”
Sachi tosses a demure smile at Mrs. Collier and Rose as they come through the door. “Mrs. Elliott fired Elizabeth. The new girl’s a busybody. We’ll get rid of her, but it might be a few days until we have the house to ourselves again. If you want to wait—”
“No.” I can’t afford another mishap. And I can’t bear the thought of avoiding Finn. “Sooner is better.”
“We could meet somewhere on your property. If you’re not afraid to go out after dark, that is.” Sachi smirks.
I can’t trust the rose garden anymore, not with Elena creeping around like a ghoul. There’s one place that might work. It’s not a place I relish going, not even in broad daylight, but what choice do I have?
“On the other side of the pond, there’s a graveyard. I’ll meet you there Friday night. If you come across the fields, no one can see you from the house.”
Sachi’s lips twitch. “Witching hour in a cemetery. It’s the perfect place for our little coven’s first meeting.”
Half an hour later, I’m in the process of being bored to death by Rose Collier. She’s inclined to proclaim everything “darling” in the same way Mrs. Ishida employs “lovely”—my gown, Tess’s pumpkin bread, the paper on the sitting room walls. We soon resort to making observations about the weather. It’s a fine day, perfect Indian summer, unusual for October in New England; I’ve never seen such a blue sky; and oh yes, I’m quite glad we thought to serve lemonade as well as tea.
I’m watching a lone housefly buzz against the window when Rose lets out a little hum of disapproval. “Shouldn’t she go to the kitchen with her delivery?”
Marianne Belastra hovers in the doorway, looking as uncomfortable as Sachi predicted. She wears a high-necked, rust-colored gown with an out-of-fashion bustle and straight sleeves. The color and style flatter neither her complexion nor her figure.
“Look, she’s brought her odd little duckling with her. That child’s shooting up like a weed, Mama says. You’d think she’d be ashamed to traipse around in public with her ankles showing. What kind of mama would allow it? But Mrs. Belastra doesn’t care for anything except her books, I suppose.”
Rose’s voice is full of feigned pity. She clearly expects me to respond in kind. But my heart clenches at the sight of Clara, trailing awkwardly after her mother, dressed in a brown pinafore that’s too childish and too short.
I peer into the dining room at Tess. She’s expertly pouring tea, engaging the matrons in effortless conversation, acting as though their gossip is as fascinating to her as Ovid. She’s a pretty girl with none of Clara’s awkward growing pains, but just a few weeks ago she would have been strange and unfashionable, too. Elena’s lessons have given Tess poise; her orders at the dress shop have turned us all from odd ducks into swans. Whatever her faults, Elena has taught us to blend in.
No one rises to greet the Belastras. Teacups pause midair as rattlesnake whispers slither through the room. Clara stares at her feet, her face going a blotchy red beneath her freckles, her dark eyes hooded with misery. It’s plain she’d rather be somewhere else. Anywhere.