I gape at her, and Tess shakes her head. “You’ve got to watch before you go blundering into things. Come on, I’ll get you your paper. Give me three pennies?”

I comply. “See? I’d be lost without you.”

“I’ll meet you at the stationery shop,” Tess promises, racing across the street.

I follow her at a more sedate, Sisterly pace. Kneeling at the curb, I pretend to retie my bootlaces while Tess strolls toward the group of men. She greets them with words too low for me to hear, exchanges her pennies for a paper, and thanks the paperboy with a grin. The boy—a rascal with tousled blond curls who can’t be older than fourteen—stares after her, and the men around him chuckle and say Lord knows what to make him blush.

Tess tucks the paper under her arm and strides off toward O’Neill’s Stationery. I follow her. By the time I reach the shop, she’s transformed into a demure young Sister again.

“Teresa Elizabeth Cahill,” I scold, voice low. “Why, I ought to—”

She strokes a pack of cornflower-blue paper with purple daisies embossed on the top. “What are you going to do, drag me out by my ear?”

I huff and turn away, because she’s right and, more abominably, she knows it. I scan the room, tempted to buy something for myself instead to teach her a lesson. I hardly need more writing paper—Tess handles writing to Father—but perhaps a nicer writing implement? I gaze down into the case of fine fountain pens.

Finn would love these. The room smells like him, dust and paper and ink. It’s only missing the bracing bergamot scent of his tea. I turn in a slow circle, admiring little pots of ink in every color—brown, black, blue, green, purple, red—arranged in tidy rows on the shelves. I run a hand over a stack of thick ivory paper and try to ignore the sting in my throat.

Will everything remind me of him, forever?

“All right,” I call to Tess, who’s still browsing the rack of ladies’ writing papers. “Is that the one you like best?”

Tess smiles slyly. “It is. And perhaps a new pot of ink? I fancy the violet.”

“Perhaps for your birthday. If you behave!” I snatch up the stationery, already tied with a pink bow, and carry it to the counter.

An old man with a shock of white hair and kind brown eyes greets me. “That’s very pretty. For the young lady there?”

“Yes. We’re students at the Sisterhood,” I explain, watching for his reaction.

There is none. He slides the sheaf of paper into a bag. “Can I help you find anything else?”

I lean against the high counter. “Are you Mr. O’Neill, the proprietor?”

“I am indeed. Been in business here since 1856.” He smiles at me. “Is this the first time you’ve visited us?”

“Yes, but I hope it won’t be the last.” I glance over my shoulder. There are two well-to-do matrons examining a display of calling cards, but they seem engrossed in their gossip. “I understand that you and Sister Cora were friends. I wanted to let you know that she passed away last night.”

O’Neill bows his snowy head. “I’m sorry to hear it. Cora was a grand lady.”

“I admired her very much. In fact, I—I was hoping to take up some of the work she did.” I pull the necklace from beneath my cloak, displaying the brass key. “I wanted to leave a note for Brother Brennan.”

O’Neill leans over the counter a bit, lowering his voice. “Ah. Then you haven’t heard of the trouble he’s in.”

I shake my head, heart sinking. “What trouble?”

“It’s all right there in your paper.” He taps a finger against it. “The Head Council was attacked last night and Brennan was absent. Ill, he said. But there was a mutiny at Harwood Asylum, too; all the patients escaped. The nurses don’t remember a thing—their memories were all erased—but the body of a witch was found with a man’s handkerchief bearing the letter B.”

“The letter B?” I freeze. That’s Finn’s handkerchief—B for Belastra—he gave it to Zara when she was coughing up blood.

My first, cruel thought is, Thank goodness they’re blaming Brennan instead.

“Indeed.” There’s disapproval in the arch of his gray eyebrows. “The rest of the council has been rendered useless. Not outright murdered, but as good as. O’Shea’s taken control until they can arrange a proper vote, and he didn’t waste any time accusing Brennan of being in cahoots with the witches.”

“Has Brennan been arrested, then?” I try to sort my thoughts. I’ve got to play this right. Gretchen said O’Neill was a supporter, but—

“No, miss. He’s disappeared. No one knows where he might be.” O’Neill rubs a hand over his white-stubbled jaw, dropping his eyes. The gesture gives the lie to his words.

“I see.” I look over my shoulder. The matrons are tittering, heads bent together, and Tess has moved on to examine the fountain pens. I reach my hand into my pocket and withdraw the note. “I would like to leave this for him. In case he should . . . turn up.”

“Here?” O’Neill’s eyebrows lift again. “I don’t see why he would. That attack last night on the Head Council made us—made him look a fool for arguing leniency against the witches. If the Brotherhood can prove he had foreknowledge of it, that’s treason. And treason’s a killing offense. Any sympathy he had for them—”

“It was—unfortunate, what happened to the council,” I interrupt. He has every right to judge us for what Inez and Maura did. “I was Cora’s student, Mr. O’Neill. Her protégée, if you will, and—”

“Doesn’t sound like Cora’s way, what happened.” O’Neill shakes his head.

“It wasn’t. Nor was it mine. But it’s imperative that this note reaches Brother Brennan. So he knows who can be trusted—and who can’t.”

The old man’s brown eyes widen, and he pockets the letter as the matrons approach the counter. “Well, now. If you put it like that, Sister . . . ?”

“Cate.” I pick up the bag for Tess.

He nods. “I’ll see you tomorrow night, then, Sister Cate.”

• • •

It begins to rain as we walk back to the convent. I’m quiet, lost in worry, and Tess has sunk into a black mood of her own. Neither of us brought an umbrella, and though we lengthen our strides, our woolen cloaks are soon soaked through.

I had hoped that by saving Brennan from Inez’s attack, I would be positioning him to succeed Brother Covington. I thought we were helping him, not setting him up to be accused of treason.

I shiver into the scratchy wet wool of my hood, remembering the day Brother O’Shea arrested poor Mrs. Anderson. A widow with two children to feed, she’d allowed a customer from her bakery to escort her home. She was taken from her children and sentenced to a prison ship, and O’Shea relished it. He’s the type to take pleasure in his power over others. A braggart and a bully.

And then there’s Tess. I cast a sidelong look at her. Her steps drag, as though she dreads returning to the convent. My anger sputters out. Would she be safer—happier—back at home in Chatham, where she could bake and read and pretend to be a normal girl? She’s seemed happy enough here. A little overwhelmed by the rush of the city, the crush and chatter of all those girls—but thrilled at all the opportunities for learning that the convent provides.