Sisters' Fate (13 page)

“Are you sure? You look rather—wobbly.” Behind his spectacles, his brown eyes are full of worry. He might not love me—but he does care, at least a little.

Merriweather charges forward from the doorway, his dark hair windblown, his olive peacoat buttoned all askew. “You were able to heal the boy completely? Can you tell me what it felt like?” He runs a hand over his jaw. “If you can heal it, though—people might see that as proof.”

“Proof of what?” Rilla demands, glaring up at him.

Merriweather shrugs. “O’Shea’s claim that the witches created the fever, that it’s some sort of dark magic.”

“That’s ridiculous.” Mei stomps around me, jabbing her forefinger into Merriweather’s broad chest. “We’re helping people, not hurting them. It’s more than the Brothers are doing. They only want to help those who can pay the hospital fees.”

“It’s true.” Mrs. Zhang steps away from her son for a moment. “Baba went to the hospital earlier. The nurse told him all the beds were full, but then a Brother brought in a little girl and they took her right upstairs to see Brother Kenneally.”

“See? That’s what you ought to be reporting on!” Mei insists.

Merriweather arches one eyebrow. “That the Brothers and their families are given preferential treatment? That’s hardly news, I’m afraid.”

“Why?” I croak. “Why Kenneally?”

“He’s the director of Richmond Hospital. It’s all in who you know, isn’t it?” Merriweather’s rich baritone is full of disgust, but I shake my head, struggling to collect my thoughts.

“No. She means why would they come down to the hospital to see him, when it’s full of infection and there’s no cure?” Finn says, and I nod, relieved that someone else has caught at the heart of it. “What can Kenneally do that their private physician can’t?”

“Ah.” Merriweather steeples his long, elegant fingers. “That’s a good question, Belastra. That might bear looking into.”

Rilla swats at his arm. “
Cate
was the one pointing it out!”

I lean back against the wall, and Finn gives me his gap-toothed grin. There’s admiration in his eyes—whether for my witchery or my wits, I don’t know—but it makes my stomach flutter in an altogether different way.

CHAPTER

13

TESS HAS CALLED A FAMILY MEETING.

Frankly, I would have liked to refuse to come, but it
is
Christmas Eve.

“I think we ought to go over early for Christmas dinner,” Tess says, standing awkwardly in the middle of her bedroom. It’s the first time she and Maura and I have been alone together in weeks. “To talk to Father.”

“Good luck to you with that.” Still standing in the doorway, Maura rolls her blue eyes. “He doesn’t know how to talk to us. Never has.”

She’s got a point. A month ago I would have said the same thing, in the same scornful tones.

“It’s what
we
have to say to
him
that’s important.” Tess gulps, smoothing her green skirt. “We’re going to tell him the truth. I—I’d like it if you’d come, too. I think all three of us should be there.”

Maura stiffens. “What truth? You can’t mean—”

“I do,” Tess interrupts, ushering Maura in. Maura eyes me warily and then sits on Vi’s bed, rumpling the fluffy white goose-down duvet. Tess shuts the door behind her. “There’s something you ought to know. Something Mother kept from us. When they were first married, Father knew about Mother’s witchery. She erased his memory. Zara told us.”

Maura glares at us. It is not, I think, the reaction Tess was hoping for. “Tell me this—if he supported her, why would she need to erase his memory?”

Tess sits next to me on her bed. “After Zara was arrested, Mother was afraid she would be next. She thought Father might do something rash to get himself arrested right alongside her.”

“Father?” Maura snorts. “He’s hardly the impetuous sort. What did she think he would do, shoot Brother Ishida?”

I remember Marianne Belastra’s kind brown eyes on the day she found out Finn and I were in love.
He may not have said the words, but I know my son. I saw the way he looked at you. Like he’d do murder for you.

“He might,” I snap. “It seems we don’t really know
what
Father is.”

“We do,” Maura insists. “The way he’s acted over the last three years says all we need to know about his character. He only cares for his books and his business.”

“And Mother.” I lean forward, eyes intent. “They were so in love. It never made sense to me that she kept such an enormous secret from him. When you love someone like that, with your whole heart”—
the way I love Finn, the way he used to love me
—“how could you not want them to know you?”

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.

“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.