arm around her waist and pulls her to her feet.

“Can you control yourself now?” I ask.

Maura nods. She has a cut on her cheek and another on the palm of her right hand. There’s a jagged rip in one sleeve, a spot seeping scarlet just

above her elbow. She sways, pale, as she stares at the damage she’s wrought. At the family heirlooms in pieces on the floor. At Mrs. O’Hare’s

hand, wrapped in her blood-soaked apron. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” she cries, flinging herself at Mrs. O’Hare.

“It’s all right, dearie,” Mrs. O’Hare whispers, stroking her hair.

She is more forgiving than I am.

The coachman strides into the doorway, tall and broad-shouldered, with a sharp hooked nose and a wicked scar across his chin. I recognize him

—he’s one of the men who arrested Gabrielle Dolamore. He was in the street with Brenna this afternoon.

“Cyrus!” Brother Ishida barks. “Go to town and round up the council. Bring them back here immediately. I have identified two witches in this

household.”

Cyrus’s eyes rake over us with a look of disgust. “Yes, sir,” he says, and he turns on his heel and disappears into the dusk. Brother Ishida paces back and forth in a tight circle. “I hardly need testimony. I have seen proof with my own eyes. Nonetheless, best to be

thorough. Miss Cahill. Were you aware of your sisters’ treachery? Have you seen them commit acts of witchery previous to this night?” I am silent, staring at my own clasped hands.

“Answer me, girl! Were you aware your sisters are witches?”

I am silent.

He crosses the room and slaps me across the face. Hard enough to snap my head back and send me stumbling against the wall. “Cate!” Tess

cries. I put one hand to my stinging cheek. Maura and I have shoved each other, pulled each other’s hair—but no one has ever struck me before.

The pain brings tears to my eyes, but I will them back. I won’t give him the satisfaction of crying.

“You will not ignore me,” Brother Ishida says, his dark eyes flashing in his lined face. “I am your elder and your better. You will answer.Now. Were

you aware of your sisters’ witchery?”

“No.” I lower my eyes to the floor, biting my lip. I will not help matters by telling him what I think of him.

It’s raining now, drumming on the porch roof. A cold wind blows through the hall, bringing with it the scent of wet leaves and dying grass. Mrs. O’Hare moves toward the kitchen. Brother Ishida puts out a hand to stop her. “Where are you going?”

“To fetch some bandages and ointment for Miss Maura,” she says.

“No. No one is to leave this room until the guards arrive.” Brother Ishida turns to Lily, trembling just inside the door, her brown cow’s eyes big and

guileless. “Miss Belfiore, have you witnessed any other strange happenings here?”

Lily hesitates, and he frowns. “Miss Belfiore, your first duty is to the Lord. We must stamp out witchery wherever we find it, lest it take root and

spread through our country like poison. Speak up.”

“I’ve seen things,” Lily whispers. She fixes her eyes on his boots. A hank of brown hair swings forward into her face. “Things what don’t seem

natural. Flowers what bloom out of season. Food what’s burnt black but tastes like heaven. Things are there one minute and gone the next.” Oh no. I’ve always tried to be careful not to let the servants see anything they couldn’t explain away. Still, I never truly believed they would inform

on us. Mrs. O’Hare loves us, and Lily—well, she’s a good churchgoing girl, but she’s always been so timid. She’s been with us for years, since right

after Mother died.

“Thank you, Miss Belfiore.” Brother Ishida smiles. “You’ve been very helpful.”

“You’ve been an ungrateful little sneak,” Maura hisses.

“Silence, witch!” Brother Ishida thunders. “Miss Teresa, come here.”

Tess walks slowly down the stairs. She holds her head high, but she’s trembling—like Arabella walking the plank. She stands next to Maura. Brother Ishida gives them a cruel smile. “When my guards arrive, they will place you in restraints. The other members of the Brothers’ council will

help me search this house for evidence against you, though we hardly need more. You will be taken to separate cells and held for your trial

tomorrow. There can be no doubt as to your witchery. You will be sentenced to the prison ship or to the madhouse. It is, I think, better than you

deserve. When my grandmother was arrested for witchery, she was hanged in the town square. ’Twere up to me, I’d resurrect the burnings.” The

vicious calm of his voice is terrifying, as though he’s discussing the weather instead of my sisters’ murder.

They are both quiet. “Do you hear me? Do you understand what you deserve?”

“Yes,” Maura whispers, glowering at the floor.

Tess raises her head. She looks first at Brother Ishida and then at Lily—long, searching looks, as if imprinting their faces on her memory. “Dedisco,”she says.

I hold my breath. A momentary silence swells, filling the room. The rain pounds down outside.

Then Lily shakes her head. Her eyes grow round with surprise as she looks at the mess in the hall. “What’s happened?” she gasps. Lily doesn’t remember. Tess’s spell worked.

Dread blooms through me.

I thought being the subject of the prophecy was the worst possible thing. But the notion that it might not be me, that it could be Tess— It frightens me even more.

“There’s been a terrible storm,” Tess says carefully. “The wind blew the door open and swept through. It was awful. Like a tornado.” Brother Ishida grabs the curved wooden newel at the bottom of the staircase. He leans against it for support, breathing heavily. “Are you all right,

sir?” I ask, wiping my face of any trace of hostility. We must play this right.

“I’m feeling unwell.” His voice is as gray as his face.

“It’s understandable, sir. It was frightening. Glass everywhere. You were fortunate not to be injured.”

“Thank the Lord,” he murmurs.

“Indeed.” I keep my eyes focused on his face. “May I walk you out? Thank you for coming tonight, sir.”

He follows me out onto the porch. “You’re welcome, Miss Cahill. I came to—to—”

He doesn’t remember. He doesn’t remember anything! Tess’s magic worked.

The trees thrash overhead. Lightning illuminates the drive. “You gave me your blessing to announce my intention early. Tomorrow morning at

services.”

“Of course, of course. We’ll have the usual ceremony. I don’t believe anyone else is scheduled for tomorrow. And your father approves?” he asks. “Oh yes, Father’s very pleased.”

“Excellent.” He peers at the rain-dark drive. “Where’s my carriage gone?”

“Perhaps your driver took it into the barn to wait out the storm,” I suggest.

“Oh, here it comes now,” he says, pointing at the carriage rattling up the drive. My stomach sinks, expecting another to turn the corner at any