The frustration of it is plain in his voice. It twists his lips and furrows his forehead, and I want so badly to fix this, to fix him.
“You were with me. At Harwood Asylum.”
A grin ghosts across his face. “I helped break out the patients?”
I nod, an answering smile playing over my lips. “You were instrumental.”
He turns his head and swears like a sailor. “I knew it! That’s why I joined the Brotherhood, isn’t it? As a spy?”
His relief breaks my heart. I tap my fingers against the rough wood of the chair nearest me. Anything to keep myself from going to him, throwing my arms around him, and begging his forgiveness.
Begging him to remember me.
“Yes. That, and to keep your mother safe.”
“Thank you.” His voice is fervent as a prayer; his smile is huge and exuberant. “It’s been driving me mad. The letters from my mother—she doesn’t come out and say it, but she implies there’s another reason for me to be in New London. I’ve never been what you’d call devout, and Mother—well, you know how she is. She raised me to question things, not follow doctrine. I couldn’t think what the hell I was doing in the Brotherhood. Pardon my language.”
“It’s all right. You—you can say anything to me.” The words twist on my tongue, and I must sound like a love-struck fool. The flickering candlelight casts shadows over his face, illuminating the late-night stubble on his jaw. It reminds me of the other times we’ve met in secret places: the convent garden, the conservatory, the National Archives. Of the sandpaper feel of his chin against my fingers. Against my mouth.
“We’ve been working together, then? Me within the Brotherhood, and you within the Sisterhood?” he asks. I nod, weak with longing. “Makes sense. But if I was helping the witches, why would— Did you hear that?”
There’s a thump from upstairs, followed by a muffled shriek.
“Rilla!” I cry, rushing for the stairs.
“Let me go first.” Finn pulls a pistol from his boot.
I follow right on his heels. We creep up the steps quietly, and he flings open the door to reveal Alistair Merriweather standing behind Rilla, his arm wrapped around her throat, his hand clapped over her mouth.
“Mr. Merriweather!” I gasp. “Unhand her at once.”
“What the devil?” Merriweather gapes at us.
Finn lowers his pistol. “You know this man?”
Rilla doesn’t wait for answers. She bites Merriweather, and when he releases her, she spins around and knees him in the bollocks. He moans and braces himself against a cabinet full of ink. Rilla grabs the broom leaning in the corner and aims the handle at his head like a baseball bat. Her stance is quite incongruous with her dress, which is yellow and dotted with sunflowers.
“Rilla, it’s all right. I know him,” I say, though I’m rather tempted to let this play out. Merriweather’s a good foot taller than Rilla, but my money’s on her.
“It’s not all right. He nearly strangled me!” Rilla narrows her hazel eyes at him.
“What exactly are you doing here, Miss Cahill?” Merriweather’s dressed in a long, double-breasted olive-green peacoat, with a black cravat wrapped around his throat.
“I could ask you the same thing,” I retort, chin up.
“I sleep here sometimes. With Hugh’s permission.” Merriweather frowns. “That key was not an invitation to come and go as you please. This isn’t a space for secret assignations. We’ve worked for years to—”
Rilla smacks him in the head with the broom handle. Merriweather yelps.
From the look of Finn, though, I’d say he got off lightly. “I resent your insinuation, sir,” Finn growls.
“I apologize.” Merriweather’s gray eyes are fastened warily on Rilla. “Surely you can see how it looks. Perhaps introductions are in order?”
“This is my roommate, Rilla Stephenson, and my—friend, Brother Finn Belastra.” I hate the way my voice betrays me. “Rilla, Finn, this is—”
Merriweather grabs my arm and yanks me toward him. “He’s a member of the Brotherhood? Good Lord, girl, what are you thinking?”
I pull away. “He’s loyal to our causes.”
“I helped Cate with the Harwood breakout,” Finn adds, and I cast an anxious look at Merriweather. What if he puts two and two together and realizes that the handkerchief was Finn’s?
“You took part in that?” Merriweather is staring at me, not Finn. “Wait—were you responsible for what happened in the square today?”
I flush, feeling the weight of Finn’s gaze on me. “I had help.”
“Good,” Finn says. “The idea of those girls being hanged—”
“I know.” Our eyes lock, and for a moment it feels—nice. Then I turn back to Merriweather. “Your sister—Prue’s safe. She’s with friends. I’ll bring her to the next Resistance meeting, if you like, so you can see for yourself. If you don’t mind using the space for personal assignations.” I can’t resist the little dig.
Merriweather nods, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I owe you a great debt, Miss Cahill. Prudencia means the world to me.”
“Merriweather . . .” Rilla bends down and picks up her novel, which she must have dropped in the struggle. “You’re the editor of the Gazette, aren’t you?”
“You read the Gazette?” Merriweather gives her a look of disbelief.
Rilla shrugs. “Not normally, but Cate’s left it lying around our room lately.”
“And what do you think of it?” Merriweather preens like a peacock.
Rilla purses her mouth. “That exposé on O’Shea you ran this week was good—it made him out to be the monster he is, but your paper’s still awfully skewed toward what this means for men.”
“Well, men are the ones who buy the paper,” Merriweather mutters.
Rilla reaches up and straightens the yellow feather in her short curls. “Perhaps more women would buy it if you wrote about what concerns them. You ought to talk to some of the girls we broke out of Harwood. You couldn’t use their real names, of course, but you could reveal the conditions there. And you should interview some of us, too. Interviews with real witches! That would get you some readers.”
“I don’t have any problems finding readers.” Merriweather looks a bit stunned, and I daresay he was expecting praise, not criticism, from this freckled slip of a girl. Then he lowers his voice, gesturing to Rilla. “Wait. She’s a witch, too? Is the Sisterhood nothing but witches?”
“She doesn’t much care for being spoken about as though she’s not in the room,” Rilla says loudly, but her eyes are anxious. “You—you won’t print that in your paper, will you?”
“No. I’m not interested in getting you all killed.” Merriweather lounges against the cabinet, arms crossed in a condescending posture. “You’re a brash woman, Miss Stephenson.”
“I’ve got four brothers. Teaches you to throw a punch and speak up if you want to be heard,” Rilla explains, pulling on her cloak over her bright dress. “Cate, we ought to be going. The carriage will be waiting.”