“The Sisters of Sin.”
Jennie’s pen doesn’t move.
“What about—” Bella begins, then bites her lip. “What about the Sisters of Avalon?” It takes less than a second’s silence for Bella to begin backtracking and hand-wringing. “Perhaps not. It sounds a bit like the Daughters of Tituba, doesn’t it, and we hardly want to be mistaken for make-believe. And it’s so provocative to associate ourselves so openly with the Last Three—”
But Agnes is smiling and Jennie’s pen is moving across the top of the page, and Juniper can feel the name settling over them, shining in their faces. Juniper has a goosefleshed premonition that it will be printed in papers and on wanted posters, whispered through the alleys and mill-floors, passed like a lantern from hand to hand. The Sisters of Avalon, they call themselves. Did you hear? The looks exchanged, the flash of longing in their eyes.
“Excellent.” Jennie finishes the last flourish of the name. “And what about titles and duties? Should they be elected positions, do you think?”
Juniper finds that this somewhat dampens the shine of their new name. “Positions?”
“Well, I mean—secretary, treasurer, president, vice president, press liaison, head of recruitment . . .” Jennie ticks them off on her fingers.
“Saints, there’s only four of us.”
“Sounds like a problem for the head of recruitment.”
Juniper flicks a ball of lint at Jennie and Jennie dodges without taking her eyes from her paper. Bella offers, tentatively, “I—I could be the press liaison. I have a—contact in the newspaper business.” Bella doesn’t look at any of them as she says it, and Juniper wonders if she means that colored woman in the gentleman’s coat, and why that should cause her to blush such a vivid pink. She recalls a little uneasily that there were rumors back home about her oldest sister, too.
Jennie writes something in the notebook. “Full name?”
“Beatrice Eastwood.”
Jennie hesitates. “Why do your sisters call you Bella?”
Juniper says, “Because that’s the name our mama gave her. Beatrice Belladonna Eastwood.” Bella shifts uncomfortably and Juniper sighs at her. “Honestly, if we can’t use our mother’s-names in a secret society of witches, when can we?”
Jennie finishes writing and turns an expectant eye to Agnes, who looks very close to rolling her eyes. “I can . . . ask around, I suppose.” She makes a circle with her index finger, indicating either the South Sybil boarding house, the neighborhood of West Babel, or the entirety of New Salem. “Does that make me in charge of recruitment?”
“Name?”
“Agnes Eastwood.” Juniper tosses a second ball of lint at her. “Oh, fine. Agnes Amaranth Eastwood.”
Jennie records this, too, then says brightly, “And who’s president?”
There’s a brief exchange of glances between the sisters. Juniper asks, “What does it mean to be president, exactly?”
Jennie makes a seesaw motion with her head, cornsilk hair swinging. “Not much, really, if we agree to a collective decision-making process.” The phrase recalls the endless meetings of the Women’s Association. Juniper gives an involuntary shudder.
“But in the Association . . . Miss Stone was the heart of us.” There’s a gray note in Jennie’s voice, like regret, and Juniper shrugs away a prickle of guilt. It was Jennie’s own damn choice to follow her out the Association door. “She was our direction. We all steered the ship, but she was our compass.” Jennie looks at Juniper as she finishes, frowning a little.
Juniper looks away. “Well, we can vote on it later. Let’s talk about getting some girls signed up, O head of recruitment.”
But Bella says anxiously, “I’m not sure how many people we ought to recruit. What would we be recruiting them to, exactly?”
Juniper says, “Hell-raising,” just as Jennie says, “Yes, we’ll need a constitution, and a declaration of intent.”
Juniper considers for several consecutive seconds and offers, “To raise hell?”
The other Sisters of Avalon ignore her. She tries again. “To bring about a second age of witching. To get back what was stolen from us.”
“That might be a little . . . much, don’t you think?” Bella clears her throat over Juniper’s muttered you’re a little much. “How about: to restore the rights and powers of womankind?”
Jennie writes it down while Bella frets, because Bella always frets. “Without the Lost Way we don’t have any powers to restore. I’m not sure anyone would sign up for the sake of m-moonbeams and witch-tales.” Her hands are twisting in her lap, chapped and ink-stained.
Agnes is standing by the window, looking out at the gray alley. “You’re forgetting a whole street full of people just saw a woman set a viper on a boy because he gave her a little trouble.”
“A little trouble—”
Agnes continues. “By now the city will be rotten with rumors. People will be scared, scandalized . . . but some of them will want to know more. They need to know more, if what June says is true.”
Juniper had told them about the shadows at the riot and the sick shine of Miss Wiggin’s smile. She doesn’t know how convinced they are, but she had seen them sidestepping shadows and looking twice at dark doorways in alleys.
“And who knows?” Agnes continues. “They might have some witching of their own. Every woman has a handful of spells from her aunt or cousin or mama.”
Jennie objects. “Not every woman.”
“Well, most women, then.”
There’s a stiffness in Jennie’s face, a wordless denial.
Bella is watching her. “And how did you and the other girls escape the riot, exactly, if it wasn’t witching?”
The stiffness cracks. Jennie chews her lip, cheeks pinking. “It was nothing. Just a little spell.” Her cheeks slide past pink and head straight for scarlet. “To . . . tie shoelaces together.”
Juniper cackles, because the image of dozens of rioters tripping over their own feet is delightful, but Bella asks, boringly, “That sounds like men’s magic. Or boys’ magic, at least.”
Jennie isn’t looking at any of them, face draining to blotched white. “I . . . had . . . a brother.” Even Juniper hears the past
