can—who are—” Even now, I can’t bring myself to confess, to say the words out loud.

“Can one of you do mind-magic?” Marianne asks.

I stare at the woven red rug beneath the desk. She takes my silence for the admission of guilt that it is. “Good Lord,” she breathes. “But does that mean that we’re the sisters? Absolutely? Perhaps there are others who can—”

Marianne puts a hand on my shoulder. “I don’t think so. Even without taking that into account, having three witches in one generation—I’ve never

heard of it before. Even in the old days.” Before the Terror, she means. “And now—you read it yourself. All the priestesses were murdered, and there were witch hunts well through the beginning of this century. Some witches chose not to marry and have children. For those who did—it is very rare that more than one daughter manifests powers. Three witches in one generation is a precious thing.”

“Precious?” I choke. “It’s not precious, it’s horrible!”

“I know you didn’t ask for this kind of responsibility. But you could have the opportunity to change history. To give women back their power. Did Anna tell you anything else?”

“Anything that would tell me what to do, you mean? How to keep Tess and Maura safe? Anythinguseful?” I slump against a row of bookshelves.

“No. My intention ceremony is so soon, and I don’t know what to do. I’ll have to marry, I suppose.”

Marianne takes a deep breath. “You should know all of your options. Sit down, Cate. I have something to tell you.”

I sit, fingers tapping a nervous rhythm against the desk.

“I notice you didn’t mention the Sisterhood.”

I shake my head. “Wouldn’t we only be in more danger there?”

“Less than you might think. The Sisters—Cate, they’re witches.”

My jaw drops. “All of them?”

Marianne nods. “Since the Sisterhood first began. They’re the Daughters of Persephone re-formed. It’s a very important secret, very closely

guarded.”

“But then—there must be more witches than Zara thought, aren’t there?” I ask, hopeful. If there are more, perhaps we’re not the three sisters after

all.

“No. There are a few dozen Sisters, and perhaps fifty pupils at any given time. Some of the girls receive their training in magic and then go back

out into the world. Some stay and become full members of the order.”

“Wait.” I gasp as another realization nearly bowls me over. “So our governess—Elena Robichaud—she’s a witch?”

“She must be.” Marianne leans over the desk, as though she’s worried I might faint from the shock of it. “I imagine she’s been sent to see if the

three of you could be the sisters from the prophecy.”

I think of Elena, giggling with Maura in the sitting room. Walking arm in arm through the garden. “She’s a spy, then.”

Marianne puts her hand on my shoulder again, her long fingers kneading as if to reassure me. “Yes. But the Sisterhood will do everything they

can to teach and guide you. They’ll want to keep you safe from the Brothers at any cost.”

I bite my lip. “But how did they know we might be witches in the first place? We’ve been so careful.”

“When Anna was in the convent school, they made her use her mind-magic against their enemies. I imagine any daughter of hers would have

been of interest to them. And the fact that there are three of you . . .” Marianne takes off her spectacles, her brown eyes peering down into mine.

“I’ve wanted to reach out to you girls for some time—it was a matter of finding the right opportunity. The Brothers think me eccentric, and I was

afraid taking an interest might not reflect well on you. But I want you to know I’ll do everything I can to help. You mustn’t ever hesitate to ask.” Tears spring to my eyes. She knew about Mother’s mind-magic—and now she knows about mine—and she would be our friend anyway. “Thank

you. That—it means a great deal,” I say softly.

A door opens above us and footsteps come limping down the stairs. It’s Finn, disheveled in boots and shirtsleeves, his hair sticking up

impossibly. “Cate? I thought I heard you.”

“Finn.” His mother gives him a quelling look. “We’re just in the middle of—”

Finn sobers. “What’s the matter?”

I struggle to compose myself. “Nothing’s the matter. Everything’s grand.”

“Could you give us just a moment, please?” Marianne asks, and Finn obediently heads off to the front of the shop. She picks up Zara’s book and

holds it out to me. “I know this must be overwhelming, Cate. If you girls are the subject of the prophecy, it’s a very great responsibility. And a great

hazard. Perhaps putting it into the context of the oracles’ other prophecies would help. Anna truly believed—”

The bell above the door stops her.

“Mama!” Clara rushes in. “Brother Ishida and Brother Winfield are coming!”

I bolt to my feet. Marianne’s already rewrapping the histories and dumping them into my arms.

“What do I do with these?” I ask, panicked.

“Into the closet,” Finn orders from behind me.

“What?”

“Cate, I haven’t time to argue with you. Get in the damned closet!”

I didn’t know Finn had a voice like that. He gives me a not-entirely-gentle push toward the front of the shop, and I stumble forward. He throws open

the door beside the one that leads up to their flat—the closet he retrieved the register from yesterday. There’s a towering bookshelf inside with a

few leather-bound ledgers. Are we meant to hide in here? It doesn’t seem very hidden.

But Finn shoves the big bookshelf aside like it weighs nothing. Behind it, there’s a narrow door set a foot up the wall. He bends and steps through

and beckons to me. I peer doubtfully into the tiny room beyond. It looks like a root cellar. There’s barely space for Finn to stand upright. Stacks of

books line the earthen walls, and frankly, it looks like an ideal home for spiders.

“Hurry,” Finn says. He holds out a hand to help me over the sill, but I climb in on my own. Mrs. Belastra hands him a candle and Clara throws my

cloak at me and shuts the door. I hear the scratching of wood against the wall as they shove the bookshelf back into place. I put the books down,

carefully, on top of one towering pile.

Just as the closet door slams, I hear the jangle of bells above the Church Street entrance. The heavy tread of men’s boots. Brother Ishida’s

unmistakable voice, greeting Mrs. Belastra.

I’ve hardly gotten my bearings when Finn blows out the candle, plunging us into darkness. In my haste to get away from the damp wall, my foot

nudges something on the floor. Another stack of books. I teeter, windmilling my arms. If I knock them over, we’ll all be caught. Finn catches me and pulls me back. Right up against him.

Brother Ishida is asking Mrs. Belastra for a list of her recent customers. I freeze, my mind sifting through all of our purchases. Only linguistic