Maura’s eyes falter to the rich purple rug. “Still. If he’d stay home and open his eyes for two minutes together, he’d know what we are. Mrs. O’Hare knew. Even the maid suspected! If Father doesn’t know us, it’s because he doesn’t care to.”
Tess shakes her head. “I think you’re wrong. Mother didn’t give him the chance to be there for us, and I—I know she did it because she loved us, and she didn’t want us raised by the Sisterhood and maybe separated. But I think he deserves the truth. I want to tell him.”
“You’re mad,” Maura snaps. Tess recoils, though of course Maura doesn’t mean it—not truly, not like that.
I fold my hands in my lap. “I agree with Tess.”
“Well, you would.” Maura tosses her red curls, sneering. “I don’t have much of a vote, do I?”
I give her a cool smile. “It seems you’re outnumbered.”
Tess clenches a fistful of forest-green brocade in her hand. “This is important to me, Maura. I wish you could support me.”
Maura’s lips are a thin red slash in her angry face. “You’ve always been a cabbagehead where Father’s concerned. You’d give up the entire Sisterhood’s secrets to try and make him love you.”
“He does love us. He might not know how to show it,” Tess says, “but—”
I put a hand over Tess’s smaller dimpled one. “Don’t bother arguing with her. She only cares about the Sisterhood, as usual.”
“And you don’t care about it enough,” Maura argues.
“The devil I don’t,” I retort. “Who led the Harwood mutiny? Who saved those girls from the gallows?”
Maura’s mouth twists. “Who got Zara and Brenna killed with her fine plans?”
I leap up, fingers itching to slap her, and it’s only Tess’s sudden hold on my wrist that stops me storming across the room. “That’s what she wants,” Tess hisses, and I jerk to a stop, breathing deeply.
“That was uncalled for, Maura,” Tess says. “It makes me think less of you, not Cate, for saying such a thing.”
Maura shrugs. “That’s nothing new, is it?”
Tess stamps her foot, clad in a pretty green slipper. “I wish things could just go back to the way they used to be! When we all got along.”
“Well, it can’t,” Maura says, and for once I agree with her. We can never go back to the girls we were last summer. She’s seen to that. “And telling Father won’t give you the happy family you want. He’ll break your heart, Tess, and one of us will have to fix it.”
“You will not,” Tess says very quietly, and there’s something powerful and threatening in her voice. “I don’t care what Father’s reaction is, you will not undo this. You’ve already lost one sister. Do you care to lose two?”
Maura curls into herself. “No,” she whispers. Then she stands. “Well, I hope you’ll all have a merry Christmas Eve then. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Tess’s shoulders bow. “You don’t mean that. Come for dinner, at least.”
“No, thank you. You’ve made it clear how little you think of me, and it’s sure to be a disaster anyway.” Maura plants her hands on her hips.
“It’s Christmas, Maura. We’re family. We ought to be together.” Tess throws me a desperate glance. “Cate, tell her.”
I should. For Tess’s sake. But I just shrug. “I don’t want her there.”
“And I don’t want to be there. I’ll have Christmas here, with Inez and the others who haven’t anywhere else to go.” Maura’s voice catches, but only a little, and her blue eyes are hard as glass as she turns away.
“No.” Tess’s voice goes sharp. “I’m sick of you playing the martyr. You can spend Christmas with your family or not; it’s up to you. If you don’t, it’s not because we tossed you over. It’s because you’re stubborn and selfish, and you chose this.”
“Fine,” Maura snaps. “It’s my choice, then. The Sisterhood is my family. It’s only right that I spend Christmas here.”
• • •
The posh neighborhood around the convent is quiet as Tess and I head out to see Father. Occasionally a closed carriage rattles past, the horses’ breath fogging the air. We watch as a family disembarks in front of a brick mansion with candles shining in all the windows. The father lifts the children down, and they race around each other on the sidewalk, the boy shouting about visiting Grandmother, the girl clutching a porcelain doll. The father’s hands linger on his wife’s waist as he smiles down at her. Her arms are full of Christmas presents tied with pretty red velvet bows.
If things were different, what would I have gotten Finn for Christmas? Some rare book? A fine fountain pen? I picture him unwrapping a small package, that gap-toothed grin lighting up his face. I picture him pulling me into his arms for a long kiss.
I want that Christmas. Want it so much, it pains me.
Tess catches my hand in hers and squeezes. “Next Christmas will be better,” she whispers.
It could hardly feel worse.
We pass into the market district, bustling with last-minute shoppers. I pause in front of O’Neill’s. “Could we—that is, would you mind if—I’d like to go in here for a minute.”
Tess doesn’t ask any questions, bless her. “Of course,” she says, though I can tell she’s eager to get to Father’s. Inside, she busies herself with a rack of calling cards while I turn in an uncertain circle.
“Can I help you, miss?” O’Neill asks, and then I pull my hood back and he recognizes me. “Oh, Miss Cahill! What a nice surprise.”
“I was looking for a fountain pen,” I explain. “For a gift. A bit last-minute, I know.”
He leads me over to the glass case. “For a gentleman or a lady, if I might ask?” He gestures to the dozens of fine pens inside. Some are gold or silver plated and finely engraved; others are made of smooth wood; the most affordable are made of hard rubber. The nicest rest in cases like little satin caskets.
“A gentleman. My father,” I lie, and I can feel my cheeks blaze.
I’m being stupid and sentimental. Finn doesn’t trust me, much less love me. He won’t expect a gift—won’t want it—and giving him one would be inappropriate as things stand.
“What about this one? It’s our most popular.” O’Neill slides open the back of the case and retrieves a gold pen. It rests in an ivory case and it seems altogether wrong for Finn; it’s too fancy for him to use every day for his translations and letters to his mother.
I take it, weighing the heft of it in my hand, and shake my head. My attention is caught and held by a shining mahogany pen at the back. I tap the glass above it. “What about that one?”
“Ah, very nice.” O’Neill hands it to me, and I remove one of my gloves, twirling the pen between my fingers experimentally, running a fingertip gingerly over the golden nib. “One of my favorites.”
I can picture Finn using this. It’s handsome, but still workmanlike enough to suit him.
How can I pretend he’s not in my thoughts, in my heart, every moment? I simply can’t let Christmas pass without giving him a gift.