“My soul ...” I start. “What do you think will happen to it, Father? After?”
He’s silent for a long moment. “If you die with unconfessed sin on your spirit, you may face purgatory.”
Purgatory, then. Not hell. The heaviness in the room lifts, ever so slightly, but still—I’d much prefer heaven. I glance at the corner. Rebecca is gone. “I’m not guilty of murder,” I say. “Only a lie.”
“A lie?”
“Yes. A lie of omission.” I pull in a slow breath and turn to look at the young priest, calculating. My secret sits ready on my tongue. If I were to speak it to him now, would he believe me? Would it be enough to grant me pardon even at this late hour?
“My child,” he says gently, “if you have anything to confess, let it be now.”
“It’s only that I ... saw things. I knew things. I can’t be certain, but Rebecca might have died because of them.” Even now, the memory of it all sickens me, tumbling like sharp glass in my empty gut.
“Yes?” the priest prods, his back straightening. “If you know anything about your sister’s death ... who killed her, it might be possible to plead your innocence to the governor. He’s here, today, in the city.”
It would be so easy to say the betraying words, to place this yoke of guilt on another’s shoulders. But I cannot. Because I do notknowfor certain what killed Rebecca. Theysaidit was the arsenic. Our doctor. The coroner. As to who killed my sister, I only know where my suspicions lie—where they always have—but that, too, is only conjecture.
Heavy footsteps sound from down the corridor. The warden. Panic flits across the young priest’s face at the same time it races through my heart. “Miss Carmichael, I beg of you ...”
I steel myself. I must speak, because Collingwood is on the way—horrid man—and I refuse to die without the sacraments. Only God above will ever know the full truth of Rebecca’s demise. I must make peace with that. My confession, at least, will grant me absolution in death, even if it’s a lie. “I did it,” I say, in a rush. “I killed her. Poisonedher with arsenic. She stole my fiancé, right out from under my nose, and I hated her for it.”
The priest regards me, his eyes narrowing warily. “You’re absolutely certain this is your final confession? There isn’t something else you’d like to tell me?”
“No. You asked for my confession, and there it is, Father. Please. The sacraments.”
He stands and removes a small vial of anointing oil from the folds of his cassock. “Kneel before me.”
I sink onto the floor, and he hurriedly completes his holy ministrations, fragrant oil dripping sloppily down my forehead, the Eucharist dissolving on my tongue. He makes the sign of the cross and offers his hand to help me rise. “May God’s grace be with you, my child.”
The ritual brings some measure of comfort to my spirit but does nothing to allay the heavy tug of dread in my gut. A key rattles in the cell door. I suddenly feel as if I might faint. I cling to the priest’s arm to steady my spinning head. “What ... what is your name, Father?”
“Donal.”
“Please don’t leave me until it’s over, Father Donal.”
He pats my hand. His palm is sweating, and I realize he’s just as afraid as I am. “I promise I won’t.”
Collingwood enters my cell, his brows drawn together in a frown. Mrs. Banks trails him. She’s been crying, poor bird. She’s fond of me. I’ve always thought so, but I can see it plainly now. She served my meals before the others’. Brought me books to read, paper for letters. I’ve always been a good girl, after all. The eldest of four daughters. Biddable and eager to please. Prison didn’t change that.
The warden roughly brings my hands behind my back and loops a length of scratchy rope around my wrists.
“Not too tightly, Mr. Collingwood, sir,” Mrs. Banks says, her voice thick. “She’s but a wee thing after all.”
My mouth is a desert, my pulse a drum. “Are my parents here, Mrs. Banks?” I ask.
“Only your father, Miss.”
Dear Papa. Of course he came. My heart sinks at Mother’s absence, though I’m not surprised. “Might I have a word with him, before?”
Collingwood sighs. “We’ve already gone late.”
Late to my own execution. How disappointing. I’ve never been late to anything in my life.
“I’ll find your father after and tell him whatever you’d like, Miss Carmichael,” Father Donal says, his voice gentle.
“I’d be grateful.” My tongue is sluggish and thick in my mouth. “Tell him I love him. Mother, too.”
Collingwood tugs on my bonds, leading me to the door. I spare one last glance at my cramped, narrow quarters. The hay-strewn floor. The slender cot bolted to the wall and the dented chamber pot beneath it. A single chair, now empty. Papa’s money has afforded me, as a gently bred woman of the chivalry, a private cell on the upper ward. Most of the prisoners here aren’t so fortunate—left to rot and fester in overcrowded communal cells on the lower floors, the tidewaters bringing in rats to bite and scurry at their feet, pestilence, and sickness. Few survive more than a year at City Jail. I’ve been here for two. After I’m gone, this room will be swept clean in readiness for the next unfortunate soul, with nary a mark to show I’ve ever been here.
