“Absolutely not!” Merriweather thunders. “I won’t put you forward as a target.”

Prue rolls her eyes heavenward. “You can risk your safety, but I can’t? That’s ridiculous.”

The men around the table watch the siblings argue, heads swiveling back and forth as though they’re at a lawn tennis match.

“The ladies have a point.” Finn clatters down the stairs. He’s wearing a chocolate-colored vest and a rumpled white shirt, and when his eyes meet mine, a grin spreads over his face, and I’m blind to anything else. “You weren’t at the bazaar, Merriweather, but O’Shea had a nurse spinning stories about how well the Harwood girls were treated. The public ought to know the truth of it.”

“And how am I supposed to get my hands on all these girls to interview them?” Merriweather demands.

“That’s where we come in.” Rilla’s wearing one of her favorite dresses tonight, too. It’s yellow brocade with enormous orange gigot sleeves and an orange taffeta bow at the breast. “I could interview them for you.”

“What?” Merriweather’s chiseled jaw drops. “That’s ridiculous.”

“It is not. It’s past time you had a lady reporter on your staff. I would use a nom de plume, of course,” Rilla plows on. “All the magazines from Paris and Dubai have lady reporters. Why not here?”

Merriweather runs a hand through his shaggy dark hair. “All the fashion magazines, you mean. I run a serious newspaper, Miss Stephenson, and I will not have it become a laughingstock.”

Prue gives her brother a mutinous look. “I think it’s a good idea.”

“Of course you do.” Merriweather folds his arms across his broad chest. “How do I even know she can write?”

“You’ll see when I turn in my first interview, won’t you?” Rilla brushes her palms together as if the matter is settled, and I can practically see Merriweather’s brain explode. Poor man.

“I don’t wish to tell you how to run your newspaper—” I begin carefully.

“Then don’t. I beg of you, refrain from whatever it is you’re about to say. I’ve had all I can take of managing females for the evening,” Merriweather grumbles, glaring at Prue and Rilla. He pulls out a chair from the long wooden table and slumps into it.

“I’m afraid that wouldn’t agree with my conscience.” I take the empty seat between him and Finn. Rilla and Prue sit across the table. “I’ve spent the last four days nursing fever victims at Richmond Hospital. Are you aware that we’re in real danger of an epidemic?”

“An epidemic?” Merriweather shakes his head. “I’ve heard it’s gotten worse, but—”

I shake my head, terribly aware that Finn’s knee is only inches from mine. “It’s spread like wildfire all through the river district. It’s bound to hit the market district next, and then what? It’s three days till Christmas. Everyone’s out doing their shopping.”

John frowns, toying with his purple cravat. “I thought the accounts in the Sentinel were all just fearmongering.”

Mr. Moore scratches at his whiskers. “My cousin lives out on the edge of town. Sent word yesterday that his kids are sick and might not be able to make it for Christmas dinner.”

“See? People ought to be taking precautions, and they aren’t, because the Sentinel is blaming it all on the witches. The hospital is a madhouse; they’re turning people away for lack of beds. Talk to any nurse!” I glance around at the men lining the table: all gentlemen or tradesmen, by their dress. “When was the last time any of you went down by the river? For all your fine talk of equality and a vote for all men, do any of you ever interact with the poor?”

There’s a moment of silence, and I grit my teeth.

“We don’t get many customers from down by the river. Good writing paper and ink are luxuries,” O’Neill admits, staring down at his wrinkled hands.

“If it’s so bad, why wouldn’t the Brothers be setting up quarantines? Or at least marking houses with the sick inside?” Merriweather asks.

“It might cause panic. That’s the last thing O’Shea wants.” Finn’s brown eyes meet mine and then flick around the table. “He won’t go anywhere without half a dozen guards. He’s afraid of being assassinated or attacked—either by the witches or by someone inside the council. The Brotherhood is deeply divided right now.”

The other men look suitably impressed by this information. “How so?” John asks.

“That last measure barely passed. They’ve caught ten of the sixty witches who escaped Sunday, but they haven’t scheduled another execution. Some say it’s because O’Shea’s afraid of another show of power by the witches.” Finn’s freckled hand rests on his right thigh, just inches from mine, and I have to force myself not to reach out and twine our fingers together. It feels unnatural to be this close and not touching. “Others say it’s because public opinion is against it. Some want to elect O’Shea permanently. Others want to call Brennan back and give him a chance to explain himself.”

Merriweather straightens. “How many of them would side with Brennan now?”

“Hard to say.” Finn leans forward to see around me, and his knee bumps mine. “Before the incident at Harwood, I think he could’ve gotten the vote. Now . . . I don’t know. I feel damned guilty about the whole thing.”

I suck in a startled breath. “Why would you feel guilty?” Surely he isn’t leading this conversation where I think he’s leading it.

“Because I was there, not Brennan. Because it’s my handkerchief they—ow!” Finn exclaims as I kick him in the shin. “I already told Merriweather, Cate, and I’m sure he told the others.”

“Are you mad?” I swivel to face Merriweather. “You can’t turn him in! Even if he confessed, they’d think he was making it up to clear Brennan’s name. They’d hang them both.”

“We know,” Merriweather says. “We have no intention of turning him in. Come to think of it, though, Belastra, perhaps I ought to interview you about what happened at Harwood. Anonymously, of course.”

I dart an uneasy glance at Finn. “He helped us bluff our way in. We were disguised as Brothers, but he was the real thing.”

“I see.” There’s a curious gleam in Merriweather’s eyes. “And then what?”

“We pulled the fire bell to get all the nurses in one place, and then we shut them in the uncooperative ward. It locks from the outside. But one of the nurses—the one who spoke at the bazaar—escaped and shot a patient. Finn helped me subdue her and then—”

“I appreciate your candor,” Merriweather interrupts, “but perhaps you could let the man speak for himself?”

My heart sinks. He knows. Finn must have said something the other night, something that betrayed his lack of memory. Now Merriweather’s bound to ask questions, he won’t let it drop, and—

I throw a panicky glance across the table at Rilla.

“Why are you so interested in what Mr. Belastra did that night?” Rilla tosses her brown curls. “It was mostly us, you know. Witches. Women. Why not give us credit?”