“We will never lead you into sin and temptation. Indeed, we will do everything we can to keep you from it. When the witches were in power, they did not encourage girls to take their rightful place in the home. They cared nothing for protecting girls’ virtue. They would have women aping men— dressing immodestly, running businesses, even forgoing marriage to live in unnatural unions with other women.” Brother Ishida allows himself a shudder of disgust. “Because of their wickedness, they were overthrown. It was the Lord’s will that the Brotherhood take their place as the rightful rulers of New England.”
I stare at the pew in front of me, at the blond curls dripping down Elinor Evans’s neck. Is he right? Almost one hundred twenty years ago, in 1780, angry mobs stirred by the rhetoric of Brother William Richmond burned the temples up and down the coast—often with the witches still in them. Ultimately, the witches’ magic wasn’t enough to subdue their subjects—not when the witches were so vastly outnumbered. The Great Temple of the Daughters of Persephone in New London was the last to fall. Most witches were murdered; the few who were left went into hiding.
Brother Ishida’s voice rises, his face going red, his black-marble eyes shining. “Our rules were made toprotect you from yourselves. The witches were headstrong and lustful. Perversions of what women should be. Lord help us all if they ever rise again! We must never forget the evil they perpetrated—the way they corrupted our girls, and the way they used mind-magic on their opponents. These are women who left their enemies empty husks.”
I can—and do—mock much of what Brother Ishida teaches, but I can’t argue with this ugly bit of history. Mother confirmed the truth of it. When the early members of the Brotherhood first came to America, seeking religious freedoms, they were allowed to practice in peace. But as their numbers grew greater, they and their followers began to speak out against the witches, and they were systematically compelled to forget their objections. When the witches fell from power, the Brothers discovered asylums full of the witches’ enemies, the occupants reduced to childlike states or outright catatonia.
Elinor Evans shivers and waves her hand in the air. She’s a plump, placid girl of thirteen whose father is the chocolatier. “Can we go over the signs of mind-magic again, sir?”
Brother Ishida smiles. True mind-magic is rare as hen’s teeth, but the Brothers like to keep us frightened of it. “Of course we can. Headache. The feeling that someone is pulling on your hair, only inside. And your memory goes all foggy.” Brother Ishida’s eyes sweep over the crowd of assembled girls. “But if the witch is strong enough, there will be no symptoms. You may never know that she has invaded your mind and destroyed a memory. Witches are very clever and very wicked. That is why we must hunt them down and contain them, Elinor, so they don’t contaminate good girls like you.”
“Thank you, sir,” Elinor says, lifting her double chins with pride.
“You’re welcome. We’re nearly out of time. Let’s go over a few of the tenets of womanhood, shall we? Miss Dolamore! What is a woman’s highest purpose?”
Gabrielle Dolamore shrinks back in her seat. Her sister Marguerite is the one who was taken away last month, and the Brothers have been scrutinizing Gabby ever since. She’s a tiny girl of fourteen, all birdlike arms and legs. “To bear children and be a comfort to our husbands?” she whispers.
Brother Ishida strides forward to the very edge of the dais. He’s an imposing figure, cloaked in the Brothers’ black robes. “Speak up, Miss Dolamore. I can’t hear you.”
Gabrielle says it again, louder.
“That is correct. Miss Maura Cahill! To whom do you owe obedience?”
Next to me, Maura stiffens. “The Brotherhood. My father. And someday, my husband,” she replies, her voice crisp.
“That is correct. And what must you strive to be, girls? Answer all together!”
“Pure of heart, meek of spirit, chaste of virtue,” we chant.
“Yes. Good job, girls. That concludes our lesson. Let us clear our minds and open our hearts to the Lord.”
“We clear our minds and open our hearts to the Lord,” we echo.
“You may go in peace to serve the Lord,” he says.
We bow our heads. “Thanks be.”
Indeed, I am thankful that it’s over. I stand and arch my back as we wait for the children and adults to join us for the service proper. Some of the girls promenade down the aisle and back; others huddle together and giggle. I elbow Maura, who’s staring at Brother Ishida’s back as though he’s a two-headed calf.
“Perversions of what women should be,”Maura mimics. “Because they loved other women? Or because they refused to submit to a man’s authority?”
She has a point. The Brothers say that women having romantic relationships with each other is a very great sin. But in other, freer places, like Dubai, women live openly with other women—and men with men. It’s not common, but it’s not illegal.
“I loathe him,” Maura hisses, her pretty face distorted with anger.
“Maura,” I say warningly, putting a hand on her yellow sleeve. I turn to see if anyone is within hearing distance. Thankfully there’s no one’s left in the pew behind us.
But Sachiko Ishida is just passing our row, arm in arm with Rose Collier. “You should see some of the new hats from Mexico City, they’re so dear! All decorated with feathers and flowers,” Sachi says loudly. “But Father says they’re far too gaudy. Only meant to draw attention, you know. Just like rouging your face. Only ladies of loose morals dothat.”
“I hear girls in Dubai are wearing blouses separate from their skirts,” Rose adds in a scandalized whisper. “And sometimes trousers, just like men!”
Sachi gasps. “How positively indecent! I’d never go that far. Father says it’s only my womanly frailty that makes me wish for pretty things.” She catches me looking and winks a dark eye. “I shall have to pray harder to rid myself of sin.”
Is she joking? I’ve never seen the slightest indication that Sachi has a sense of humor. She is her father’s pet, a model of good behavior, and the most popular of the town girls. Her sixteenth birthday was a few weeks ago, and he threw her a grand garden party with croquet and chocolate cake. We were not invited.
I hold back a sigh. What I wouldn’t give to share in the freedoms of Arab girls. They’re allowed to inherit property and go to university; they’ve even been given the right to vote. But we never hear about witches living there. We never hear about witchesanywhere. It seems like most of the world’s witches were drawn to New England by the promise of freedom—and within a few generations, they were all slaughtered.
Even if witches were allowed to live openly elsewhere, there’s no way for us to leave New England. Girls have more freedoms in the Spanish colonies to the south, but the borders are closed.Allthe borders are closed, except for official Brotherhood business and trade. Stowaways are punished as harshly as witches themselves.
Running away is impossible. We have to stay here and solve our problems. I reach into my pocket, where my fingers brush against the crumpled note from Z. R. It’s been nearly a week since I received the letter, but I’m no closer to figuring out her identity. I haven’t been able to find Mother’s diary, and there’s no mention in her correspondence of anyone whose name starts with a Z.
Who is Z. R.? And what sort of danger is she warning me about?
Everyone from Chatham and the surrounding farms is here, stuffed into the wooden church; services are mandatory except for the very ill. Even when it became obvious that Mother was dying—and after, when the house was in deepest mourning—we weren’t granted a reprieve. Brother Ishida urged us to offer up our grief to the Lord. He promised it would prove our greatest consolation. I did not find much truth in that, myself.
My eyes roam over my neighbors. The Brothers sit together in the first two pews. Their families sit behind them in places of honor. We are meant to shun worldly vices like pride and envy, but being married to one of the Brothers carries with it a certain cachet.
Their wives are meek women with downcast eyes, but they dress well. Their wide bell skirts fan out around them, and their taffeta petticoats rustle when they shift. Puffed sleeves stand up on each shoulder—sentinels guarding their thoughts, lest anything shameful sneak in. And their daughters! They are pictures of garish girlishness in bright yellows and purples, pinks and emeralds, their hair in the new pompadour style instead of the simple chignons my sisters and I favor.
A half-swallowed giggle catches my attention. Brother Malcolm pauses in his sermon on charity, frowning at proof that not everyone is wholly absorbed.
It’s Rory Elliott. For a moment, she smiles at all the attention and tosses her long black hair. Then she lowers her eyes demurely, her cheeks flushing as pink as her dress, and inches closer to Nils Winfield. She gets away with being scandalous because she’s betrothed to Nils, and his father is Brother Winfield.
Everyone else’s eyes slide away as Brother Malcolm resumes. The Lord . . . something. I keep watching Rory and see how Sachi Ishida elbows her sharply in the ribs. Rory mouths something unladylike, but folds her hands in her lap, straightens her back, and fixes her attention back on Brother Malcolm. Sachi smiles, and I wonder—not for the first time—why the town sweetheart chooses to associate with a girl like that. Rory’s mother is a shut-in who never leaves their house. They say she’s a drunk, and that she doesn’t know who Rory’s real father is. Her husband, Jack Elliott, gave Rory his name, but since he died in that carriage accident, the Elliotts won’t have anything to do with Rory or her mother.
Sachi catches me staring. I raise my eyes back to the dais, where Brother Malcolm is just finishing his sermon.
“We clear our minds and open our hearts to the Lord,” he intones.
“We clear our minds and open our hearts to the Lord,” the congregation echoes. I mouth the words along with everyone else. Mother taught us to say the prayers before bedtime and meals when we were small, but it seemed more a matter of habit than of faith. Any real belief I had in the Lord died along with my mother.
“Go in peace. Serve the Lord,” the Brothers chant.
“Thanks be.”
Our neighbors file out slowly, chattering to one another, exchanging news. I want to shove them out of my way, throw elbows into their soft stomachs. I want to be home.
Instead I smooth my skirt and wait my turn to exit the pew.
Mrs. Corbett is at Father’s side, nattering on about the governess. I watch them, Maura’s prediction ringing in my ears. The old hag can’t really be trying to entangle Father romantically, can she? He’s not home often enough to be a husband to anyone. And we do not need—do not ever want—a new mother.
Father manages a smile. He used to be handsome, but perpetual mourning has taken its toll. There’s a scattering of silver in his blond hair, and his face droops like a basset hound. “You must stay for dinner, then,” he suggests.
Surely that’s just politeness.
Mrs. Corbett simpers. At least I think that’s the intended effect. Her mouth twists into a ghastly sort of smile.
Mrs. Ishida appears at the end of our pew. “Miss Cahill! I’m giving a little tea next Wednesday afternoon, and I was hoping you might like to join us. Miss Maura too, of course.”
Mrs. Ishida’s teas are the most coveted invitations in town. We have never been granted a summons before. Mrs. Corbett looks up sharply, her tongue darting out between her teeth like a snake testing the air.
I clasp my hands together and stare demurely at the wooden floor. “It’s so kind of you to think of us. We would be delighted.”
“Lovely,” Mrs. Ishida says. “We shall look forward to seeing you on Wednesday, then.”
I wonder what’s prompted this sudden interest in our society. I look over at Sachi, who is whispering with Rory, their dark heads bent close together. Her eyes glance off mine so quickly, they almost throw sparks. Did she set her mother on us?
“It’s good for young ladies to be out in company. They won’t make the right connections at home studying Cicero,” Mrs. Corbett whispers. “Perhaps Sister Elena can help them organize a tea of their own. They ought to have an at-home afternoon.”
Oh no. If we commence gadding about, we’ll be forced to return the invitations. I am ostensibly the lady of the house, but I’ve never been called on to perform as such. The thought of having neighbors running roughshod through the place, poking their noses into our lives, terrifies me. I don’t know how to serve tea and cakes and make polite conversation. By the time I was old enough to go visiting with her, Mother was too ill, and then we were in mourning for a year. What do polite people talk about? Not magic or books or Greek mythology. Likely not gardening.
Loath as I am to admit it, this governess might be useful after all.
We eventually make our way down the crowded aisle and outside. Above us, white cotton-boll clouds scud across the cerulean sky. Branches sway in the breeze, sending leaves pirouetting to the ground. On either side of the walk, white chrysanthemums bloom. The plot needs weeding.
The church and its white spire dominate the town square. The holding cell in the basement and the Brothers’ council chamber serve as jail and courthouse. All of Chatham stretches out from here: the general goods store, the stationer’s, the chocolatier’s, Belastras’ bookshop, the seamstress’s, the apothecary’s, the butcher’s, the bakery, a few dozen homes. Most of the population of Chatham lives on farms outside town, where they grow potatoes and corn, oats and hay, apples and blueberries.
Father has escaped the dread clutches of Mrs. Corbett and is chatting with Marianne Belastra, Finn’s mother. She’s a thin woman with gray twining through her rust-colored hair. She has Finn’s freckles—or the other way around, I suppose. Finn stands next to her, nodding enthusiastically at something Father says. His sister, Clara, tugs on the sleeve of his jacket. She’s Tess’s age, but tall and gangly, with enormous hands and feet that seem all out of proportion to the rest of her. Her skirt isn’t quite long enough; a hint of her petticoat peeks out beneath.
“Good day, Miss Cahill,” a deep voice says behind me.
I whirl around. It’s been ages since I’ve heard that dry growl, but I’d know it anywhere.
How on earth did I miss him in church? He must have slipped in at the last minute and sat behind us.
I knew Paul would be home soon; everyone in town knows. Mrs. McLeod’s talked of nothing else for weeks. He must have come a few days early
to surprise her. Still, I can’t help staring. He looks so much older. A man of nineteen, not a boy of fifteen. He’s taller—I barely come up to his nose now—and he’s got a close-cropped mustache and beard just a shade darker than his blond hair. He looks quite the gentleman in his frock coat, lounging indolently beneath a maple tree.
“Mr. McLeod, home at last. How are you?” I curtsy, wishing I’d worn a prettier dress. Apple green looks beautiful on Maura, but it does me no favors. Why didn’t I wear the mauve brocade?
“Quite well, thank you, and you?” He shifts from foot to foot. Is he as nervous as I am? His green eyes are so intent on my face, I can’t help flushing under the scrutiny.
“Very well.” Still angry with him.
“Mother and I are leaving. Could we escort you home?”
Oh. No gentleman’s ever offered to escort me home before. I should be pleased. As Maura so helpfully pointed out, Paul is my best chance for finding a husband. If I don’t get betrothed soon, Father will involve himself—or, worse, the Brothers will choose for me. They could pick anyone—a lonely old widower or a devout man poised to join the Brotherhood. I’d have no say in it.
Still, Paul didn’t even bother to come home for Mother’s funeral. Girls are not permitted to receive letters from men unless they are betrothed, but surely he could have written me if he’d wanted to, instead of that dry little note of condolence he sent Father. If he’d thought of me—missed me at all —he would have written. We were the best of friends right up until the day he left. This man i
n front of me now is a stranger.
And I’m not the carefree Cate he left behind. Seeing him again—it makes me miss that girl. She didn’t realize how much she had to lose. She laughed more and worried a great deal less.
“Let me tell my sisters I’m going,” I decide.
Maura greets Paul with enthusiasm while Tess smiles shyly. When I say the McLeods will take me home, Maura glares at me for abandoning her and Tess to the dull politeness of our neighbors. I can’t help smirking. Perhaps this will give her the chance to make those friends she’s been longing for.
Paul hands me up into the McLeods’ barouche, and I settle onto the leather bench next to his mother. Paul sits across from us. Mrs. McLeod nervously arranges a blanket over her lap, shivering, as the matched pair of bays starts forward. I suspect the open carriage is Paul’s doing. His mother is notoriously afraid of catching a chill.
“Good morning, Mrs. McLeod,” I say. “How are you?”
She gives me a sour smile as she recounts her latest aches and pains. Paul is her darling; I don’t think she’d care for any girl he paid attention to, but she’s always found me particularly irritating. I suspect I am too hardy for my own good.
“How was your apprenticeship?” I ask.
“Paul’s become Mr. Jones’s right-hand man. And he was quite the scholar at university,” she gloats. “Tell her, son.”
“I did well enough for all the time I spent in the library.” Paul ducks his head. I’d wager that he spent precious little time in the library, compared with how much he spent wandering the city and carousing.
“He’s modest,” Mrs. McLeod says.
“New London is grand. Construction booming all day, every day except Sundays. New factories, new warehouses down by the port to store goods, new houses for the men making their fortunes off the factories. All the big houses have gaslights now. Some even have indoor water closets!”
“Imagine that,” Mrs. McLeod breathes.
“The streets are a madhouse. Trains come and go all day long, bringing workers from the country looking for jobs. Ships come to port with goods and people from Europe or as far away as Dubai. The city is bursting at the seams. Whole families are living crowded together in three-room flats above shops and taverns. It’s an amazing time to be an architect.”
Born Wicked: The Cahill Witch Chronicles, Book One: The Cahill Witch Chronicles, Book One Page 4