O’Shea shrugs, and I cringe at his indifference. “We’ll take them to the orphanage if there’s no one else to look after them.”

“There’s a neighbor,” I suggest. It’s the least I can do.

I hope the neighbor will agree to take them. Two more mouths to feed isn’t an easy burden. If Lavinia is sentenced to hard labor on a prison ship, she might be home again in a few years—if she survives the backbreaking work and rampant disease. If she’s sent to Harwood Asylum, though, that’s a lifetime. She’ll never see her children again.

“Mrs. Papadopoulos, two doors down,” Lavinia says quickly. “Henry, go with Sister Catherine. Don’t worry. I’ll be back soon.” She gives Henry a smile, smoothing his floppy brown hair, but her voice cracks on the lie. “I love you.”

“Stop delaying.” Helmsley yanks Lavinia away from her son and out the door. I hear her stumble on the steps, and my breath catches. Could I have stopped this? Have I become as cruel and cowardly as the Brothers?

“Come here, Henry,” Mei says, reaching for him, but he darts past her.

“Mama! Come back!” He surges after Lavinia like a small, sobbing lion. Mei scampers after him, and I follow, cursing the steep stairs and my heeled boots.

Outside, Henry runs to his mother and buries his face in her skirt. There’s a ragtag crowd gathered: the Spanish and Chinese boys who’d been playing stickball in the empty lot across the street. Above us, curtains twitch, and I wonder which of those nosy neighbors informed on Lavinia.

“Don’t take my mama!” Henry begs.

“Don’t you see he’s scared? Let me say a proper good-bye,” Lavinia pleads, reaching for him ineffectually with her bound hands.

O’Shea’s thin face is hard. “He’s better off without a mother like you.”

Helmsley shoves her toward the carriage, and Lavinia trips, falling to the sidewalk in a heap of black skirts and blond hair.

“Take the boy inside,” O’Shea orders us, his pale eyes cold.

“Mama!” Henry screams, fighting, kicking Mei as she tries to grab him.

I see the crowd of boys stirring restlessly, grumbling among themselves. I cringe, remembering the last arrest I saw—Brenna Elliott’s—and the way onlookers called her a witch and threw stones at her.

One tall boy draws his arm back, and I almost shout a warning as he lets it fly.

The rock smacks O’Shea between the shoulders. O’Shea turns and glares at the group of boys, and I glance at Mei, suppressing a smile.

I’ve never seen anyone fight back against the Brothers. It’s marvelous. Foolish, too—but then they are boys, not girls, and they’ve got less to lose.

More rocks fly through the air, pelting O’Shea and Helmsley in the back and shoulders, accompanied by angry shouts in foreign languages. O’Shea spins around, bellowing something about respect, then gives up and sprints for the carriage like the coward he is. Helmsley yanks Lavinia to her feet, dragging her down the sidewalk.

As Mei bends to grab Henry, a rock slams into the side of her head. She screams something at the boys in Chinese. I dart forward and nab Henry by the collar. The boy buries his tearstained face against my hip as the Brothers’ carriage rattles away with his mother sealed inside. The hailstorm of rocks stops as suddenly as it started. The crowd drifts away; the curtains flutter shut. It’s over—for everyone but Lavinia Anderson, whose nightmare has just begun.

“Are you all right?” I ask Mei. Blood is gathering at her temple and trickling down her cheek.

“Sure. One of them’s got terrible aim,” Mei jokes, but she looks a little unsteady.

“Help Mei into the carriage. I’ll take Henry back upstairs and get our baskets,” Alice says, appearing behind me. “Mrs. Papadopoulos heard the fuss. She’s with the baby now.”

Our coachman, Robert van Buren, is running down the street toward us, a newspaper tucked under his arm. He’s one of the few people who know the truth of the Sisterhood; his daughter Violet is a student there.

“I saw the ruckus just as I was leaving that store on the corner. I’m sorry, Miss Zhang. I’ll get you home right away,” he says, handing Mei up into the carriage.

“Does it look real bad?” Mei tilts her head at me, swaying dizzily, before sinking onto the leather bench.

I swallow at the sight of a three-inch gash. “No. Sister Sophia will fix you up good as new.” I use my black satin glove to wipe away the trail of blood weaving across her round cheek.

It’s a pity Mei can’t heal herself. Healing is her specialty; she’s one of three girls in Sister Sophia’s advanced class who go on nursing missions to Harwood and Richmond Hospital. In my six weeks at the convent, I’ve discovered that many witches have an affinity for a specific kind of magic: illusions, animations, healing, or memory modification. It’s another piece of our history that Mother never bothered to share before she died.

Mei closes her eyes. “Maybe you could heal me,” she suggests, voice faint.

“Me? I can barely cure a headache,” I protest.

She opens her dark eyes and smiles. “I’ve got faith in you, Cate.”

I don’t know why; I don’t have much faith in myself. But something snaps inside me. When did I become someone who hesitates instead of helping? Mei has been a good friend to me. Trying to stop her from swooning in a pool of her own blood seems the very least I can do in return.

“All right, I’ll try.”

I lean across the aisle, cupping my hand gently over hers. Healing is different from other sorts of magic; there has to be a physical connection. I pull on the threads of magic that coil in my chest, weaving through my body alongside nerves and muscles. I wish it weren’t there; I wish I weren’t a witch. But it is and I am, and if I can’t ever be rid of it, I might as well try and use it for something good.

I think of how sweet Mei is, always the first to offer help. How I would take this pain from her now if I could.

The magic rolls through me, powerful as an ocean wave, warm as a hot bath. It pours out my fingertips, and the unexpected strength of it leaves me limp and breathless. That felt—strong. Formidable.

“Oh,” Mei gasps. She turns her head so I can see. Her black hair is still matted and bloody, but the cut is gone. Completely.

“All fixed?” I try not to sound flabbergasted by my success.

Mei searches with her fingertips. After a moment, she beams. “It’s not even sore. Thank you, Cate.”

“You’re welcome. I’m glad to be of—” I’ve got to brace myself against the seat before I fall. My legs have gone weak and rubbery.

Sister Sophia warned us about this. My stomach heaves, and I lurch for the door just in time. I’m sick right onto the cobblestones below.

I wipe my mouth with my clean glove, then look over at Mei, embarrassed.

“That’s a normal reaction to a healing spell,” she assures me, helping me back into the carriage and onto the leather seat across from her.

I curl up on the bench, squeezing my eyes shut and resting my aching head on my arms. Heels hammer on the cobblestones outside, and Alice steps through the open carriage door, dropping the empty baskets at our feet. “What’s the matter with you? I didn’t take you for the type to be sick at a little blood, Cate.”