“I’m so sorry,” I say, mortified, but I can’t shake my eyes loose from hers.

She waves a hand, and pieces of the shattered cup fly into the garbage bin beside her desk. “You can feel it, then,” she says.

“You’re ill,” I whisper. Even the flickering, flattering candlelight reveals the wrinkles of her face and throat and the blue veins lining the parchment-thin skin of her hands. She must be near seventy.

“I’m dying,” she corrects. “Sophia’s tried her best, but she can only buy me a few hours’ peace. What troubles me most is the question of who will succeed me. It has been agreed that Inez will lead until the prophesied witch comes of age. I will be blunt with you, Catherine. You will be seventeen in March, and I would prefer Inez not guide the Sisterhood any longer than necessary. I need you to understand what is at stake here.”

Fear skitters up my spine. I’m not ready for this. I’m used to protecting my sisters, but being responsible for over a hundred witches? I don’t know what to do, how to keep them safe. I thought it would be years yet before I was required to step up and lead!

“I’m aware of what’s at stake.” I stand up, planting my hands on my hips. My fear makes me snappish. “I’m a witch; my sisters are witches; my friends are witches. Do you think I want to see girls like us drowned or hanged or burnt? I wish to heaven I knew how to prevent it, but I don’t! I don’t know what you want from me.”

Sister Cora takes another sip of her tea. “If you’ll sit down, I’ll explain.”

I situate myself in the tall flowered chair next to hers, wrapping both hands around the new teacup she gives me. The convent is a thoroughly modern building; it has been renovated to include radiators with gas heat and water closets with flushing toilets. But every room has high ceilings and arched Gothic windows, and the November wind is drafty. I can never get entirely warm here.

“You’re a clever girl, Catherine. I trust you have noticed the divide within the Sisterhood at present,” Sister Cora begins. “Some have grown tired of waiting, weary of the injustices against witches and women alike. Now that we’ve found you, they want outright war with the Brothers. The time is coming, they say, for us to take back our power, to strike using whatever means necessary. Have you heard that sort of talk?”

“I have.” I’ve heard Alice give impassioned speeches in the sitting room after dinner.

“Then there are those of us who would bide our time. Who are afraid of what the human cost of such a war could be. I fall into the latter camp,” Sister Cora admits. “I think waging war before we are ready could be disastrous.”

I take a sip of my tea, which is delicious and spicy; I think it must have powdered ginger in it. “What would you have us do in the meantime?”

“Wait for you to come into your own. I have faith in Persephone and in this prophecy, Catherine, even if we don’t fully understand it yet.” Even if I haven’t proved useful yet, she means. “I would gather intelligence. I have spies within the Brotherhood. One of them is a member of the Head Council. He’ll be in line for succession after Covington, and he’s working to see to it that those on our side are placed in positions of power. It won’t happen overnight, but I think it’s the best way.”

“The safest, probably,” I say. “Less chance of us all being murdered in our beds.”

She smiles wryly, and I can see that, once, she must have been a very beautiful woman. It’s still there in the curve of her jaw, the tilt of her head. “I am trying to prevent that, yes. The odds are stacked against us if it comes to outright war. There are thousands of Brothers and only a few hundred of us.”

“Brother Covington could lead for another twenty years,” I point out. “He’s popular. Charming.”

“We could see to it that he doesn’t. Things are changing, Catherine. The general populace is becoming dissatisfied with the Brothers’ heavy hand.” I nod, remembering the boys throwing rocks at O’Shea and Helmsley. “But if we move too fast—if we lead by fear—well. I would hate to see us repeat the mistakes of the past.”

I run a finger around the edge of my teacup. Her caution appeals to me. How often has Maura chided me for being too plodding and careful? “I’m in no hurry to lead a war, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Her smile has more warmth in it now. “I’m glad to hear that, because I—”

The door bursts open, and Sister Gretchen clatters in, flushed and panting from her climb up the stairs. “Cora! Forgive the intrusion. Two members of the New London council have just turned up, requesting an audience with you. I’ve put them in the parlor.”

Sister Cora grabs a leather-bound diary from the tea table and slips on her half-moon spectacles. “We had no appointment. Did they say what’s the matter?”

Sister Gretchen shakes her head, thick gray curls bouncing. “No, but O’Shea doesn’t seem like the patient sort.”

“He’s not. Odious creature. I wish they’d sent Brennan,” Sister Cora mutters, bracing herself against the back of the chair as she stands. Pain flits across her face. “Blast.”

Her blue eyes meet Sister Gretchen’s, warm and hazel. They seem to have a whole conversation without words. Rilla told me that they’re thick as thieves, these two, that they’ve been best friends since they were girls together in the convent school. If Mother and Zara were both still alive, would they be able to talk with their eyes, too?

Will Rilla and I, someday?

“Why don’t you accompany us, Catherine?” Sister Cora asks. “A call like this, coming out of the blue—it’s almost certain to be trouble. If not for us, then for others. But it’s imperative that you stay quiet, no matter what they say. Can you do that?”

“Yes.” But I can’t help feeling nervous. What could the Brothers want at this hour? What is so important that it couldn’t wait for morning?

“Let’s go, then. It won’t do to keep them waiting.”

Sister Gretchen offers her arm, but Cora waves her off. She doesn’t limp, but she walks gingerly, as though each movement causes her pain. Gretchen and I follow.

When we finally reach the front parlor, two Brothers are sitting side by side on the olive settee. This room is an austere affair, all stiff horsehair furniture with ornately carved arms and subdued dark hues. Dead headmistresses’ portraits adorn the walls; heavy velvet curtains shroud us in darkness. Sister Cora meets with girls’ parents and liaisons from the Brotherhood here.

It was here that I slapped Mrs. Corbett—Sister Gillian Corbett, my former neighbor and chaperone on the trip to New London—the day I arrived. She assured me she would look after my sisters in my absence; she said they could only benefit from being out from under my thumb. I lost my temper, and I slapped her right across her smug fat face. I smile at the memory, but it disappears when I see the grim looks on the Brothers’ faces. They are familiar: Brother O’Shea is the same man who arrested Lavinia Anderson, and he’s brought his hulking accomplice with him.

“Sister Cora,” Brother O’Shea says, standing, “this is Brother Helmsley. And—Sister Gertrude, was it?”