“Oh. That’s a pity, that she didn’t take the responsibility more seriously. I know that tosomepeople, it means a great deal.” If I know these women at all, they won’t be able to resist. The Brothers’ wives each have half a dozen namesakes scattered throughout Chatham. Parents hope that it will provide some measure of safety for their baby daughters, when they grow up to be suspect young women. It doesn’t actually work that way, but it remains a point of pride for the Brothers’ wives. They all flock to visit newborns, vying to be the first to call at a house with a new baby.

Mrs. Ishida takes the bait. “Your dear mother, Lord rest her soul, was just lovely. So sweet, and so devoted to family matters. I can’t see how she was friends with that woman.”

“And to entrust her with the spiritual guidance of her firstborn! I wonder that she didn’t choose someone else. Someone more respected in the community,” Mrs. Winfield huffs, pursing her lips. Someone like her, she means. “Zara Roth was a scandalous creature. You’re better off not knowing her. I fear what kind of influence she would have been on you poor, impressionable, motherless girls!”

“Miss Roth did seem harmless at first,” Mrs. Ishida allows. “A bit—intellectual. A governess, you know, from the Sisters.”

My godmother was a Sisteranda witch? I clasp my hands together docilely, but inside I’m wishing I could grab these women by the shoulders and shake them until the whole story spills out.

“She was a bluestocking,” Mrs. Winfield adds. She pronounces the word as if it’s something shameful—almost the way people saywitch.She lowers her voice, and Mrs. Malcolm and Mrs. Ralston lean in closer to hear. “I loathe being the bearer of bad news, but I daresay you’re old enough to know the truth. Miss Roth—your godmother—was tried and convicted of witchery.”

They watch me with eager eyes, thrilled that the conversation has taken such a shocking turn. My hand flies to my mouth. “Oh, how dreadful! I can’t believe Mother was taken in by that sort of woman!”

Mrs. Ishida pats my arm comfortingly. “I’m afraid so, my dear. When they raided Miss Roth’s room, they found a number of heretical books hidden away beneath her floorboards and in cupboards and things. All about”—she mouths the word as though it’s a curse—“magic.”

I wishIhad those books. Mother taught Maura and me very basic spells: namely, how to create and reverse glamours. I know witches are capable of other magic. Mother always said she’d teach us more. Later. But now it is later, and she isn’t here.

“What happened to Miss Roth?” I ask, trying to sit still. My starched taffeta underskirts announce every shift of my body against the sofa.

“She was sent to Harwood.” Mrs. Winfield wags her head, the jeweled comb in her hair catching the light from the chandelier. “I’m sure your dear mother would never have associated with her if she’d known. They were old school chums. Studied together in the Sisters’ convent. I’m sure she thought Miss Roth was a good, upstanding, religious woman. She was a Sister, after all! It was quite shocking. They cast her out after her arrest, of course.”

“Of course. Is she still there in the asylum?” I ask, shuddering.

“I imagine so. She could hardly be allowed out in polite society,” Mrs. Winfield says, waving her green silk fan to disperse the heat of the crowded room.

“You must let us know if you need anything, Cate. I may call you Cate, may I not? You poor girls. It’s not an easy thing, coming of age without a mother’s guidance,” Mrs. Ishida sighs sympathetically, dabbing at her eyes with a lace handkerchief. “My mama died giving birth to my youngest brother, and my father never remarried. I understand full well how difficult it can be.”

Somehow I doubt that. She didn’t have to worry about getting arrested for being a witch, did she? But Mrs. Ishida carries on, reminiscing about her own dear departed mama, and the conversation drifts away from Zara Roth. The message is clear: women who are too opinionated or too educated, too odd or too curious, are punished. They deserve whatever fate they get. Women like Zara.

Women like us.

We stay the requisite half hour. The rest of the conversation is dull as dishwater: Cristina’s engagement to Matthew Collier, Mrs. Winfield’s suspicion that her maid stole her jade earrings, everyone’s advice to Mrs. Malcolm for her son’s teething. When we rise to leave, Mrs. Ishida thanks us for coming and declares us welcome every other Wednesday. “Your mother would be so proud of what lovely girls you’ve turned out to be,” she declares, touching her pressed-flower cheek to mine.

I smile even as my rebellious heart trips over her presumption.

Across the room, her daughter smirks at me unnervingly.

Mrs. Ralston and Mrs. Malcolm make us promise to call on them during their at-home afternoons. After the briefest hesitation, Cristina and Rose

follow their lead, asking when our afternoon is, and Maura glibly declares that we’ll host two Tuesdays hence.

In the carriage, my sister grins at me. “Everything went well, didn’t it?”

“I suppose.” Aside from learning that my godmother was a member of the Sisterhood, a witch—and a convict to boot. “Oh, hush. I think we were a smashing success!”

“Lovely,” I mock. “Everything was justlovely!”

Maura laughs—not the polite titter she uses in company, but her sweet, full-out laughter, like a stream bubbling over rocks. It’s my favorite sound

in the world.

“I was tempted to start counting how many times Mrs. Ishida said it,” she admits, kicking off her pointy new shoes and massaging her pinched

toes. “What a limited vocabulary that woman has.”

“I doubt she’s allowed to read anything but scriptures, if that. The last thing Brother Ishida wants is a wife who can challenge him.” “I imagine he just practices sermons over supper anyway.” Maura mimics his oily voice.“What good is teaching a woman to read? Really, girls,

you should try not to think at all if you can help it. It might hurt your pretty little heads. Lord forbid, it might make you question us. You mustn’t

everquestion your betters, and remember: even the stupidest of men knowbetter than you!”

I laugh. “Poor Sachi. I can’t imagine growing up in that house, with a father like him.”

“Me either. Father’s not much use, but at least he’s not a tyrant.”

There’s a little catch in her voice, and I sober. “I’m sorry he won’t take you with him.”

“It’s all right. Someday I’ll get away.” Maura stretches her legs out so her stockinged feet rest in my lap. “I’ll marry an old man who’s rich as Midas

and loves to travel, and I’ll make him take me everywhere. Perhaps he’ll be an emissary from the Brothers to one of the European courts.” “You wouldn’t marry someone who worked for the Brothers.”

“I might, if he’d take me to Dubai. Maybe I could do away with him and stay there forever. A widow in Dubai—imagine! I’d get to wear trousers

and read whatever I please!” Maura laughs at the shock on my face. “I don’t think I’ll marry for love. I’ll have to be pragmatic.” “You?” I scoff. She’s always been the romantic one, the impulsive one, prone to tantrums and tears. “You’ve got a year and a half. That’s plenty of