Gertrude gives another of her devastating snorts. “When I see you out west, standing beside us against the U.S. cavalry, I’ll consider us comrades.”
Juniper flicks the bent nail at Gertrude in response and mutters about stubborn Sioux girls and useless men. At this point the Hull sisters intervene, insisting that they wouldn’t need Mr. Lee at all if instead they summoned the dead souls of their ancestors for instruction. Juniper makes a lewd suggestion about where Victoria can stick her crystal ball, and the tone of the evening descends thereafter.
Mr. Lee watches the rising debate with his jaw slightly slack and his blond hair tousled. Agnes sidles closer and pitches her voice beneath the noise of the room. “What’s the matter, Mr. Lee? Is this not how you pictured our little women’s club?”
“I . . . not entirely.” He scrubs a hand over his jaw. “What’s all this?” He nods at a pile of black felt and silken scraps, a scattering of dark feathers.
“Oh, nothing that would interest you, I’m sure. Just another show.”
For some reason this provokes another of his bright, boyish grins. “My what sharp teeth you have, Miss Eastwood,” he murmurs. “Will you be sprouting wings? Riding broomsticks across the Thorn?”
Bella, who was apparently eavesdropping, begins to say something about the absence of historical evidence that witches specifically preferred broomsticks, and that such stories likely refer to any number of spells for flight or levitation—but Agnes interrupts her on the grounds that it’s boring and no one cares. “That information is for Sisters only, Mr. Lee.”
“August, please.” He looks up at her with a dare in his eyes. “And how would one petition to join the Sisters of Avalon?”
Agnes never liked to back down from dares, either. “Bella. The roster, if you please?”
Bella hesitates for a long second before sliding her little black notebook across the table. Lee writes his name beneath the others—AUGUST SYLVESTER LEE—and tosses the pen down like a dueling glove.
“And now your oath, sir. Prick your finger and draw a cross, then repeat after me.”
“Witchcraft? Are you sure a man can work it?”
“Are you sure you’re a man? You strike me more as a mouse.”
August barks a laugh before he pricks his finger and speaks the words. The two of them grin a little giddily at one other until Juniper squints over at them and mutters darkly, “Oh, for the love of God.”
Later—after most of the Sisters of Avalon have slunk back through the halls of South Sybil and out into the damp green darkness of the June night, after August left with a tip of his hat so low it was nearly a bow and Agnes watched him go with a hand on her belly, reminding herself the price a woman paid for wanting—Bella clears her throat.
She’s standing at the door with her black notebook tucked beneath her arm, looking back at Agnes with deep lines around her mouth. “Be careful, Ag.” It’s almost a whisper. “I heard Annie saying he’s just here for a month to lie low. I don’t think he’s the type to stick around.”
“It’s not—it’s none of your damn business,” Agnes hisses back.
“I just didn’t want you to form any attachments that might be . . . unwise.”
“And what about the lovely Miss Quinn? Is she a wise attachment?”
Bella’s face goes gray, her shoulders hunching around some unseen wound. “I—I don’t know what you mean.” She sweeps from the room.
Then Agnes is alone, feeling like a snake or a shard of glass, something that hurts if you hold it close.
At the next meeting of the Sisters, Beatrice chooses a seat beside Miss Frankie Black. They work side by side, stripping lace and buttons from a pile of old skirts and donated blouses. There are more Sisters now, in need of more witch-robes.
Beatrice engages Frankie in an airy discussion of family and background, basking in the southern sprawl of her accent, before asking casually if Frankie happens to know Miss Cleopatra Quinn.
Frankie looks at her slantwise. “Yes.”
“Oh, I thought you might. And are you . . . close?”
“Quite close, at one time.” Frankie’s voice is very even, but Beatrice’s heart gives a double thump at that quite. She thinks of all the things Quinn doesn’t tell her, the work she doesn’t share.
“Well,” she says lightly, “I’ve just lately become acquainted with her. She’s quite . . .” She trails away, unsure what word she meant to say (enigmatic, compelling, consuming).
Frankie turns to face her directly. There’s an unmistakable shine of pity in her eyes. “Look, you should know before you get your heart broke: Miss Cleopatra has . . . other interests, and they will always come first.”
“Other—?” Beatrice would give any sum of money to prevent herself from blushing. “The Colored League, you mean?” She abhors the note of desperate optimism in her voice.
The pity deepens. “No, not the Colored League.”
“She’s a member, is she not?”
“I don’t believe she’s been to a meeting in months. Maybe ever.”
“Then I—I don’t know what you mean.” But Beatrice does.
She feels her elaborate theory—that Quinn was a clandestine operative for a women’s rights organization—collapsing like underbaked bread. There was a much more obvious reason that a beautiful woman with an understanding husband might make private calls at unlikely places, might disappear for periods of time without saying where. Beatrice remembers her first meeting with Quinn, the blinding smile, the daring derby hat, the effortless charm.
A woman like that could do much better than a bony librarian. Beatrice wonders wanly if she was the only woman to escort Miss Quinn to the Fair.
Frankie
