“I’ll take it,” I decide, reaching in my pocket for my coins.
O’Neill nods and quotes the price. “A very good choice,” he says, carrying it to the back of the room.
I follow him, a stupid smile still on my lips.
• • •
Father’s flat is just a few blocks from O’Neill’s shop, directly above the offices for the Cahill Mercantile Company. Tess takes a deep breath as she raises the brass knocker.
I hear boots stampeding down the steps, and then Father himself throws the door open, a grin stretching across his face. “Girls!” he exclaims, and then he frowns. “Where’s Maura?”
“She can’t come,” Tess says quietly.
“She isn’t sick?” I suppose he’s been in town long enough to hear of the fever. Or has it already spread as far as Chatham?
“No. We’ll explain later.” Tess launches herself into his arms. “I’m so glad to see you, Father!”
“And I you,” he says. He looks just the same as ever, really—blond hair gone silver, a red, green, and black plaid jacket that’s quite out of fashion over a red vest and a pair of dark trousers—but his eyes are merrier than usual. Has he missed us?
“Cate,” he says. The hug I mean to give is perfunctory, but his arms tighten around me, burying my nose in his neck, and he smells of dust and pipe smoke, and it reminds me so much of home that an ache rises in my throat.
“Merry Christmas, Father,” I say, extricating myself.
He shuts the door and leads us up the stairs to his third-floor flat. It’s warm and cozy and—
“It smells delicious! Are we having our dinner here? I thought we’d go to a hotel,” Tess says, and I sniff appreciatively, taking in roasted goose and sage and onion stuffing. “Have you got a housekeeper?”
“I have, but I gave her the day off.” Father smiles as he ushers us into the parlor. It’s small compared to the rooms at home or at the convent, but it’s handsome, with two tufted gold sofas and two leather armchairs and a red Oriental rug. A picture window looks out over the city, the curtains tied back with gold bows, and there are candles flickering in the windows. This is where he stays whenever he’s in town for business. “I’ve got a surprise for you, girls. We’ll be having a few guests joining us for—”
The pocket doors to the dining room crash open.
“Merry Christmas!” Clara Belastra shouts. She’s in the midst of setting the table with a stack of Grandmother’s blue china plates that Father must have brought from home. Clara’s still tall and skinny, but she’s settled into her arms and legs in the two months since I saw her last.
“Clara!” Tess cries, a glad grin stretching across her face. They’re of the same age, and they became fast friends before I left Chatham.
Guests, Father said. My eyes count the seven table settings—the extra chair pushed in at one end—and fasten on the doorway beyond, my heart knocking like a wild thing. If Clara is here, then—
Marianne Belastra strides out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her flowered apron and giving me a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Merry Christmas, Tess. Cate.”
“Finn will be joining us later, for dinner,” Father says, and my hand clenches around the shopping bag with the fountain pen inside.
“How lovely,” Tess breathes. She looks back at Marianne. “Did you come into town yesterday, with Father? Have you—seen Finn yet?”
“We had dinner at his hotel last night. It was quite an interesting meal.” Marianne’s words are clipped, and her brown eyes, so like Finn’s, narrow behind her wire-rimmed spectacles. She knows. My heart sinks. “Cate, could you help me in the kitchen? I’d so like to catch up with you.”
“I—er—” I stumble. Marianne should have been my mother-in-law. She’s a clever, kind woman who’s raised a marvelous son, and I have a great deal of respect for her, but oh, I wish I could escape this conversation.
Tess comes to my rescue.
“There are some things we need to talk over with Father first, if you don’t mind,” she says, taking my hand and squeezing it.
“Come now, you can’t have Mrs. Belastra doing all the work!” Father protests.
“Of course not. Do you imagine I’d let anyone else do all the cooking?” Tess jokes. “We’ll both pitch in. But this—it’s important, Father. It can’t wait.”
His brow furrows. “Does it have to do with why Maura isn’t joining us?”
“Sort of,” Tess allows.
Marianne nods, but it’s clear she’s granting me only a reprieve. She turns to Clara. “Let’s give them a bit of privacy. Why don’t you come help me in the kitchen until Cate’s ready?”
Until Cate’s ready. I don’t suppose I’ll ever be ready to explain to Marianne what my sister did, but there’s no getting around it.
I turn to Tess, who looks as though she’s about to face a firing squad herself. It is a day for reckonings, it seems. I sit beside her on one of the gold sofas. Across the room, the fire crackle-snaps. With the dining room doors pulled shut again, I can smell the pine boughs draped over the windowsills.
“Is Maura all right? You said it’s not the fever.” Father’s lips twitch. “I know your sister can be a bit impetuous, but she hasn’t run off with a sailor, has she?”
Tess forces a smile. “No, nothing like that.” She toys with the green ruffles of her dress. “Now that we’re here, I don’t quite know how to start.”
Father leans forward in his armchair. “Best just to have out with it, perhaps? You might not know it, but I can be a good listener. Your mother always said so.” Pain flits across his face. “I know I’ve not been the best father to you girls. Having all three of you gone this last month—the house has felt so empty. It reminded me that I don’t want to spend the rest of my life rattling around the place on my own. I know it’s a natural thing, girls growing up and marrying and leaving home, but—I’d hoped to have more time with you and Maura yet, Tess.”
Oh. It’s the most heartfelt thing I’ve heard him say in years. He missed us. I look at Tess and find her lower lip trembling.
Father holds her heart in his hands now. If he rejects her, especially after this—this almost-promise of a different sort of relationship—she’ll be devastated.
I wish there were something I could do to control the situation, to make him react the way she wants, but I know Tess’s warning to Maura goes double for me. No magic.
She takes a deep breath. “There’s something you ought to know—that is, we want you to know.” Her heart-shaped face has gone pale. “We’re witches. Cate and Maura and I. All three of us.”
Father goes still as a statue. “That’s impossible.”
“It’s true,” I assure him.
“But—I know witches certainly still exist, but if all three of you were doing magic about the house, I would have noticed.” He flinches. “I would have. Wouldn’t I?”
“It’s not your fault, Papa.” Tess fidgets in her seat. “We kept it from you.”