“Are you all right?” Rilla is at my side, wrapping an arm around me.

This time I can’t summon up a lie. “No,” I croak, burying my tearstained face in her shoulder.

“Of course. It was a stupid question. Do you want to go home?” she asks.

“I told Mei I’d watch the puppet show with her.” And Brenna said something awful would happen. I’ve got to wait and see what it is.

Rilla smiles. “Mei would understand.”

“No, I want to stay. I’ll be all right.” I struggle to my feet. All around us, people burst into applause while I try to swallow the ache in my throat. “It sounds like the hurdy-gurdy man’s finished. Let’s go to the stage.”

I don’t trust myself to be here when Maura shows up for her turn working the booth.

We’re halfway to the stage when Brother O’Shea begins to speak. I recognize his loud, affected voice immediately. Other people must, too, because they stop shopping and begin to drift toward the stage by the dozens. Mothers call their children; fathers gather their families close. Along the main thoroughfare, vendors hover outside their booths, keeping wary eyes on customers who listen with merchandise in hand. Whatever dreadful thing Brenna foresaw, it’s happening.

Where is Tess? I scan the crowd, searching for her small figure, but there are hundreds of people and too many black cloaks. I walk faster, practically dragging Rilla behind me. At the end of the aisle, Brother O’Shea stands on the makeshift stage, his horsey face stretched into a counterfeit smile.

“Ladies and gentlemen, Brothers and Sisters, I’d like to interrupt our entertainment for just a few moments. As you know, last week there was a mutiny at Harwood Asylum for the Criminally Insane. Hundreds of witches escaped. They were helped by one of our own—Sean Brennan, who has fled the city rather than face justice for his treason.” He swaggers across the stage like a man twice his size, and I get the sense that his speech is as rehearsed as his smile. He lacks the appeal of Brother Covington, who—despite his abominable politics—was a warm, charismatic speaker. “These women are a threat to all of New England. I have deployed our National Guardsmen to hunt them down, and I’m pleased to report that over the last week, we have recaptured two dozen witches hiding in empty barns and abandoned homes in the countryside.”

My heart plummets, though I knew this might happen. Some of the Harwood patients fled as soon as the doors were open. They were free to make their own choice: come with Sisters to one of three safe houses or try to make it on their own. Over half of them chose the latter.

“If you have any knowledge of the whereabouts of more of these wicked girls, it is your duty to report it immediately.” O’Shea’s pale blue eyes sweep the crowd. “They may appear weak or confused, even pretend that they were beaten or starved, but this is only a witch’s glamour. They are liars and deceivers all. You must harden your hearts against them.”

He’s clever, I’ll give him that. I’d hoped that once I earned Merriweather’s trust, I could tell him the truth about what happened at Harwood and he would run an article in the Gazette about the terrible conditions there. Now the people will be skeptical.

O’Shea ushers a tall woman onstage. “Don’t be afraid, Mrs. Baldwin. Your fellow citizens deserve to hear the truth.”

Her blue hood is down so that her fellow citizens can see her honest face. She’s a broad woman with steel-colored hair pulled back into a bun and a plump face marred by a strawberry birthmark on her right cheek.

This is the nurse who killed my godmother, Zara Roth.

Who shot her, I correct myself. Technically, I killed her.

“What can you tell us about the conditions at Harwood Asylum, Mrs. Baldwin?” O’Shea asks.

“The girls there were well looked after, sir. They had two square meals a day and afternoon tea,” she says, and how glad I am that Parvati and Livvy and the others aren’t here to witness her lies! Mei pushes up next to me, her jaw set, black eyes snapping. “We had an infirmary with trained nurses to look after them when they were sick. They got fresh air every day, by way of a walk in the courtyard. And we tried to care for their souls as well as their bodies. A Brother came in every week and gave a sermon in the chapel. The girls who were well enough were given little tasks, helping in the garden or the kitchen. Idleness breeds devilry, you know. But those who weren’t well enough—why, they didn’t have a lick of work to do besides getting better.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Baldwin.” O’Shea gazes out over the crowd and smiles his thin-lipped, reptilian smile. Around me, people are hanging on every word. Hearing a firsthand tale of Harwood—why, that’s much better entertainment than the hurdy-gurdy man! “You saw no evidence of mistreatment, then?”

“No, sir,” she lies, folding her hands together in a prayerful manner. “Not once in my twelve years.”

“Sounds as though they had it better than many of us who work for a living! Two square meals a day, plus tea, and free room and board!” O’Shea laughs, but it’s a harsh, jeering sound. “Now, tell us, Mrs. Baldwin, what happened on the night of the mutiny.”

The nurse shudders. “I usually work the day shift, see, so I wasn’t even supposed to be there, but Mrs. Snyder’s husband sent word she couldn’t come on account of her baby was sick. So I was working, and I remember going down to the matron’s office to fetch something. And then I sort of woke up with all the other nurses, and we were locked in the ward where the uncooperative girls were kept. We didn’t know how we came to be there, but we were awful afraid those girls were going to burn the place down with us still in it. We got down on our knees and prayed, sir. And thank the Lord, the morning watchman came and found us there.”

“Thank the Lord!” Brother O’Shea echoes, and the crowd around us offers their gratitude as well. “You’re telling me, Mrs. Baldwin, that you have no memory of the mutiny? Someone went into your mind and erased that completely?”

“Yes, sir.” The nurse’s lip wobbles, her double chins quivering. “And I don’t mind saying, it gives me the willies.”

“I should imagine so. Knowing that a witch had been poking around in your mind—that would give even the bravest of us the willies!” O’Shea pats her sympathetically on the shoulder. “Thank you for your testimony, Mrs. Baldwin.”

She nods and curtsies, scurrying offstage, and I breathe a small sigh of relief. That was ludicrous, but not as horrifying as Brenna made it out to be.

“The night watchman and six other nurses suffered the same mental violation. So, you see why these wicked girls cannot be allowed freedom. Among them are witches of the most evil, deceptive nature. They must be hunted down and punished!” O’Shea punches his fist into his open palm. “Fortunately, last week we were given intelligence that led us straight to a viper’s nest. Yesterday, our guards located a farmhouse in Connecticut where no less than thirty-five witches were hiding.”

Mei grabs my hand.

“They used magic to resist arrest. They were subdued, however, and are on their way back to New London under heavy guard.” The crowd, led by a group of Brothers at the front, claps. O’Shea’s grin is a ghastly thing. “Ladies and gentlemen, it has been many years since witches were put to death. It is not a sentence we assign lightly. But today, after much prayer, the National Council voted in favor of reinstating it. The wickedness of the sixty women we have recaptured knows no bounds; they must not be permitted to infect our society, to terrorize our nation, to threaten our safety, for one more day. Some of our soldiers are across the street, beginning to erect a gallows. Tomorrow, at noon, the hangings will begin.”