Sisters' Fate
Page 70
I glance at my father. He has been very present these last few days—not like after Mother’s death, when he disappeared into himself. He wants to spend most of his time in New London now; he plans to rent a proper house in Cardiff, and he has asked Tess and me to come live with him. We are considering it. Truth be told, I am not terribly used to having him fussing around us so solicitously; it feels equal parts comforting and annoying. Tess likes it, though.
“The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures; He leadeth me beside the still waters; He restoreth my soul,” Brother Ralston recites.
My mind catches on “still waters.” I look at the pond, covered in a thick layer of ice. We used to go skating every winter when we were young—or rather, I did, with our neighbor Paul McLeod, and sometimes Maura tagged along. I was always racing Paul across the pond, while Maura twirled graceful figure eights and pretended to be a ballerina.
Paul sent a sweet note of condolence about Maura’s death. He wanted to come to the funeral, but he’s laid up in New London, recovering from the fever. I thought perhaps his mother would come, but Agnes McLeod is terribly devout. If she’s heard what Maura was—well, likely she’d turn up her nose and cross herself and think the world better off for being free of one more witch. The papers—even the Brotherhood’s mouthpiece, the Sentinel—have been full of news of the great fire in New London and the madness of Brother Covington, who’s slipped back into a coma.
Brother Brennan has returned from exile and ordered two squadrons of guards stationed at the convent—not to restrict our movements, but to protect us. The papers have reported on the shocking truth of the Sisterhood, and while some people are full of gratitude for our help with the fire and the fever, others hold deeply to their hatred. Rilla and Tess and I—commended in the firemen’s reports for our bravery in saving the orphanage—might well have targets painted on our backs. Finn and Father would prefer that I have guards trailing after me at all times. For this trip, they’ve let the matter rest, but I suspect we’ve not had our last argument on the subject.
Finn stands with his mother and sister and a bearded Brother I’ve never seen before. Finn is wearing an old black greatcoat instead of his Brotherly cloak, and his coppery hair shines in the sun. He and I haven’t seen each other alone since the fire.
“We thank You for Maura, the years we shared with her, the good we saw in her, the love we received from her,” Brother Ralston prays.
Love you too, Cate. Maura’s last words—more breath than sound—flutter against my cheek. I look up into the cloudless blue sky—a brilliant blue like Maura’s eyes—as other mourners bow their heads.
“Now give us strength and courage to leave her in Your care . . .”
I do not want to leave her in the Lord’s care. I cannot help feeling as though He has already failed her. Or perhaps it was I who failed her. I remember the girl who used to sing bawdy songs and play her mandolin when Father was away; who would spend rainy afternoons with her tea going cold while she curled up on her window seat, enchanted by the exploits of dukes and governesses; who sent ghosts popping out of my closet to terrify me; who was enraptured with Elena’s velvet slippers and satin underthings when they first met. The girl who, to her dying day, believed that her magic was a gift, never a curse.
Maura was far from perfect, but then so am I.
No matter what I do, it never feels enough. I want so badly to protect the people I love from harm, but my love is not strong enough.
How can I learn to make my peace with that? How does anyone?
Fifty-seven people were killed the night of the fire; hundreds of homes were destroyed. The worst fire—the one that consumed the orphanage—was put out by Wednesday evening, twenty-four hours after it started. It could have been much worse, I know. If the witches hadn’t immobilized or compelled the guards to open up the quarantine checkpoints—if Alice hadn’t put out the fire on Bramble Hill—if the fire engines hadn’t reached the fire closest to the market district so quickly—if the train tracks hadn’t provided a natural fire break—if Tess hadn’t held the winds back until the orphanage was evacuated—hundreds could have been killed.
Still, the cost to the Sisterhood seems high. Alice was killed after she collapsed the water tower. Genie and Maud—both only fifteen—were killed when a building caved in. One of the Harwood refugees, little Sarah Mae, was badly burnt when she tried to rescue a kitten. Livvy broke her leg so badly we couldn’t heal it; the physician isn’t sure if she’ll ever walk without a limp. Old Sister Evelyn had an attack of apoplexy and is bedridden in the convent. And Sister Gretchen was fatally shot by a soldier when she tried to open up one of the checkpoints.
“We now commit her body to the ground: earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust . . .” Brother Ralston says, and I startle to attention. I have avoided looking at the coffin, but now it’s time to place our roses on top of it. Father goes first. Then Tess. Then it’s my turn.
Everyone’s eyes are on me. It is not so very difficult, Cate. Put one foot in front of the other. It’s only five steps.
I get as far as the coffin, and then I can’t seem to make myself move. I stand there, frozen, breath strangling in my chest. Panic sinks its sharp teeth into me. I feel such a fool, clutching the white rose in my ungloved hands, staring blindly at my sister’s casket. I am not the sort of girl who falls to pieces, even in moments like this. But my corset feels cinched too tight and I cannot breathe and—
Footsteps crunch across the grass, and someone takes my arm. A freckled hand stained with blue ink pulls the rose from my clenched fingers and sits it lightly on top of the casket. Finn escorts me back to my family and wraps an arm around my waist. “Breathe,” he whispers, his lips very near my ear.
Brother Ralston’s voice eventually stops, and the mourners begin to make their way back to the house. I can hear them offering Father and Tess their condolences. I ought to hurry in and help Mrs. O’Hare lay out the food. But the notion of making small talk with our neighbors is dreadful, and I know Marianne and Clara and Rilla will be eager to help.
Finn doesn’t rush me.
“Take as long as you need.” Behind his spectacles, his brown eyes are solemn. “I’m here. Or I can go, if you want a moment alone.”
“I don’t know what’s the matter with me.” I flush, pulling away from him and huddling into myself. “I didn’t fall to pieces when Mother died. Maura and Tess needed me. I couldn’t.”
Finn’s brow rumples into the upside-down V. “You’ve lost your sister, Cate. Grieving her doesn’t make you weak. I cried when my father died. Perhaps it’s not manly to admit it, but I did. Do you think less of me for that?”
I scowl up at him. “Of course not.”
“Then stop being so hard on yourself.” He tucks a strand of blond hair behind my ear. “It’s only been ten days. You need time.” I shove my hands in my cloak pockets, miserable, and he chuckles. “That was the wrong thing to say, wasn’t it? Your face is transparent as glass sometimes.”
I’ve never been good with words—not like Tess—but now they rush out of me, raw and urgent. “I can’t help feeling lost, somehow. I promised, Finn. I promised Mother I would look after both of them, keep them safe, and that promise has been everything to me for the last four years. And then there was the prophecy. I haven’t gone a day without thinking of it for months, but I couldn’t stop it, and now Maura is gone and—I just don’t know!” I falter.
“The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures; He leadeth me beside the still waters; He restoreth my soul,” Brother Ralston recites.
My mind catches on “still waters.” I look at the pond, covered in a thick layer of ice. We used to go skating every winter when we were young—or rather, I did, with our neighbor Paul McLeod, and sometimes Maura tagged along. I was always racing Paul across the pond, while Maura twirled graceful figure eights and pretended to be a ballerina.
Paul sent a sweet note of condolence about Maura’s death. He wanted to come to the funeral, but he’s laid up in New London, recovering from the fever. I thought perhaps his mother would come, but Agnes McLeod is terribly devout. If she’s heard what Maura was—well, likely she’d turn up her nose and cross herself and think the world better off for being free of one more witch. The papers—even the Brotherhood’s mouthpiece, the Sentinel—have been full of news of the great fire in New London and the madness of Brother Covington, who’s slipped back into a coma.
Brother Brennan has returned from exile and ordered two squadrons of guards stationed at the convent—not to restrict our movements, but to protect us. The papers have reported on the shocking truth of the Sisterhood, and while some people are full of gratitude for our help with the fire and the fever, others hold deeply to their hatred. Rilla and Tess and I—commended in the firemen’s reports for our bravery in saving the orphanage—might well have targets painted on our backs. Finn and Father would prefer that I have guards trailing after me at all times. For this trip, they’ve let the matter rest, but I suspect we’ve not had our last argument on the subject.
Finn stands with his mother and sister and a bearded Brother I’ve never seen before. Finn is wearing an old black greatcoat instead of his Brotherly cloak, and his coppery hair shines in the sun. He and I haven’t seen each other alone since the fire.
“We thank You for Maura, the years we shared with her, the good we saw in her, the love we received from her,” Brother Ralston prays.
Love you too, Cate. Maura’s last words—more breath than sound—flutter against my cheek. I look up into the cloudless blue sky—a brilliant blue like Maura’s eyes—as other mourners bow their heads.
“Now give us strength and courage to leave her in Your care . . .”
I do not want to leave her in the Lord’s care. I cannot help feeling as though He has already failed her. Or perhaps it was I who failed her. I remember the girl who used to sing bawdy songs and play her mandolin when Father was away; who would spend rainy afternoons with her tea going cold while she curled up on her window seat, enchanted by the exploits of dukes and governesses; who sent ghosts popping out of my closet to terrify me; who was enraptured with Elena’s velvet slippers and satin underthings when they first met. The girl who, to her dying day, believed that her magic was a gift, never a curse.
Maura was far from perfect, but then so am I.
No matter what I do, it never feels enough. I want so badly to protect the people I love from harm, but my love is not strong enough.
How can I learn to make my peace with that? How does anyone?
Fifty-seven people were killed the night of the fire; hundreds of homes were destroyed. The worst fire—the one that consumed the orphanage—was put out by Wednesday evening, twenty-four hours after it started. It could have been much worse, I know. If the witches hadn’t immobilized or compelled the guards to open up the quarantine checkpoints—if Alice hadn’t put out the fire on Bramble Hill—if the fire engines hadn’t reached the fire closest to the market district so quickly—if the train tracks hadn’t provided a natural fire break—if Tess hadn’t held the winds back until the orphanage was evacuated—hundreds could have been killed.
Still, the cost to the Sisterhood seems high. Alice was killed after she collapsed the water tower. Genie and Maud—both only fifteen—were killed when a building caved in. One of the Harwood refugees, little Sarah Mae, was badly burnt when she tried to rescue a kitten. Livvy broke her leg so badly we couldn’t heal it; the physician isn’t sure if she’ll ever walk without a limp. Old Sister Evelyn had an attack of apoplexy and is bedridden in the convent. And Sister Gretchen was fatally shot by a soldier when she tried to open up one of the checkpoints.
“We now commit her body to the ground: earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust . . .” Brother Ralston says, and I startle to attention. I have avoided looking at the coffin, but now it’s time to place our roses on top of it. Father goes first. Then Tess. Then it’s my turn.
Everyone’s eyes are on me. It is not so very difficult, Cate. Put one foot in front of the other. It’s only five steps.
I get as far as the coffin, and then I can’t seem to make myself move. I stand there, frozen, breath strangling in my chest. Panic sinks its sharp teeth into me. I feel such a fool, clutching the white rose in my ungloved hands, staring blindly at my sister’s casket. I am not the sort of girl who falls to pieces, even in moments like this. But my corset feels cinched too tight and I cannot breathe and—
Footsteps crunch across the grass, and someone takes my arm. A freckled hand stained with blue ink pulls the rose from my clenched fingers and sits it lightly on top of the casket. Finn escorts me back to my family and wraps an arm around my waist. “Breathe,” he whispers, his lips very near my ear.
Brother Ralston’s voice eventually stops, and the mourners begin to make their way back to the house. I can hear them offering Father and Tess their condolences. I ought to hurry in and help Mrs. O’Hare lay out the food. But the notion of making small talk with our neighbors is dreadful, and I know Marianne and Clara and Rilla will be eager to help.
Finn doesn’t rush me.
“Take as long as you need.” Behind his spectacles, his brown eyes are solemn. “I’m here. Or I can go, if you want a moment alone.”
“I don’t know what’s the matter with me.” I flush, pulling away from him and huddling into myself. “I didn’t fall to pieces when Mother died. Maura and Tess needed me. I couldn’t.”
Finn’s brow rumples into the upside-down V. “You’ve lost your sister, Cate. Grieving her doesn’t make you weak. I cried when my father died. Perhaps it’s not manly to admit it, but I did. Do you think less of me for that?”
I scowl up at him. “Of course not.”
“Then stop being so hard on yourself.” He tucks a strand of blond hair behind my ear. “It’s only been ten days. You need time.” I shove my hands in my cloak pockets, miserable, and he chuckles. “That was the wrong thing to say, wasn’t it? Your face is transparent as glass sometimes.”
I’ve never been good with words—not like Tess—but now they rush out of me, raw and urgent. “I can’t help feeling lost, somehow. I promised, Finn. I promised Mother I would look after both of them, keep them safe, and that promise has been everything to me for the last four years. And then there was the prophecy. I haven’t gone a day without thinking of it for months, but I couldn’t stop it, and now Maura is gone and—I just don’t know!” I falter.
