As we walk down Church Street, more shopkeepers are locking up so they can watch the proclamation. I glance at the cathedral. They’ve swept the broken glass from the front steps, but the damage is clear: All the beautiful windows are gone, the gaping holes boarded up. It was sacrilege, what I did, destroying a place of worship like that.
I pray that my sisters won’t be punished for my transgressions.
A crowd has already gathered in Richmond Square, though it’s only half past eleven. Liveried guards with bayonets at the ready are patrolling the entrances and grouped in clusters throughout the square. Hundreds of Brothers stand at the front of the crowd, right before the gallows—so many that it looks as though the entire National Council has turned out. Finn will be there somewhere.
A single noose dangles in the center of the gallows stage.
Fear grips me. It’s to be a hanging, then.
A witch? Obviously they’re prepared for trouble.
“Well, this explains why there are no guards left at the convent. Every soldier in New London is downtown,” Rory whispers.
We take up a position near the front. The crowd is growing every minute, but the mood is different today. Somber. There are no vendors selling roasted chestnuts or hot cider to take away the chill. No children playing tag. The crisp air is filled with hacking coughs, and people look anxiously at their neighbors before nestling deeper into their upturned collars. I don’t see any other Sisters present, but perhaps they, too, are glamoured. The few women in the crowd have their hoods up and scarves wrapped around their mouths.
Alice elbows me. “Look, they’re coming!” she hisses, pulling her hood lower.
A squadron of guards moves slowly down the steps of the National Council building. At its center are three figures cloaked in black, indistinguishable in the distance. Two of them walk side by side while the third trudges behind them, head down and hands bound, with guards close on either side. Could that be Inez? It’s impossible to tell whether the figure is male or female.
As they enter the square, whispers slink and skip through the crowd. People fall to their knees, shouting—what? I cannot make it out.
I stand on my tiptoes, trying to see over the shoulders in front of me.
When I finally catch a glimpse of the man climbing the gallows, I gasp.
“That’s impossible!” My voice is lost in the shocked murmurs of everyone around me.
The broad shoulders, the sharp cheekbones, the black hair gone gray at the temples—the charismatic carriage—his way of wearing the Brothers’ robes as though it’s the finest suit money could buy—
It’s Brother William Covington, back from death’s door.
“It’s a miracle!” someone shouts.
The air fills with amens and hallelujahs.
As Covington takes center stage, another figure ascends the gallows. She turns to face the crowd, her sharp beak of a nose and dark eyes instantly familiar. The wind catches at her hood, revealing chestnut hair pulled back into a tight chignon. Inez.
But her hands are free, clasped piously before her. Then, who—
The third figure climbs the steps, a guard’s rifle at his back. My breath strangles in my throat when he lifts his face and I recognize the icy blue gaze of Brother O’Shea.
How has Inez managed this?
“The Lord works in mysterious ways,” Brother Covington begins. His honeyed drawl is a trifle hoarse, and the crowd goes silent, pressing forward to hear him better. “I should not be standing here before you today. I have spent the last three weeks lying in a bed in Richmond Hospital, stripped of my dignity. The witches’ horrific attack left me unable to recall my own name, unable to perform the most basic functions. All previous victims have lived out the rest of their days in this state. It is nothing short of a miracle that I stand here, fully recovered, with all my faculties intact. Thanks be!”
The crowd echoes him, and I bite my tongue. Miracle, my foot. If his faculties were truly intact, his memory returned, he’d never be standing next to the woman who attacked him in the first place.
How is this possible? He ought to be drooling in his hospital bed, being spoon-fed his meals and changed like an infant.
Covington gives a broad smile. “I am humbled. And I feel certain this miracle would not have occurred without the incredible devotion—the tireless prayers—of this woman. I would like to publicly thank Sister Inez Ortega, headmistress of the Sisterhood, for praying by my side every day.” He gives a low, chivalrous bow. I clap with the rest of the crowd. Next to me, Alice gives a little hiss through her teeth.
This is the result of all her hours at his bedside. Somehow, she’s compelling him.
Inez wants Brother Covington awake and leading New England. But why? How does this fit into her plans? A mixture of fascination and fear washes over me. I’ve never heard of such powerful compulsion, but nothing else makes sense.
“After successfully completing a battery of tests, I have reassumed my duties as head of the Brotherhood,” Covington says, and pauses while the crowd cheers. The people of New London have always liked him. “The last few weeks, New London has been under attack. We have now learned the identity of the witch responsible: one Catherine Cahill. I urge you all to buy a copy of today’s Sentinel and examine her picture closely. This girl is extremely dangerous. Just look at the damage she did to our beautiful cathedral!” He makes a sweeping gesture behind him. “We have reason to believe she’s still in New London, and I will not rest until she and her accomplices are found. Justice will be served!”
He shakes his fist in the air as the crowd cheers again.
What on earth is Inez playing at?
And if she’s capable of this—what’s to stop her from doing it again, to anyone who stands in her way? She’s never been able to compel me, but I’ve always been on my guard with her. What about my sisters? My friends? Finn?
Covington’s full mouth tilts into a frown. “My pursuit of justice has led me to a disturbing revelation. A revelation that someone I trusted has betrayed me—has betrayed us all!—in the worst possible manner. I hereby charge Edward O’Shea with treason against New England.” The guards push O’Shea forward. All his bantam courage has deserted him; his shoulders slump as he fixes his eyes on the floor. “Yesterday, guards found Miss Cahill’s diary concealed in her bedroom at the convent of the Sisterhood. In it, she confessed to the attacks on the Head Council as well as Harwood Asylum and Richmond Square. She admitted—unsurprisingly—that noted seditionist Alistair Merriweather aided her in these attacks. But she also wrote that, in the interest of furthering his own ambition, O’Shea helped her plan the attack on the Head Council. Cornered, she turned on him yesterday inside the cathedral—and he let her escape! His betrayal and lies—indeed, his abuse of power—must be punished to the fullest extent of the law.”
The crowd murmurs. O’Shea is not well liked. But to put a man—a member of the Brotherhood—to death without a trial? On such flimsy evidence as the word of a witch? Down front, the Brothers’ calm has devolved into angry whispers, like the buzzing of a hundred furious bees. I hear murmurs of Sean Brennan’s name. Is this Inez’s plan? Divide and conquer?
“Let this be a warning to you all. Anyone aiding or abetting the witch known as Catherine Cahill will be put to death.” Covington points an accusing finger at O’Shea, while I marvel at Inez’s talent for mimicry. She has his theatrical gestures, the smallest inflections of his voice, down pat. How long has she been planning this?