Tess picks up the spool of ribbon that Gabrielle dropped and begins to slowly, methodically rewind it. “Thank you, dear, you don’t have to do that,” Mrs. Kosmoski insists.

“I don’t mind,” Tess says. She organizes things when she’s upset. Maura’s moved back to the counter, ostensibly looking through the dress patterns, but I can tell by the rapid way she flips the pages that she’s not any calmer than Tess.

“Well, I daresay the Brothers know best, but it is distressing.” Mrs. Kosmoski stands up and brushes her hands together, as though wiping away the whole unpleasant scene. “Did you decide on fabrics?”

And that’s it. Mrs. Kosmoski, Elena, and Maura go back to debating the merits of heart-shaped necklines versus square, buckled belts versus silk cummerbunds. I can’t believe they can carry on as though the question of pink taffeta or blue brocade actually matters.

Gabrielle is innocent. I am not. I have been wicked and deceitful; I have used mind-magic against my own father. The Brothers’ words drum through my head. I am a witch. It should have been me, not her.

But I thank the Lord it wasn’t. What kind of girl does that make me?

A half hour later, our business mercifully concluded, we step into the cool September sunshine. Across the street, the chocolatier’s door stands open, and the wonderful, bittersweet smell of dark chocolate wafts toward us. Now we’re off to the stationer’s to choose calling cards. Tess and I lag behind. “Are you all right?” she asks, gray eyes searching mine.

I nod. It’s hard to hide anything from my little sister; she’s entirely too perceptive. She and Maura would be furious with me for keeping secrets from them, no matter what Mother’s instructions were. At least now I can blame my distress on the ugly scene we’ve just witnessed. “As well as I can be after that display. You?”

Tess bites her lip. “Poor Gabby. I just wish we could have done something to—” She stops midstride, her hand flying to her mouth. “Goodness, what’s wrong with her?”

Brenna Elliott stands outside her grandfather’s gate. She turns in and then, apparently thinking better of it, retreats back to the safety of the street. She repeats the motion again and again, as if unable to make up her broken mind, muttering to herself all the while.

Her hood has fallen off, and her long chestnut-colored hair is a mass of knots. Maura and Elena give her a wide berth as they pass. Tess lets out a disgruntled little huff under her breath.

“Miss Elliott?” she asks, approaching Brenna gingerly. “Are you unwell?”

“Tess,” I hiss warningly. We shouldn’t be seen talking to a madwoman.

Tess is too kind to care. It’s one of the many ways in which she’s a better person than I am.

Brenna turns her wasted face to us. Her blue eyes are haunted as a graveyard. The sleeves of her dress hug her wrists, hiding her scars, but they show in the hunch of her shoulders and the pallor of her face. “My grandfather is dying,” she says. Her voice is threadbare, as though it doesn’t get much use.

“I didn’t know he was ill. I’m so sorry,” Tess says, looking up at Brother Elliott’s house. There’s no sign of Dr. Allen’s carriage out front, no activity to suggest the bustle of a sickroom or relatives coming to pay their final respects.

“He’s quite well today. He’ll die next week,” Brenna continues. Tess and I glance at each other, shocked. I thought Harwood had cured her—or at least taught her not to go around prognosticating on the street. She clutches suddenly at her hair, yanking on it in anguish. “Oh, this is bad. Very bad. Not good at all.”

“Is there anything we can do? Can we fetch someone to help you?” Tess asks.

“I think she needs more help than we can give her,” I whisper. Brenna has always seemed to live inside her own head, in a world of her own imagination. But this—this is downright spooky.

“You.” Brenna grabs my arm. She was always tall and willowy and pretty—so pretty that people forgave some of her eccentricities. Now she looks emaciated, as though a single strong gust could knock her down. “Did you get the note? I was very careful with it. Clever, she is.”

My heart leaps into my mouth. I fight the urge to yank away, but I don’t want to make matters worse. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Brenna’s blue eyes aren’t dead now; they’re frantic. “Good girl. No questions. Mustn’t ask questions! They’ll come for you.”

Her hands are ungloved; her nails dig into my arm. “It’s all right,” I soothe her, as I would Tess after a nightmare. “It’ll be all right.”

“Your godmother, she asked too many. The crows came for her.” I freeze. The note. Did Brenna deliver the note from Zara? “That’s what they do with bad girls. Lock them up and throw away the key.”

“Harwood, you mean?” Is that what happened to Zara? Did Brenna see her there?

Brenna nods, tapping her temple. “Lucky one. Not mad. Not yet.”

Does she mean herself or Zara? I look around, spooked, as though my godmother might be lurking behind the bushes.

“Everything all right?” Maura calls. She and Elena have stopped a few yards ahead.

“Yes!” I call back, trying to escape Brenna’s grip. “We’re coming!”

“Don’t go! You mustn’t let them take you.” Brenna looks down at Tess, then back at me. Her eyes are sad blue pools. “Powerful. So powerful. You could fix it all. But you must be careful.”

“Yes. We’ll be very careful,” I promise, but something inside me wilts. First the prophecy, now Brenna. What if she’s not mad—what if she can genuinely sense the future? I don’t want to be powerful. I want to be normal.

“You should be careful, too,” Tess suggests, looking worried. If anyone else hears Brenna talk like this, they’ll have her shipped right back to Harwood.

“It’s too late for me.” Brenna falls against the gate, her ratted hair covering her face. “Go away now. I’m very tired, and I need to visit my grandfather.”

Tess slips her hand into mine, and we turn and walk down the street, where Maura and Elena are waiting for us outside the stationer’s.

“What on earth was all that about?” Maura asks.

I shrug, ignoring Tess’s eyes. “Lord knows. She’s mad, isn’t she?”

At home, I change my nice buttoned boots for old mud-splattered ones and head outside. The sun’s disappeared behind the clouds. Not quite raining, but threatening it. I hope it holds off a little longer. I need cheering, and I’m happiest when my hands are busy in the earth. I stride into the rose garden—only it’s already occupied. Finn Belastra sits on the bench— mybench—beneath the statue of Athena, a book open on his lap, munching on an apple.

“What are you doing here?” I demand crossly. He might be nice to look at, but I need a few hours alone with the roses and my thoughts.

He jumps up. “I was just”—he chews furiously—“eating my lunch. Obviously. Am I in your way? I can go somewhere else.”

“Yes.” It sounds horrid, even to me. I sigh. “No. I was going to do a bit of weeding. I’ll come back later.”