“It feels stupid to me,” I mutter as the carriage turns into the narrow alley behind the Fifth Street shops. It’s late enough that most people should be abed, Rilla and I among them. If Maura knew what I was doing, she would call me seven different kinds of a fool, and she might be right.
I tug on the threads of magic running through my body, twining alongside bone and muscle, but I only feel the barest trace of power. Jennie Sauter lost a great deal of blood, and neither Mei nor Addie were able to patch her up. They worried she might lose the arm. In the end, I was able to heal her, but after all the day’s exertions, it sapped what magic I had left. Elena flat-out forbade me to come tonight. But if I missed my meeting with Finn, he would come to the convent; I’m certain of it. And I’d rather risk my own safety than his.
The carriage rolls to a stop. I hop out and help Rilla down into the shadowy alley. The coachman, Robert, sits on the carriage box. “Come back for us in an hour?” I ask.
“Thirty minutes. It’s a bad night to be out,” he insists with a fatherly frown. He doesn’t wait for my agreement before clucking to the horse and heading off.
My hand is tugging on the ruby necklace at my throat when I hear heavy steps turning the corner.
“Halt!” a male voice cries out. I cringe.
The guard is a tall, broad-shouldered man with blond hair and a mustache. He closes the distance between us quickly. “Sisters? What are you doing out at this hour?”
“We . . .” I start, then fall silent as my mind goes blank. I should have prepared a lie. Rilla just stands next to me, her mouth opening and closing like a goldfish.
The guard shoulders his rifle, peering closer. He smells strongly of pipe tobacco. “Unless you ain’t really Sisters. I wouldn’t be the first man fooled by a witch today. State your business, or I’m taking you to the National Council building for questioning.”
What reasonable excuse could good religious girls have for being alone in a back alley at ten o’clock at night? In a fit of inspiration, I remember the woman coughing in the square earlier. “We’re paying a call on the sick. A family with the fever.” I wave a vague hand toward a house with a light still on.
“To pray for them. With them. They’ve got a boy who’s bad off,” Rilla adds, twisting her hands together in a convincing display of distress. “Poor little Johnny. They aren’t sure he’ll make it through the night.”
“Fever’s spreading? I thought it was just them river rats coming down with it.” The guard looks toward the house, alarmed, and then scowls. “Wait a minute. That don’t sound quite right. Why wouldn’t you go in the front, instead of sneaking around through the alleys? Where’s your carriage?”
“Oh, well, we . . .” Blast. I tug on my magic, frantically sorting through possible plans of escape.
More footsteps turn the corner. The dim moonlight glitters on a pair of glasses. Finn. I breathe a silent prayer as his eyes meet mine, and he takes in the guard and the gun.
“What’s this?” He strolls closer. Ambling as if he hasn’t a care in the world. But his back is straight, chin up, and I know that look. “You aren’t detaining these good Sisters, are you? They’re here to meet with me.”
“Meet you?” The guard keeps his gun pointed at us. “Then why did they just spin some nonsense about nursing a sick boy?”
Finn gives his gap-toothed grin. “It’s a matter of security.”
“Security, huh?” The guard raises his thick eyebrows. “Look, what is this all about? If you’re out to have some fun with one of them, just say so.”
Finn’s smile goes tight. “These girls are here to give me information about a suspected witch. They’re risking a great deal. I ought to report you for insulting them.”
Oh, he’s magnificent.
I do my best to look outraged at the notion of having a bit of fun with him, when really I want nothing more than to hurl myself into his arms.
The guard relaxes his hold on the rifle. “I apologize, sir.”
“It’s not me you should be apologizing to.” Finn’s voice is low, dangerous. Thrilling.
The guard nods. “I meant no disrespect, Sisters.”
“That’s all right,” Rilla says graciously. “It’s been a difficult day.”
“You may go,” Finn commands. “I’ll see them safely home.”
The guard goes. As soon as he’s out of sight, I rush to the back door of O’Neill’s Stationery, the ruby already transforming into a key in my hands. “Quickly, before someone else comes,” I urge, ushering them into the dark storeroom.
By the time I’ve got the door closed and locked behind us, Rilla’s lit a candle. Her hands are trembling, sending shadows dancing all around us. “That was a close call.”
“Careful, or this place will go up like a tinderbox,” Finn warns, eyeing the shelves of stationery.
“Finn, this is Rilla Stephenson, my roommate. Rilla, this is Finn Belastra.” I loop the necklace back around my neck. My nerves are still jangling—not so much from the encounter with the guard as from Finn’s proximity. He is bound to ask questions that I can’t—won’t—answer. What if it makes him hate me?
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Stephenson,” Finn says. He turns to me. “Is there somewhere private we can talk, Cate?”
My heart gives a silly little flutter. “Why don’t you stay here, Rilla, and we’ll go down to the cellar?”
“Take your time.” Rilla slips a hand into her pocket and pulls out one of her romance novels. “I brought a book.”
Finn chuckles, delighted. They’re of the same tribe, these two, never without a book in hand. I head downstairs, and he follows me with another candle. He sets it down on the table, shucking off his cloak and laying it over the back of a wooden chair.
“Thank you for coming to our rescue. That could have gone badly.” I’m not quite sure what to do with my hands. I toy with Mother’s pearl ring, trying not to think about the engagement ring Finn gave me months ago. I gave it back to him when I announced my intention to join the Sisterhood. Where is it now?
He braces his hands against the back of the chair. His rumpled white shirt is rolled up to the elbows, displaying forearms wiry with muscle and spotted with freckles.
I have the absurd urge to trace the patterns they form over his tanned skin.
“Are you a witch?” he asks.
I respect him all the more for coming straight out with it.
I should lie to him. For his own good. I should, but I don’t. “Yes,” I say quietly. “But I’m not the one who erased your memory. I swear it.”
He leans forward, squinting. “How do you know my memory’s been erased, then?”
My breath catches. Because I was there when it happened. I know who’s responsible. I will never forgive her for it, and yet I still want to protect her. Or Finn. Or myself. My reasoning is cloudy, even to me.
“Because I know you,” I say finally.
“Do you?” His voice is soft. “I don’t remember much about you at all. It’s the most curious thing. Like little pieces of me have been carved right out. I do things, think things, feel things, and I don’t know why. And then there’s the missing time. Hours here and there, whole evenings, just . . . gone.” He snaps his ink-stained fingers. “I remember working in Denisof’s office that afternoon, helping with some correspondence, and then it’s all a blank, right up until I found myself on the convent steps with you. Where was I before that? It’s a mystery to me. A vexing one.”