Sisters' Fate by Jessica Spotswood Read Free Book Online

casket that holds Sister Cora’s body. I can’t let her down. I’ve got to find a way to reinstate Brennan into the Brotherhood’s good graces—to make it clear that he ran for his life, not out of guilt.
    We’ll never get anywhere with a tyrant like O’Shea in charge.
    • • •
    After the service, we lead the way through the afternoon gloom to the funeral reception at the convent. Delectable breads and scones and small tea sandwiches march down the dining room tables. With Sister Sophia—the best cook in the Sisterhood—still away, Tess and some of the other girls spent the morning in a flour-drenched frenzy of baking. Tess is in the kitchen now, plating scones and washing dishes. She seems happier today, unafraid, but I can’t forget that someone in the Sisterhood wants to do her harm.
    The sideboard is stacked with the convent’s best gold-and-white china, and Sisters Johanna and Edith bring out pots of steaming tea and chocolate. The pocket doors between the dining room and sitting room are thrown wide. Inez and Gretchen have adopted the roles of mourners-in-chief, greeting guests, reminiscing about Cora’s good deeds.
    Gretchen’s eyes are bloodshot and rimmed in red. Inez’s are not.
    Our Sisterly uniforms—black bombazine dresses that stretch from throat to wrists to ankles, black heeled boots, and black satin gloves—are well suited to mourning. None of us wants to draw attention to ourselves. We keep our voices respectfully low, gazes cast down demurely.
    No one will find any banned texts within the convent’s gray stone walls today. The Gothic novels on the bookshelf have been transformed into books of Scripture. The fashion magazines from Dubai and Mexico City have been hidden. In the healing classroom, Bones the skeleton and charts of the human musculature have been locked away.
    My eyes catch Maura where she stands with Alice next to the pink velvet settee. The severity of the Sisters’ uniform suits my sister; it emphasizes her flame-bright curls and pale skin. As she raises her teacup, her sapphire eyes meet mine. There is nothing of apology in them. Nothing of guilt or contrition.
    I want to break her. I want the china cup to explode in her hands, the shards to cut her, staining her creamy skin scarlet.
    I want to hurt her the way she’s hurt Finn and me. The second I think his name, the dull ache in my chest rises to a roar. His sweetness when I’m snappish. His revelation that my favorite childhood novel was written by a woman.
And a Catherine, no less.
His promise that whatever came next, we would work through it together.
    He won’t keep that promise. I am the only one who remembers it.
    My magic rises, inextricably bound to my anger. It burns through me. I try to shove it back down, but it sizzles through my muscles, scorching my throat, singeing my fingertips. My eyes dart away from my sister’s, but it’s too late.
    Across the room, Maura stifles a cry.
    I hurry from the room, but not before I see Alice bend to pick up the pieces of Maura’s cup. Maura’s cradling her hand where the jagged china cut through her thin satin glove. “So clumsy,” she apologizes, her clear voice ringing out like a bell, and her abashed smile seems to allay everyone’s concern. No one seems to notice that the cup broke in her hands, before it hit the floor. But Maura knows. At least, she suspects. I can feel the weight of her eyes on my back, right between my shoulder blades, following me out into the hall.
    I am horrified. At my instinct to do my sister harm. At losing my temper like a reckless child.
    “Cate!” a voice says as someone catches my elbow and draws me into the anatomy classroom. It’s Elena. She shuts the door softly behind us.
    “Yes?” My voice is sharp. Did she see what I did?
    Well, she’s not my governess any longer. She’s only a year and a half older than me; she’s got no right to chastise me.
    Her chocolate eyes dip to the wooden floor. “I heard what Maura