I flip open the diary, eager for advice. It begins in my twelfth year. Her first real mention of me comes after my magic has already manifested:

I worry for Cate. It is not an easy burden to be a woman, much less one with powers such as ours, and she is a bold, outspoken child. The combination will be dangerous if she does not learn to hide her true self. When she is a little older, I will teach her all I know, lest she suffer the same fate as her godmother. I must go into town at the earliest opportunity, before my condition begins to show, and see Marianne. Perhaps she will have some news of Zara.

I break away from the page for a moment. I can feel my pulse twitching in my fingertips as the questions tumble through me. Zara? Was Z. R. my godmother? Was she a witch, too? What happened to her? I don’t remember her; I don’t remember Mother even mentioning her. Later, in another entry:

I have been to visit Marianne. Together, we read the registry of trials. Neither my knowledge of magical history nor all of Marianne’s scholarship can make sense of the Brothers’sentencing. Some girls are condemned for witchery and sentenced to a lifetime at Harwood on precious little evidence, whereas others are acquitted and simply disappear. I fear they have been murdered; we find no trace of them after they leave Chatham, and we hear of similar disappearances throughout the country. I can find no rhyme or reason to it. I do not think I will ever see Zara again. And what of her research into the prophecy? It is vital to our future and the future of every witch still in New England.

I skim over Mother’s joyous accounts of her pregnancy, her fervent, futile hopes that this child would be born healthy and male. Three weeks later: Today was my last visit to town; perhaps I should not be jostling about the roads even now, but I would not trust John or even Brendan — [Father!]—to deliver Zara’s book back to Marianne. I worry for my daughters. What concessions will they make to keep themselves safe? What if Emily Carruthers is right and I do not survive this confinement—who will teach them? Cate is already capable of mind-magic, a gift so rare and frightening, I would not have anyone but Zara or myself instruct her in it. I have tried to make her aware of howvery, very wrong it can be to invade others’minds. It puts her at such great risk—from the Brothers and from those who would seek to use her as a weapon.

I bite my lip. So my godmother was a witch, then—and capable of mind-magic. I remember how horrified Mother was when she discovered what I could do. She made me swear on the family Bible—then on my sisters’ lives—that I would never use it except to protect them, and that I would never tellanyoneI could do it. Mother claimed it made women go just as power mad and wrongheaded as the Brothers;that, she said, was why the witches fell.

Then, two months later: Maura has come into her power overnight. She is not as careful as Cate. I have warned her that she must not be seen, even by her father or Mrs. O’Hare. I have tried to impress upon her that she can trust only Cate. I hope she will heed me, but I am too tired to be stern with her. I have not the vigor of earlier confinements. Emily is worried about my successful delivery, but I worry only for my girls. What if Tess is cursed with this magic, too? I cannot stop thinking of that damned prophecy. Emily says I am thrice blessed with daughters. Howlittle she knows of blessings and curses. I wish Zara were here.

By the time I come to the end, the candle has burned down. The fire is only ashes in the grate; I’m shivering, huddled beneath the quilt. I’ve been so absorbed, I barely registered the sounds of Mrs. Corbett’s carriage rumbling away or of Tess calling my name outside my door. I ignored her and she went away eventually.

Mother’s handwriting goes fainter as her confinement progresses, as though she hasn’t the strength to push the pen into the page. She begins to write every day—rambling entries full of worry and doubt. She worries whenever Maura and I have one of our rows; she frets over whether Tess, only nine at the time, might prove a witch as well. But there’s nothing here for me. No message to guide me, no helpful words on what she would have me do when I came of age.

Eventually I come to the last page, dated the day before she died. After the last little grave was dug on the hillside. Her handwriting changes here: it’s all dark slashes. There are places where it’s torn clean through, as though she used all her energy to convey one last vehement message.

To my relief, it is addressed to me.

My dearest, brave Cate:

I am so sorry. I did not want to burden you too young, but it seems that instead I waited too long. I have not taught you enough about your magic—what you are capable of, and what you must guard against.

Before the Great Temple of New London fell, the oracle made one last prophecy. She foresaw that before the dawn of the twentieth century, a trio of sisters will come of age, all witches. One of the sisters, who will be gifted with mind-magic, will be the most powerful witch born in centuries—powerful enough to change the course of history—to bring about a resurgence of the witches’power or a second Terror.

Cate, I am so worried for you. It is very rare to have three witches in one generation. If Tess manifests as well, it seems terribly likely that you are the ones they have prophesied. You will— No. Please, Lord, no.

I slide off the settee onto the floor. I just lie there for a moment, in a heap of petticoats, my mind reeling. This is mad. It’s impossible. Only—there are three of us, all witches. I can do mind-magic. Tess will come of age just before the turn of the century. We fit the bill exactly. The Lord does not hear the pleas of wicked girls.

I do not feel brave. I feel small and frightened and furious. I have enough on my plate without worrying about some damned prophecy made a hundred years ago. I came to this diary looking for help, for guidance, and instead Mother’s heaped more responsibility onto my head. But there was more. Perhaps some of it’s actually useful. Something to tell me what I ought to do, besides cowering here in the corner.

I pick up the diary again.

You will be hunted by those who would use you for their own ends. You must be very, very careful. You cannot trust anyone with your secrets. There is more, and it is worse. I have been frightened to write it all here, lest it fall into the wrong hands. You must seek answers. Those who love knowledge for its own sake will help. Until you knowthe whole truth of the prophecy, you must not share it with anyone. I am so sorry I am not there to protect you, but I trust you to take care of Maura and Tess for me.

Love always,

Mother

I hurl the diary across the room. It hits the wall with a satisfying crack. It’s rare that I’ve let myself feel angry with Mother. She’s dead; she can’t defend herself. But now I’m shaking with it. How could she? How could she die and leave me here to deal with all of this alone?

My magic rises, baited by my fury. I haven’t lost control in years, not since the episode with Mrs. Corbett and the sheep, but now I’m tempted to let go.

I could smash everything in this room and take pleasure in the breaking.

But I don’t.

I’d only have to fix it before Father or Mrs. O’Hare saw.

I close my eyes. I take deep breaths, the way Mother taught me.

When I feel convinced of my own calm, I pick up the diary. I go back and reread the last page. It’s mad. Perhaps Mother was delirious when she wrote it. Even if she’s correct—even if there is such a prophecy—there must be other sisters who are witches. Other girls who can do mind-magic besides me. I’m notthatpowerful.