Wishing you all a very merry and healthful Christmas,

Alistair Merriweather

Publisher & Editor in Chief, New London Gazette

I meet Prue’s eyes and her lips twitch.

No one is paying attention to Brother O’Shea now. Whispers slither through the pews along with the restless movements of the congregation. The sermon is punctuated by dozens of deep, hacking coughs—and each time, heads swivel to locate the culprit and everyone near the afflicted person inches away.

It was rather brilliant, slipping those leaflets into the Bibles. Rilla will be sorry she missed it.

Still, the service stretches on and on, interminable. O’Shea seems oblivious to his flock’s preoccupation. He recounts the story of the Lord’s birth and then launches into a sermon on suffering hardship joyfully. Somehow, this becomes a judgment on the starving poor and those who would not sacrifice their daughters gladly.

I stand and sit at the appropriate cues, mumbling the responses. An hour passes, then two, and then the bells in the neighboring council building mark three. For all Brother Ishida’s shortcomings, the Christmas sermon in Chatham was never so long as this. Two rows ahead of us, old Sister Evelyn’s head droops like a fuzzy dandelion. Snores and the shrieking of tired children begin to mingle with the coughs of fever victims. Keeping up Prue’s illusion becomes a matter of endurance, and an exhausting one at that.

Finally, Brother O’Shea begins the familiar ritual of leave-taking.

“Let us clear our minds and open our hearts to the Lord,” he intones.

“We clear our minds and open our hearts to the Lord,” the congregation echoes, rising and stretching. People wake the elderly and small children.

“You may go in peace to serve the Lord,” O’Shea declares, raising his hand in farewell.

“Thanks be.” Even the faces of the black-cloaked Brothers up in the chancel—all forced to spend Christmas in New London away from their families because of the never-ending National Council meeting—show relief.

People rush for the three processional doors at the back, practically knocking one another over in their haste to escape. The marble floor is littered with hundreds of crumpled leaflets, but judging by the quick exodus, I daresay they’ve done their work.

I beam at Prue—still blond-haired and brown-eyed and plump. “Let’s wait a minute till it’s not so crowded.”

The other Sisters join the crowd without a backward glance, eager to go home and break their fast. Only the most faithful congregants remain in their seats, heads bowed in prayer. A few dozen Brothers mingle on the dais. I wait while the elderly totter down the aisle with their canes, moving at a snail’s pace.

I’ve no sooner stepped out of the pew than I’m accosted.

“There you are,” Alice hisses. “I was waiting outside forever.”

Beneath her cloak, she’s still wearing her Christmas Eve finery—an amethyst gown with a low, square neckline that doesn’t befit a Sister at all. Her golden hair tumbles out of its pompadour, wisps framing her cheeks, and there are dark shadows beneath her eyes.

“What’s wrong?” It must be grave for her to go out looking such a mess.

“My father.” She rubs a tired hand over her cheek. “He’s ill. All the servants have fled in fear of the fever and I don’t know what to do. He’s a bit of a tyrant; I don’t blame them for going. But he’s all the family I’ve got left. I can’t just leave him.”

I feel a pang of sympathy. “Of course not. How bad is he?”

Alice makes a face. “Well, he’s been sweating like a pig all night. I can’t get him to eat anything but a little broth. It’s the fever, I’m sure of it. Four houses on our street have yellow ribbons nailed to their doors.” She lowers her voice. “I hear some of the Brothers’ guards are going round and ripping them down. Why wouldn’t they want people to know where the sickness is? Don’t they want to stop it?”

“They don’t want people knowing it’s reached Cardiff,” I explain, remembering the wealthy man we met in the hospital. “No one cared so long as it was just river rats dying. The rich will be furious that O’Shea didn’t set up a quarantine. Now it’s too late.”

My mind fills with grim images of a city decimated by fever. Of shops closing, people out of work. Of fathers confined to their sickbeds for weeks and families going hungry.

“In the Sentinel this morning, O’Shea outright denied that it’s anything but a plague cast by witches. He says the Gazette was just trying to stir up trouble,” Alice whispers.

“I heard.” I hand her Merriweather’s leaflet.

What if Merriweather’s efforts aren’t enough? Coffins will be piling up in the churchyards again. I can’t save them all. I could barely save Yang. I’ll have to stand by and watch people die and—

I’ve had to see too many people die.

Mother—her face and body swollen with child, blue eyes staring, asking me for promises I could not keep. Zara—the smell of pennies on her breath, coppery skin hot against mine as she begged me to help her die. The woman from Harwood who lost her baby—her blond hair matted with blood as her life seeped out onto the cobblestone street.

O’Shea sweeps down the aisle from the chancel. He and his retinue pause to greet their wealthy parishioners, laying blessings on their heads, chuckling at something a well-dressed man says. He looks utterly unconcerned by the weighty responsibilities of state, by the hundreds of people dying in his capital city while he doesn’t lift a finger to stop it. While he lays the blame at my doorstep.

He pauses before us with his reptilian smile. “Merry Christmas, Sisters!”

Prue and Alice go to their knees, but I hesitate. The idea of kneeling before him makes my stomach roil. I do not want this man to touch me. He would have murdered Sachi and Rory and Prue. He would order me and my sisters and all my friends killed if he knew what we were. He would watch us hang and cheer our deaths.

O’Shea stares at me with his pale eyes. “Sister Catherine, isn’t it?” he says.

I grit my teeth and kneel. He blesses Prue, then Alice, and then lays his plump, sweaty hand on my forehead, and oh—the moment he touches me, I sense his headache. Perhaps he is not as unaffected by Merriweather’s stunt as he pretends. My fingers twitch along the marble floor.

If anyone deserves pain, deserves suffering, it is this man, who doles it out so gleefully.

“Lord bless you and keep you this and all the days of your life,” he says, and I cannot help wishing the exact opposite for him.

“Thanks be,” I murmur, yanking on the threads of magic running through me. His headache flares, burns a fiery scarlet. He stumbles back.

It’s not enough. I wish I could make his head explode, crack his skull wide open.

I did not know I contained such violence.

“Brother O’Shea, are you unwell?” I hear someone ask, and I feel a grim satisfaction—along with a wave of dizziness. My vision blurs.

“Cate?” Alice whispers, her hand on my shoulder. There’s a note of alarm in her voice.

“Isn’t that the newspaperman’s sister?” a woman’s voice shrills. “The one who was supposed to be hanged?”