quieter block. The back of O’Neill’s Stationery is unassuming; there are no windows, only a wooden door and a small sign directing deliveries. A tiny sliver of lantern light creeps beneath the door. I glance over my shoulder, making sure we’re quite alone, before pulling the ruby necklace over my head, transforming it into the key Gretchen gave me, and quickly fitting it into the lock. We slip into the storeroom. Boxes of stationery and calling cards join wedding, funeral, and birth announcements in neat stacks on floor-to-ceiling shelves. The room is small, but utterly organized.
There are three doors: one to the alley, one into the shop, and a third that must lead to the basement and the Resistance meeting.
I loop the necklace back around my neck, nerves swarming like bumblebees, and open the third door. Starting down the steps, I trail my gloved hand over the rickety wooden rail. Elena follows. I blink as my eyes grow adjusted to the light.
In the cellar, seven men lounge around a long table covered with newspapers, mugs of ale, and a few candles. Fear spins spiderwebs down my spine. What if this is some kind of trap? What if they lure us into revealing our witchery and then turn us in? What if, what if, what if—my brain chants the fears.
“Sister Cate.” Mr. O’Neill stands. “Welcome.”
Are we? The other six men stare at us without rising to their feet, their faces arranged in solemn, suspicious lines. They do not want us here; that much is clear. But is it because we’re witches or because we’re women?
“Thank you.” I shake his hand, quite businesslike. “Mr. O’Neill, this is Sister Elena. Elena, this is Mr. O’Neill, the proprietor here. And please, call me Cate. I’m not a full member of the Sisterhood yet.”
Elena smiles up at him. “Thank you for letting us join you.”
“Wasn’t aware we had much of a choice.” The man at the head of the table stalks over, peering down his patrician nose at us. “Cora gave
her
the key? She’s a child! Barely out of short skirts!”
I bristle. I haven’t worn short skirts since I was thirteen, and I haven’t been a true child since then, either. Not since Mother died and I assumed the responsibility of looking after my sisters.
O’Neill hides a grin behind one wrinkled, liver-spotted hand. “Sister Elena, Cate, this is Alistair Merriweather, publisher and editor in chief of the
Gazette.
”
This
is Alistair Merriweather? I gape at him. From Gretchen’s description, I was expecting some old curmudgeon, but he can’t be more than twenty-five himself, and he looks more poet than revolutionary. He’s tall and angular, with a square jaw and black hair that flops over his pale forehead. He may be in hiding like Brennan, but he’s dressed like a dandy, with a purple silk cravat wrapped around his throat and a brocade vest and black jacket over a snowy white shirt.
“Hugh, this is mad. Surely you see that!” Merriweather throws up his hands. His fingers are streaked with black newsprint and blue ink, which reminds me of Finn. “It was one thing to allow Cora access to our meetings. She brought us valuable intelligence. We may have disagreed at times”—here, O’Neill snorts—“but she was clever enough—for a woman. What can this child offer us?”
Clever enough—for a
woman
? And he calls himself a progressive? I grit my teeth. “I can hear, you know. As for what I’ve got to offer”—I touch the key around my neck, transforming it back into a ruby. “Magic.”
“More witches from within the Sisterhood? How . . . interesting.” Merriweather glances at me and then, obviously finding me wanting in some way, he turns to Elena. “Where’s Gretchen? I thought she’d be the replacement.”
“Sister Gretchen is ill.” Elena doesn’t wait to be invited to sit at the table. She crosses the room, slim hips swaying, black skirts rustling, and takes an empty chair. “She’s been keeping vigil for Cora all week.”
“I
There are three doors: one to the alley, one into the shop, and a third that must lead to the basement and the Resistance meeting.
I loop the necklace back around my neck, nerves swarming like bumblebees, and open the third door. Starting down the steps, I trail my gloved hand over the rickety wooden rail. Elena follows. I blink as my eyes grow adjusted to the light.
In the cellar, seven men lounge around a long table covered with newspapers, mugs of ale, and a few candles. Fear spins spiderwebs down my spine. What if this is some kind of trap? What if they lure us into revealing our witchery and then turn us in? What if, what if, what if—my brain chants the fears.
“Sister Cate.” Mr. O’Neill stands. “Welcome.”
Are we? The other six men stare at us without rising to their feet, their faces arranged in solemn, suspicious lines. They do not want us here; that much is clear. But is it because we’re witches or because we’re women?
“Thank you.” I shake his hand, quite businesslike. “Mr. O’Neill, this is Sister Elena. Elena, this is Mr. O’Neill, the proprietor here. And please, call me Cate. I’m not a full member of the Sisterhood yet.”
Elena smiles up at him. “Thank you for letting us join you.”
“Wasn’t aware we had much of a choice.” The man at the head of the table stalks over, peering down his patrician nose at us. “Cora gave
her
the key? She’s a child! Barely out of short skirts!”
I bristle. I haven’t worn short skirts since I was thirteen, and I haven’t been a true child since then, either. Not since Mother died and I assumed the responsibility of looking after my sisters.
O’Neill hides a grin behind one wrinkled, liver-spotted hand. “Sister Elena, Cate, this is Alistair Merriweather, publisher and editor in chief of the
Gazette.
”
This
is Alistair Merriweather? I gape at him. From Gretchen’s description, I was expecting some old curmudgeon, but he can’t be more than twenty-five himself, and he looks more poet than revolutionary. He’s tall and angular, with a square jaw and black hair that flops over his pale forehead. He may be in hiding like Brennan, but he’s dressed like a dandy, with a purple silk cravat wrapped around his throat and a brocade vest and black jacket over a snowy white shirt.
“Hugh, this is mad. Surely you see that!” Merriweather throws up his hands. His fingers are streaked with black newsprint and blue ink, which reminds me of Finn. “It was one thing to allow Cora access to our meetings. She brought us valuable intelligence. We may have disagreed at times”—here, O’Neill snorts—“but she was clever enough—for a woman. What can this child offer us?”
Clever enough—for a
woman
? And he calls himself a progressive? I grit my teeth. “I can hear, you know. As for what I’ve got to offer”—I touch the key around my neck, transforming it back into a ruby. “Magic.”
“More witches from within the Sisterhood? How . . . interesting.” Merriweather glances at me and then, obviously finding me wanting in some way, he turns to Elena. “Where’s Gretchen? I thought she’d be the replacement.”
“Sister Gretchen is ill.” Elena doesn’t wait to be invited to sit at the table. She crosses the room, slim hips swaying, black skirts rustling, and takes an empty chair. “She’s been keeping vigil for Cora all week.”
“I
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