Born Wicked

by Jessica Spotswood

Page 35

 

  textbooks and scholarly tomes. They’ll assume I’ve been here on Father’s behalf.

  “No customers at present, Mrs. Belastra?”

  “Not at present. Business has been a bit slow for some reason or other,” she says, and I can hear her cheeky grin.

  “Didn’t Miss Cahill come in earlier? We didn’t notice her leaving. ”

  “She went out the back. Wanted to get a look at my roses. ”

  Finn grabs my hand.

  Normally I’d yank away from him. I’m not easily frightened; he should know that by now.

  Except I am quite frightened, actually. So I twine my fingers with his and squeeze back. His hand is warmer than mine. There are calluses at the

  base of his fingertips. Are they from the hammer and trowels he’s been wielding in our gardens?

  My heart stops as the outer closet door opens and those heavy footsteps move in our direction. I hold my breath, lungs strangling in my chest.

  Finn goes still as a stone beside me. The only sound is the rapid, uneven beating of my own heart.

  But the footsteps move away, and the door bangs behind them.

  It’s only when I taste salt that I realize tears are running in a silent river down my face, dripping off my chin and onto the cold stone floor. Finn is still clasping my hand. Now he reaches out and wipes a tear away with the soft pad of his thumb.

  How did he know I was crying? He can’t see in the dark, and I never cry.

  His thumb slips down over my cheek and rests softly, sweetly, on the curve of my bottom lip.

  “It’s all right,” he says. He’s so close that his warm breath tickles my neck.

  I turn and nestle my hot face into the soft cotton of his shirt. He smells of rainy spring days and old books. His hands move to my back and hover

  there, tentative, as if he expects me to push him away.

  I have never been this close to a man before. Something stirs deep, pulsing through my body, and it’s quite like the tug of magic, but it’s not the

  magic; this is something entirely different, just between Finn and me and this moment.

  His hands are firmer now. One settles at the small of my back, its weight burning through my dress and corset and even my chemise. My skin

  shivers under his touch. I should back away.

  I should but I won’t.

  I want his hands on me.

  If I could see his face, would I have such bold thoughts?

  My hands slide up his chest. My mouth reaches for his.

  Our noses bump in the dark, but Finn tilts his head sideways until his lips touch mine. They brush back and forth, testing. Tasting. He waits, but I

  only press closer, and he reads that for the invitation it is. His kisses grow bolder. My toes curl in my slippers; my fingers clench the fabric of his

  shirt; fireworks explode in my belly.

  His mouth explores the sharp line of my jaw, then moves to the hollow of my throat.

  “Finn,” I sigh. Never in my life has my voice sounded like that.

  I knot my fingers in his hair and pull his mouth back to mine.

  His hands move over me, light as feathers, stroking my back, my hip. Tangling in the sash around my waist, anchoring me tighter against him. My

  body burns wherever he touches.

  I’ve never devoted much thought to kissing. Never had cause to. But this—oh, this is lovely. Mad and hungry and lovely. I could stay like this for

  hours.

  And then the outer closet door bangs open, and Clara’s voice calls out, “They’ve gone!” and we spring apart, both of us breathing as though

  we’ve run a footrace.

  Something soft crunches beneath my slippers and I look down.

  There are feathers. Feathers everywhere—scattered over all the books, tangled in Finn’s hair, caught in my skirts, blanketing the floor in white. Oh no.

  There were no feathers here before.

  Finn is bending down, picking up a white plume the size of his palm. That means he can see them, too.

  I didn’t mean to, but I thought of feathers and here they are.

  I squeeze my eyes shut. Why now? I’ve never made anything appear out of thin air before except that sheep.

  Evanesco. Please, Lord,evanesco.

  They do not disappear.

  Of course they don’t. I have clearly used up my store of good luck for today.

  “What the devil?” Finn mutters, and even though I can’t see his face in the darkness, I know that the space between his eyebrows is tucked into

  an upside-down V. “Cate, do you see—?”

  “Evanesco,”I blurt, and now they’re gone.

  Finn stares at his empty hand.

  What have I done?

  I think I can trust Finn, I do, but with this? This is everything. If it were only my secret—

  But it isn’t. It’s my sisters’, too.

  You will be hunted by those who would use you for their own ends. You must be very, very careful. You cannot trust anyone. I stare at him, glad now that he can’t see my face. “Dedisco!”I say, careful to enunciate each syllable, my focus sharp as a surgeon’s scalpel. I

  only want him to forget the magic and the feathers. No more and no less.

  But my magic isn’t necessarily so precise.

  “Finn? Cate?” Marianne Belastra throws open the secret door. “Is something the matter?”

  Finn stands blinking in the sudden light. “No,” he says.

  “Nothing,” I say.

  “You’d best get home, Cate,” Mrs. Belastra says. “Let me give you a book on gardening in case the Brothers think to look for it. You can see that

  manuscript another time. ”

  “Yes,” I agree numbly. I can’t stop looking at Finn, searching his face for any hint of what he remembers. He’s not looking at me. That’s good; he’s

  not horrified I’m a witch. But whatdoeshe remember?

  Did I erase our kiss along with the feathers?

  “Thank you, Mrs. Belastra. ” It’s hard to talk around the lump in my throat. “I’m sorry if I’ve caused any trouble for you. ”

  I’m heading toward the front door when she stops me, her hand catching my elbow, and points toward the back. “That way, Cate. They’ll be

  watching the front. ”

  I nod and stumble through the maze of books. Of course. What am I thinking?

  Finn. I’m only thinking of Finn.

  I can’t even look at him, much less say good-bye.

  Chapter 11

  SUNDAY IS LILY’S DAY OFF, SO I ask Tess to fasten my corset, then dress myself. I’m wearing one of my new frocks to church: a royal blue with cream-colored lace at the wrists and throat. The wide gored skirt is free of any frills or frippery, and the plain cream-colored sash ties in a neat bow at the back. I smile at my reflection in the glass. I feel almost pretty. Will Finn think I’m pretty?

  Maura’s giggle floats down the hall. She and Elena must be primping together. They seem more like friends of late than teacher and pupil, and their closeness unnerves me.

  I need to talk to Elena. To confront her with what I know.

  Their footsteps approach, and I think quickly. Asking to speak with Elena alone will only ensure Maura’s interest in the conversation. I need a pretext. I pull the pins from my chignon and shake my hair out.

  Maura pokes her head in the door. “Almost ready? John’s brought the carriage around front. ”

  “Almost. Elena, would you mind helping with my hair?” I smile bashfully. “I’m useless with these pompadours. ”