The fact is, no matter how much I wish it for her, Tess isn’t a normal girl. She can’t go home and pretend any more than I could. We’ve got responsibilities that we can’t shirk, and I’ll have to help her shoulder them as best I can.
We hurry up the marble steps of the convent, shucking our wet cloaks onto the pegs just inside the door. They drip onto the green carpet below. “Let’s have a chat in my room, in front of the fire,” I suggest, teeth chattering.
Tess holds out her wet pink skirts. “Can I change first?”
I nod. We part ways on the third floor. Tess trudges down the hall to the room she shares with Violet van Buren, while I go into the cheery room I share with Rilla. I unhook the buttons down the front of my gown and let it pool at my feet. Stepping out of my black skirt, I hang it over the hissing radiator to dry. I’m standing in my corset cover and petticoats, pulling a green dress splashed with white poppies from my armoire, when Tess rushes into my room without knocking.
“Cate! Cate, come quick!” she cries.
“What is it?” I ask, drawing the dress down over my head.
Her face is pale, her eyes shining with tears, and she’s still dressed in her wet pink frock. “It’s Cyclops,” she gasps.
Cyclops is the one-eyed teddy bear she’s cherished since she was little. “Is he missing?”
“No, he—” She swallows. “Come and see.”
I make quick work of the green velvet sash at my waist and hurry after her.
“Tess? Cate? What’s wrong?” Lucy Wheeler and Rebekah Reed are heading toward the stairs, their arms full of books.
“Nothing,” Tess lies. She stands in her doorway until I join her. “Look, Cate, someone—”
Her voice cuts off. I stare at her side of the room: the polka-dotted curtains Mrs. O’Hare sewed for her, the daguerreotype of Mother and Father on her windowsill, the blue quilt on her bed. Cyclops rests on her pillow.
“Someone what?” I prompt.
Tess strides into the room, staring up at the top of her window. “He was hanging!”
“Hanging?” I echo, confused.
“Cyclops was hanging from the curtain rod. By a rope. By his neck.” She shudders, rushing over to the teddy bear and picking him up as gingerly as though he were a spider.
I frown. “Perhaps it was an illusion? Someone playing a trick on you?”
Tess tosses Cyclops onto the bed. “There was a note pinned to his hand that said You’ll be next. Does that sound like a schoolgirl prank to you?”
“No.” It sounds like a threat.
“Who would do that?” Tess whimpers, curling into a wet pink ball.
I sit next to her, rubbing her back in circles. “I don’t know. But we’ll find out. We’ll keep you safe, Tess. I promise.”
Chapter 4
RICHMOND CATHEDRAL IS THE BROTHERS’ pride and joy. It is a place intended for worship, yes, but also for the great pomp and circumstance of state ceremony. Brother Richmond and his first followers hailed from Salisbury in England, and they say our cathedral’s design is based on the great cathedral there. Outside, the stone edifice is niched with statues of apostles and the early church fathers. Above us, the spire rises three hundred feet—by law, the tallest building in all of New England. Below us, former Head Council members sleep in the marble crypt.
The cathedral is laid out in the shape of a crucifix. Pointed arches support the high, buttressed ceiling, and the stained glass windows lining the walls are filled with beautiful, terrible illustrations of the Lord’s miracles. Beyond the sanctuary, on the north wall, He ascends to heaven. Before Him, dozens of shining mahogany pews are filled with mourners.
Brother O’Shea, puffed up with new importance, leads the service. It’s meant to be an honor, the new head of the Brotherhood delivering her eulogy, but O’Shea knew nothing about Sister Cora. His words, tinny and false as a badly tuned instrument, set my teeth on edge.
“Sister Cora was a good woman, and we mourn her passing. But we must remember that she was an anomaly. It is dangerous to encourage our girls to educate themselves, lest they be distracted, their minds sullied by matters that ought not concern them. True study of the Scriptures must be left to men, whose minds are more capable of discerning the true word of the Lord.”
His blue eyes are piercing as he gazes out into the crowd. I cast my face down to hide my outrage. “Most girls cannot manage the”—his nose wrinkles, his long face betraying his distaste—“independence that Cora was permitted as a member of the Sisterhood. Women require their husbands’ guidance to determine right from wrong. I must admit, I have my doubts about whether the Sisterhood still has a place in New England.”
The faces around me are carefully blank, though I know Rilla and Mei must feel the same fury and fear that I do. O’Shea has the power to close the convent and put us all out on the street, or force us into loveless marriages, and he wants us to know it.
“Any deviation from the path raises questions of obedience. Education leads to rebellion. The dangers we face from unscrupulous women—from witches, who believe they are not only our equals but our superiors—has never been greater.” Next to me, Rilla bites her lip. “Brother Covington and the other council members lying comatose in Richmond Hospital serve as testament to this. So does Sean Brennan, who is now in hiding, justly fearing the consequences of having freed the witches imprisoned in Harwood. Lord knows what vengeance those madwomen will wreak!”
I glance at the mahogany casket that holds Sister Cora’s body. I can’t let her down. I’ve got to find a way to reinstate Brennan into the Brotherhood’s good graces—to make it clear that he ran for his life, not out of guilt.
We’ll never get anywhere with a tyrant like O’Shea in charge.
• • •
After the service, we lead the way through the afternoon gloom to the funeral reception at the convent. Delectable breads and scones and small tea sandwiches march down the dining room tables. With Sister Sophia—the best cook in the Sisterhood—still away, Tess and some of the other girls spent the morning in a flour-drenched frenzy of baking. Tess is in the kitchen now, plating scones and washing dishes. She seems happier today, unafraid, but I can’t forget that someone in the Sisterhood wants to do her harm.
The sideboard is stacked with the convent’s best gold-and-white china, and Sisters Johanna and Edith bring out pots of steaming tea and chocolate. The pocket doors between the dining room and sitting room are thrown wide. Inez and Gretchen have adopted the roles of mourners-in-chief, greeting guests, reminiscing about Cora’s good deeds.
Gretchen’s eyes are bloodshot and rimmed in red. Inez’s are not.
Our Sisterly uniforms—black bombazine dresses that stretch from throat to wrists to ankles, black heeled boots, and black satin gloves—are well suited to mourning. None of us wants to draw attention to ourselves. We keep our voices respectfully low, gazes cast down demurely.
No one will find any banned texts within the convent’s gray stone walls today. The Gothic novels on the bookshelf have been transformed into books of Scripture. The fashion magazines from Dubai and Mexico City have been hidden. In the healing classroom, Bones the skeleton and charts of the human musculature have been locked away.