Star Cursed

Page 23

“Will she live?” Was it enough? Was I enough?
It stuns me, how desperately I want my spell to have worked.
Sister Sophia studies me. She’s so sweet; it’s easy to forget she has a powerful intellect, an understanding of anatomy and biology that would rival any male physician’s. I’ve heard the other girls whisper that she once dissected a human corpse.
She reaches out and brushes my hair back from my face. The gesture is heartbreakingly maternal. “You felt a strong connection to her, didn’t you?”
I nod and the carriage spins around me. “I know what it’s like to lose a mother.”
“I thought her case might resonate with you, given your history,” Sister Sophia admits. “She’ll recover. You couldn’t feel that the spell was successful?”
“I was too focused on my intention, I think.”
“That happens sometimes, when you want to heal someone very badly. It’s difficult to strike the right balance. Our work requires empathy, but you must remain detached enough to feel whether the spell is working and when to stop. Attempting to heal someone whose injuries are beyond the scope of your gift will make you very ill.”
The nausea and dizziness are subsiding a little. I swing my feet onto the wooden floorboards of the carriage and sit up.
“That woman would have died in that place, without proper medical care,” Sister Sophia continues, her brown eyes steady on mine. “You saved her life, Cate. That’s work to be proud of.”
“I—thank you.” The notion of taking pride in my magic, in being a witch, feels wrong. But saving that woman didn’t. It was painful and difficult, but right.
“Before the other girls join us—” Sister Sophia leans forward, bracing her elbows on the knees of her black skirt. “Your gift for healing is very strong. You could do a great deal of good with it. But there are things you ought to know. May I speak frankly?”
“Please.”
“First, you must be careful of the work you perform in the hospital, or in any public place, or upon anyone who is unaware of your witchery. The nurses here don’t care enough to be suspicious of us. But if we were to entirely heal a string of patients, it would call attention to our visits—to you, and to the entire Sisterhood.”
Oh. I didn’t think of the difference between giving momentary relief and completely healing someone, and how risky the latter could be.
“Good Lord, I didn’t even—”
Sister Sophia puts out a hand. “No. It’s incredible, what you’re capable of. But there are those who would take advantage of it. They will want to ferret out the limits of your power, determine how you can use it on behalf of the Sisterhood. There are limits; we are not gods. We must respect that, or it can be dangerous to our well-being, both physically and spiritually.”
I nod. “I understand.”
“I’m not sure you do.” Sister Sophia sighs. “Life and death are two sides of the same coin. Being able to feel a person’s life flickering inside him—it can be seductive. There have been witches who used their healing for ill. Who have used it against their enemies.”
“How would they use it for ill?” I’m puzzled. “Do you mean—can we make people sick? Could I give someone a headache, instead of taking it away?” She’s never mentioned that in class.
I thought healing magic was good. Pure.
I should have known better. Magic is never simple.
Sister Sophia nods. “You cannot give someone pain out of nowhere, but you can greatly magnify it. I don’t mean to frighten you. You are only beginning to understand the scope of your gift, Cate. What we can do—in the right hands, it’s a blessing. Priests and physicians often speak of their work as a calling. I believe mine is, too. From the Lord or Persephone or someone else altogether, I don’t know, but I’m grateful for it.”
“Oh, I . . .” I trail off as Pearl opens the carriage door and the others climb in.
“I’m grateful to have four wonderful apprentices.” Sister Sophia smiles at all of us. “The side effects of healing tend to discourage most girls from studying it seriously—not to mention the ridiculous notion that biology and anatomy are unladylike. It’s nonsense.”
She’s off on her pet rant, but I’m lost in thought as the carriage begins to rattle back down the driveway. I’ve never thought of my magic as a blessing, only a curse. I thought perhaps healing would be different. Less complicated than mind-magic. A way to help people, to prove that the Brothers are wrong when they say all magic is wicked. But like any kind of power, it depends on the character of the person using it.
• • •
When I get home, the convent is abuzz with news of my sisters’ arrival. I’ve missed afternoon tea; girls are studying in the library or clattering upstairs to their rooms. On their lips, I hear the whispers: Prophecy. Maura and Tess. Cahill sisters.
I rush to the sitting room, then stop dead on the threshold.
They’re here.
For the last month, it’s what I’ve wanted more than anything—to see my sisters. But now that they’re here, I feel a peculiar flutter of nerves. I’m not certain I’m the same Cate who left them at the church door a month ago. Have they changed, too, in my absence?
Maura holds court next to Alice on the pink love seat. She’s gorgeous in an emerald gown that makes her eyes look green as spring grass. Her red hair is done up in a pompadour, held in place with jeweled combs; her feet are adorned with pink velvet slippers trimmed with green bows.
“I’ve always had strong intuition,” she says, eyelashes fluttering modestly. “I just sense things about people.”
“What kind of things?” Vi asks, rapt. She’s squeezed herself onto the settee on the other side of Alice, but her enormous lavender skirts poof out in front of her. Vi’s thin like me and requires a bustle to enhance her figure.
“Oh, you know.” Maura waves a languid hand. “What sort of things they might be capable of. Whether or not they’re trustworthy. I wouldn’t be surprised if I graduated to visions any day now.”
Looking past her, I find Tess on an ottoman next to Rory, her pale hair in braids that wind around her head like mine. She’s wearing a red plaid dress, and she looks flushed and rosy and healthy—if a bit skeptical of Maura’s newfound psychic tendencies. When she sees me, she leaps up. I’d swear she’s an inch taller than when I last saw her.
“Cate!” She hurls herself at me, and I catch her, squeezing her so tight she lets out a little squeak. She laughs and I laugh, too, at hearing it.
Maura rises and gives me a perfunctory hug. She smells sweet and citrusy, like lemon verbena. “There you are! We’ve been waiting for you for ages.”
“I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you arrived. I’ve missed you both so much,” I say, eyeing Maura carefully. Is she still angry with me for leaving her behind?
I’m glad they’re here. The Sisterhood isn’t what I wanted for them, but it’s not as evil as Mother made it out to be, either. And perhaps it shouldn’t have been my decision alone. Seeing them here, taller and prettier and more grown-up than ever, it wallops me over the head: they aren’t children anymore. They have the right to choose their own futures.