An uncomfortable voice niggles at me.Howdo you know? You don’t knowwhat other witches are capable of,it points out logically.You don’t evenknowany other witches.I’ve always known more must exist besides Mother and my sisters and me, but I’ve never met one. At least, I’ve never met one who’s admitted what she was. I went to Sunday school with Brenna Elliott, and Marguerite and Gwen and Betsy. But I never saw any signs of magic in them, and most of the Brothers’ claims seem rather dubious—

Fear prickles my arms with gooseflesh. What if it’s true? What if itisme?

If I’m fated to bring about the resurgence of the witches’ power—if the Brothers found out, they would kill me. Immediately and without trial. They would believe they were doing it for the good of New England. Perhaps they’d make an example of all three of us—burn us at the stake, or hang us in the town square, the way they did in Great-Grandmother’s day. They stopped because normal people began to object to the brutality of it. But they’d bring those methods back to show their strength, to frighten witches and normal girls alike into submission. I have no doubt they’re capable of it.

How can I have that on my head?

I curl into myself, wishing there were someone else who could take this burden for me.

Mother must have written more. She couldn’t leave me like this, without telling me what todo! I find the magic coiled inside my chest, waiting. “Acclaro,”I whisper. I turn the pages frantically, hoping that more words will appear in the black endpapers.

Nothing happens. I say it again, louder, and push down the tide of rising panic. I scrutinize each page, waiting for a message to leap out at me. But there’s nothing added to the blank pages at the beginning or end—no secret words crisscrossing the other entries, nothing circled or underlined in code. Nothing at all.

I feel for a trace of her magic, but I don’t sense anything. Did her strength fail before she had time to write more?

I try again and again. I try different spells; I try until I’m exhausted and my power feels faint and far off. Tears begin to blur her words. I swipe irritably at my eyes and toss the diary onto the bed, striding to the window, the quilt falling to the floor behind me.

The gibbous moon peeks in through the daylily-dotted curtains. I look down at the statue of Athena in the garden, stark in the moonlight. Goddess of wisdom and war.

Mother didn’t trust Father to fight for us. Truth be told, she didn’t do a very good job of it herself. She left me with a diary full of cryptic warnings and a responsibility that should have been hers.

I will keep my sisters safe. Whatever happened to Mother’s friend Zara, whatever happened to Brenna Elliott, I will not let it happen to Maura and Tess. Not while I have breath left in my body.

Chapter 6

I’M STANDING ON THE RAISED DAIS in the back room of Mrs. Kosmoski’s dress shop, wearing only my chemise and corset, with all of them examining me like livestock on the block.

“Too thin,” Mrs. Kosmoski says, clucking disapprovingly.

“That can be fixed,” Elena insists. “We’ll give the illusion of curves. Padding in the bust and a bustle in back?”

Mrs. Kosmoski nods. “It’ll mean more work. I’ll need to have both my seamstresses up all night.”

“Whatever you need,” Elena promises. “As long as they’re ready by next Wednesday. We can have the girls come in the morning for last-minute alterations. This tea is their equivalent of a coming-out party. They can’t go looking like this.”

Mrs. Kosmoski eyes Maura’s high-necked green sprigged muslin. “Indeed,” she agrees, her voice dry. She’s been arguing with my orders for years now, suggesting brighter colors, busier patterns, more current fashions. I’ve resolutely ignored her advice—until now, when I have no choice.

Elena’s gotten Father to loosen his purse strings; the three of us are to have new wardrobes. She declared all our old things frightfully outdated and frumpy. Tess is pleased at the thought of graduating to longer, grown-up dresses; I’m the only one who isn’t elated.

I’m too preoccupied with wondering if I might be the most powerful witch in centuries.

Elena circles around me. “What a waist, though. Twenty inches, Cate?”

I nod and she lets out a low, unladylike whistle. “Most girls would murder for that.”

Across the room, Maura glowers. Much to her chagrin, she’s never been able to cinch her corset tighter than twenty-four.

“At least I don’t need a padded arse!” she mutters, glaring at me.

Tess hides her giggles behind her hand.

Mrs. Kosmoski’s lips tighten. For someone who works with ladies’ fashions and forms all day, she’s something of a prude.

“Maura!” Elena touches one of the perfect black ringlets that frame her perfect, heart-shaped face. “Please. We do not use such unladylike words.”

Mrs. Kosmoski takes my measurements. She’s a tall woman with a head of thick, dark hair perched on a swanlike neck. Her pearl earbobs swing back and forth as she and Elena talk.

I let her poke and prod me as I watch my sisters whispering on the pink love seat. Tess is paging through a book of patterns, the dimple in her left cheek coming out as she mocks the outlandish fashions from Mexico City.

The dress shop is meant to be a feminine oasis, and perhaps that should make me feel safe here, but everything from the rosebud paper on the walls to the pink velvet love seats sets my teeth on edge. Bouquets of roses litter every available surface, perfuming the air with their sweet scent. It feels gaudy and oppressive to me, but Maura adores it. She’s like a child at the chocolatier’s, giddy with all the choices before her.

Elena encourages it. And Mrs. Kosmoski is taking Elena’s every suggestion as gospel truth, hungry to hear what the ladies are wearing on the streets of New London. Aren’t Sisters meant to forgo sins like vanity and pride? Surely Elena’s love of fashion falls into one of those categories. Today she’s wearing a gorgeous peach silk that Maura keeps reaching out to stroke. It practically glows against her dark skin.

“I’m finished, Miss Cahill,” Mrs. Kosmoski says. Her breath smells like peppermints.

“Excuse me, ma’am.” Gabrielle Dolamore, one of Mrs. Kosmoski’s seamstresses, pokes her dark head into the room. Oh good, another person to see me in my underclothes. “Miss Collier is here for her alterations.”

I pull on my chemise cover and petticoats and my plain brown dress. It used to be a rich chocolate, but now it’s faded from repeated washings and looks more mud colored. Maura does up the buttons in back, her fingers nimble and familiar against my skin. “Stop being such a grump,” she admonishes. “This is meant to be fun.”

“I’ve got a headache.” It’s been present for two days straight, since I read Mother’s diary. I reach up and massage my right temple. I’ve got to share this secret with someone, and soon, before it drives me mad. Mother confided in Marianne Belastra. Dare I do the same?Those who love knowledge for its own sake—that describes the bookseller more than anyone else.

“Just think of Paul’s face when he sees you in these dresses. He’ll be mad with lust,” Maura teases, eyes dancing.

“Hush!” But now I can’t avoid thinking of it. Paul must be used to city girls and city fashions. It strikes me, all of a sudden, that Idowant him to think I’m pretty. I want him struck dumb with it.