Good Lord, what a goose. But I imagine Finn holding another girl’s hand, and my heart twists in sympathy.

“Emma was crying about her nose, and I felt sort of bad about the whole thing, honestly, so I put it back. But then she started screaming her head off about how I’d cast a spell on her because I was so jealous. The boys drove the sleigh down to the church and turned me in. Charlie Mott wouldn’t even look at me after that,” Rilla sighs.

“But Sister Cora interceded in your trial.”

“Yes.” Rilla brings her knees to her chest, propping her chin on the yellow brocade skirt. “And she brought me here. Otherwise, I would have been sent to Harwood for sure.”

Sister Cora has an extensive network of spies made up of governesses and former convent girls. They send word when they suspect one of the Brothers’ accusations of witchery is actually true. If Sister Cora can get there in time, she intervenes on the girl’s behalf, using mind-magic to compel the Brothers and the witnesses. Then she brings the girl back to the Sisterhood.

“Do girls ever refuse to come with her?”

Rilla looks at me as though I’m mad. “Why would they? Once you’ve seen the Brothers turn on you—” She shakes her head, flipping a brown curl away from her face. “We’re safer here. We learn to control our magic, and the Sisters protect us.”

The Sisterhood was founded in 1815 by Brother Thomas Dolan, as a refuge for his sister Leah. At first, there were only a handful of witches operating in secret behind a smoke screen of piety. Then, in 1842, they decided to take in young witches and teach them magic. Sister Cora was among the convent school’s first students. She’s been intervening in trials and working to increase our numbers ever since. At present, there are fifty students and a dozen teachers, with twodozen governesses spread out across New England and at least a hundred graduates—like Mrs. Corbett, our neighbor in Chatham—operating as spies. Most girls who study here don’t become full members; once they turn seventeen, they go off and live normal lives as mothers and wives.

That won’t be an option for me, of course. Not if I’m the prophesied witch.

“Aren’t you ever homesick?” I press. “Don’t you miss your brothers?”

“I do,” Rilla says, glancing at a tintype that she’s hung by her bed: herself and her ten-year-old twin brothers, Teddy and Robby; Jeremiah, twelve; and Jamie, fourteen. Five mischievous, curly-headed, freckled little imps. “But it was hard being the only girl, you know, and the only witch. Hard keeping it a secret.”

I can scarcely imagine Rilla keeping anything secret. She’s such a chatterbox.

“I think Jamie—oh, I’m meant to call him James now, I keep forgetting—might suspect. And Mama knows, of course. She’s a witch, too, but not very good; she can only do a few basic illusions. Not that I’m so much better. I’m sure you’ve noticed how hopeless I am at animation, and I can’t do healing magic at all,” Rilla says, blushing. “I’m lucky the Sisters wanted me, really.”

“I wish I felt that way. Lucky,” I blurt out. Our room has high ceilings, but it feels small and cozy now, with the curtains drawn, the candlelight flickering, and just me and Rilla whispering. “Don’t you ever wonder what life would have been like if you hadn’t gotten caught?”

“I imagine I would have gone along making maple candies and gotten married and raised a passel of troublesome boys, just like Mama.” Rilla tosses me a piece of candy, and I pop it into my mouth. “But I did get caught, so there’s no use thinking about that. I’ve always wanted sisters, and now I’ve got dozens. I’m happy here.”

I lean forward, smoothing the rumpled blue quilt. “You don’t mind that you didn’t have a choice in it?”

“It’s a sight better than being in Harwood.” Rilla sighs. “We’re warm and fed, and we have a roof over our heads. It’s hardly a prison, Cate.”

But it feels like a prison to me. Even though coming here was my choice, it really wasn’t much of one.

I can’t stop mourning the life that wasn’t.

I’m not supposed to think about him, but the memories are devious. They sneak up on me without warning; everything seems to prompt them. They play over and over in my head, wonderful and torturous at the same time: Finn, teasing me about reading pirate stories; Finn, kissing me senseless in the gazebo; Finn, asking me to marry him and giving me his mother’s ruby ring.

And the last: Finn, as I left the church where I was supposed to announce our betrothal, asking me why.

I honestly thought I could marry him and stay in Chatham and be happy.

Stupid. The Sisterhood never would have allowed it. Not when one of the Cahill witches could restore them to power.

What must Finn think of me now?

That line of questioning will only make me miserable.

Rilla’s right. I’ve got to stop sulking.

I stand. “Shall we go downstairs, then?”

“Really?” Rilla pops up like a jack-in-the-box.

“Yes. I’m going to be a better friend, Rilla. Don’t give up on me just yet?”

She grins and hops off her bed. “Oh, don’t worry. I’m loads more persistent than that.”

I’m picking up my books and Rilla’s gathering candy to take down to the sitting room when there’s a knock on our door. Rilla flings it open to reveal Sister Cora herself.

“Good evening, Marilla. How are you?” Sister Cora’s eyes are a vivid blue, like sapphires; they remind me of Maura’s.

“F-fine,” Rilla stutters, astonished. “How are you, ma’am?”

“I’ve had better days,” the headmistress admits, her lips pursed. “Catherine, could I trouble you to join me for a cup of tea?”

• • •

Sister Cora looks like a regal old queen with her shining white hair braided into a pretty crown around her head. She sits in her flowered chair, in a dove-gray dress lined with soft white fur, and she makes small talk. She pours me tea.

She makes me wait.

Worries race through my head. Has something happened to Maura or Tess? Has she learned more about the prophecy? The headmistress does not summon girls to her office to take tea without cause.

“Can I help you with something, Sister?” I ask finally.

She considers me over her gold-rimmed teacup. “I would like to trust you, Catherine.”

She says it as though she has her doubts.

“I feel the same about you,” I say evenly, smoothing my navy skirts.

She gives a rich, throaty cackle that seems more befitting a barmaid than a queen. “Fair enough. I know you aren’t here on your own terms. I would apologize, but that would make me a bit of a hypocrite, wouldn’t it? I would like you to trust me, but I understand that such trust is not built quickly. Unfortunately, I’m afraid we haven’t much time. Here.”

As she hands me the cup of tea, her little finger brushes mine.

The second my skin touches hers, I gasp.

Sister Cora is ill. Sickness lurks in her body, malignant. I reach out with my magic, feel it like a black cloud in her stomach, and wrench away with a sense of self-preservation. My cup smashes on the floor. Tea splashes across my taffeta gown and mingles with shards of white china on the bright green rug.