“Don’t. Please don’t. I haven’t done anything!” Gabrielle gasps.
“We’ll determine that,” Brother Ishida snaps, folding his arms over his chest.
“Wh-what have I been accused of?” Gabrielle asks. “By who?”
“Whom,” Brother Winfield corrects odiously—as though grammar matters at a time like this. It feels as though they’ve sucked all the oxygen from the room. From the whole town. My breath comes in shallow gasps.
“There’s been a mistake. I haven’t done anything!” Gabrielle cries.
Maura and Tess shrink together, grabbing each other’s hands. Mrs. Kosmoski stands slumped in the doorway to the inner room, her perfect posture abandoned. She presses both fists against her mouth as if the barrier is all that keeps her from protesting. But she doesn’t make a move to help Gabrielle. I wonder if she’s suspected this would happen ever since Marguerite was arrested.
“Please, let me go home to my family tonight. I’ll come tomorrow for the trial. I haven’t got anything to hide. I’m innocent,” Gabrielle insists, her brown eyes shining with tears. She looks around the room, searching our faces for reassurance, but we have none to give. Her innocence is irrelevant—only the Brothers’ perception of it matters.
“We do not trust the word of witches,” Brother Ishida growls. “Liars and deceivers, all of you.”
“I’m not a witch!” Gabrielle is hysterical now, tears weaving wet trails down her cheeks. She struggles against the guards, her boots scuffing the wooden floor as they drag her forward. One man holds the door open while the other pulls Gabrielle through it. She trips over the flowered rug and the guard kicks it aside.
Gabrielle casts one last desperate, pleading glance at us over her shoulder. No one moves. Then she’s gone. The Brothers sweep out after her like ghosts, and the door bangs shut behind them. We’re left in a great gaping silence.
“I apologize for the interruption, ladies,” Mrs. Kosmoski says finally. She crosses the room and straightens the rug, but her brisk movements don’t hide the tears in her eyes. “I daresay I could use a good bracing cup of tea. Angeline, could you fetch the ladies some tea?”
I barely hear her; it sounds as though she’s speaking from very far away. My hands are clenched together in my lap, my breath coming fast.
If the Brothers are this cruel to an innocent girl, what would they do to us?
Visions of my sisters sinking, struggling, arms and legs shackled, or screaming as their hair catches fire—
“Cate.” Elena puts a concerned hand on my shoulder. “Are you faint? You look a little pale.”
Ifeelpale. Pale and cowardly and powerless. We all just stood here. We let them take Gabrielle and we didn’t lift a finger to help her!
What could we have done? Nothing, I know—not without looking as though we were sympathizing with a witch. But it still rankles. She’s just a frightened little girl, only fourteen years old—
If it were us, no one would come forward to help either.
Fury slides through me, more bracing than smelling salts. I willnotlet the Brothers make me into some scared, swooning creature.
“I did feel a little faint for a minute. All the excitement. I’m fine now,” I lie. I summon up a smile, sitting up straight and running a hand over my chignon.
Mrs. Kosmoski sits in the chair beside us while her daughter scurries up to their flat to put on some tea. For once, the seamstress looks at me kindly. “I don’t blame you, dear. No matter how often you see it, it never gets any easier.”
“Has she worked for you very long?” Elena asks, pausing over a watered blue silk.
“Almost a year. She and my Angeline are the same age. Gabby’s always been a good girl. A hard worker. Not that I’m defending her, mind—” Mrs. Kosmoski flushes, as though she’s suddenly remembered that pretty, fashionable Elena is stillSisterElena. “It’s the Brotherhood’s job to determine the righteous from the wicked. But their poor mother, losing two girls. Marguerite was arrested last month. It was a very strange case— no trial, and the family hasn’t gotten any answers about where they took her.”
“Are there other children?” Elena asks.
“Another girl,” Mrs. Kosmoski says, tracing the pineapples and berries carved on the arm of her chair. “Julia’s only eleven.”
Three sisters. Is it a coincidence, or something more sinister? I think back over all the recent arrests. Last spring, there was a trio of sisters arrested in Vermont. Will little Julia Dolamore be dragged away next?
Tess picks up the spool of ribbon that Gabrielle dropped and begins to slowly, methodically rewind it. “Thank you, dear, you don’t have to do that,” Mrs. Kosmoski insists.
“I don’t mind,” Tess says. She organizes things when she’s upset. Maura’s moved back to the counter, ostensibly looking through the dress patterns, but I can tell by the rapid way she flips the pages that she’s not any calmer than Tess.
“Well, I daresay the Brothers know best, but it is distressing.” Mrs. Kosmoski stands up and brushes her hands together, as though wiping away the whole unpleasant scene. “Did you decide on fabrics?”
And that’s it. Mrs. Kosmoski, Elena, and Maura go back to debating the merits of heart-shaped necklines versus square, buckled belts versus silk cummerbunds. I can’t believe they can carry on as though the question of pink taffeta or blue brocade actually matters.
Gabrielle is innocent. I am not. I have been wicked and deceitful; I have used mind-magic against my own father. The Brothers’ words drum through my head. I am a witch. It should have been me, not her.
But I thank the Lord it wasn’t. What kind of girl does that make me?
A half hour later, our business mercifully concluded, we step into the cool September sunshine. Across the street, the chocolatier’s door stands open, and the wonderful, bittersweet smell of dark chocolate wafts toward us. Now we’re off to the stationer’s to choose calling cards. Tess and I lag behind. “Are you all right?” she asks, gray eyes searching mine.
I nod. It’s hard to hide anything from my little sister; she’s entirely too perceptive. She and Maura would be furious with me for keeping secrets from them, no matter what Mother’s instructions were. At least now I can blame my distress on the ugly scene we’ve just witnessed. “As well as I can be after that display. You?”
Tess bites her lip. “Poor Gabby. I just wish we could have done something to—” She stops midstride, her hand flying to her mouth. “Goodness, what’s wrong with her?”
Brenna Elliott stands outside her grandfather’s gate. She turns in and then, apparently thinking better of it, retreats back to the safety of the street. She repeats the motion again and again, as if unable to make up her broken mind, muttering to herself all the while.
Her hood has fallen off, and her long chestnut-colored hair is a mass of knots. Maura and Elena give her a wide berth as they pass. Tess lets out a disgruntled little huff under her breath.
“Miss Elliott?” she asks, approaching Brenna gingerly. “Are you unwell?”
“Tess,” I hiss warningly. We shouldn’t be seen talking to a madwoman.
Tess is too kind to care. It’s one of the many ways in which she’s a better person than I am.
Brenna turns her wasted face to us. Her blue eyes are haunted as a graveyard. The sleeves of her dress hug her wrists, hiding her scars, but they show in the hunch of her shoulders and the pallor of her face. “My grandfather is dying,” she says. Her voice is threadbare, as though it doesn’t get much use.
“I didn’t know he was ill. I’m so sorry,” Tess says, looking up at Brother Elliott’s house. There’s no sign of Dr. Allen’s carriage out front, no activity to suggest the bustle of a sickroom or relatives coming to pay their final respects.
“He’s quite well today. He’ll die next week,” Brenna continues. Tess and I glance at each other, shocked. I thought Harwood had cured her—or at least taught her not to go around prognosticating on the street. She clutches suddenly at her h
air, yanking on it in anguish. “Oh, this is bad. Very bad. Not good at all.”
“Is there anything we can do? Can we fetch someone to help you?” Tess asks.
“I think she needs more help than we can give her,” I whisper. Brenna has always seemed to live inside her own head, in a world of her own imagination. But this—this is downright spooky.
“You.” Brenna grabs my arm. She was always tall and willowy and pretty—so pretty that people forgave some of her eccentricities. Now she looks emaciated, as though a single strong gust could knock her down. “Did you get the note? I was very careful with it. Clever, she is.”
My heart leaps into my mouth. I fight the urge to yank away, but I don’t want to make matters worse. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Brenna’s blue eyes aren’t dead now; they’re frantic. “Good girl. No questions. Mustn’t ask questions! They’ll come for you.”
Her hands are ungloved; her nails dig into my arm. “It’s all right,” I soothe her, as I would Tess after a nightmare. “It’ll be all right.”
“Your godmother, she asked too many. The crows came for her.” I freeze. The note. Did Brenna deliver the note from Zara? “That’s what they do with bad girls. Lock them up and throw away the key.”
“Harwood, you mean?” Is that what happened to Zara? Did Brenna see her there?
Brenna nods, tapping her temple. “Lucky one. Not mad. Not yet.”
Does she mean herself or Zara? I look around, spooked, as though my godmother might be lurking behind the bushes.
“Everything all right?” Maura calls. She and Elena have stopped a few yards ahead.
“Yes!” I call back, trying to escape Brenna’s grip. “We’re coming!”
“Don’t go! You mustn’t let them take you.” Brenna looks down at Tess, then back at me. Her eyes are sad blue pools. “Powerful. So powerful. You could fix it all. But you must be careful.”
“Yes. We’ll be very careful,” I promise, but something inside me wilts. First the prophecy, now Brenna. What if she’s not mad—what if she can genuinely sense the future? I don’t want to be powerful. I want to be normal.
“You should be careful, too,” Tess suggests, looking worried. If anyone else hears Brenna talk like this, they’ll have her shipped right back to Harwood.
“It’s too late for me.” Brenna falls against the gate, her ratted hair covering her face. “Go away now. I’m very tired, and I need to visit my grandfather.”
Tess slips her hand into mine, and we turn and walk down the street, where Maura and Elena are waiting for us outside the stationer’s.
“What on earth was all that about?” Maura asks.
I shrug, ignoring Tess’s eyes. “Lord knows. She’s mad, isn’t she?”
At home, I change my nice buttoned boots for old mud-splattered ones and head outside. The sun’s disappeared behind the clouds. Not quite raining, but threatening it. I hope it holds off a little longer. I need cheering, and I’m happiest when my hands are busy in the earth.
I stride into the rose garden—only it’s already occupied. Finn Belastra sits on the bench— mybench—beneath the statue of Athena, a book open on his lap, munching on an apple.
“What are you doing here?” I demand crossly. He might be nice to look at, but I need a few hours alone with the roses and my thoughts.
He jumps up. “I was just”—he chews furiously—“eating my lunch. Obviously. Am I in your way? I can go somewhere else.”
“Yes.” It sounds horrid, even to me. I sigh. “No. I was going to do a bit of weeding. I’ll come back later.”
“Oh.” Finn looks at the snarl of red and pink tea roses. “You don’t have to do that. I’ve been working on the gazebo, but I can find time to—”
“No, I like it,” I interrupt. “I want to do it myself.”
Finn grins, gap toothed and boyish. “Ah, then you must be my elf.”
“Pardon me?” I tuck a strand of hair beneath my hood.
“I noticed someone’s been weeding and planting the spring bulbs. I fancied you had a garden elf. I imagined him short. And green. You’re prettier.” He flushes behind his freckles.
“Why, thank you,” I laugh. I hardly imagined Finn Belastra the fanciful sort. He always seems so serious.
“I should have suspected,” Finn says. “Your father mentioned one of you was good with flowers.”
“He did?” That’s twice now. Perhaps Father pays more attention than I give him credit for. I’m not certain whether I ought to be pleased or alarmed. Frankly, we’ve come to count on his obliviousness. “Well, that would be me, then. Gardening helps clear my head.”
“Well, no need to come back later. I don’t mind if you want to puzzle something out. I’ll finish my book.”
The gold lettering of the book in his hand catches my attention. “Wait.Tales of the Pirate LeFevre?”
“Even a scholar needs leisurely lunchtime reading, Miss Cahill. Are you familiar with the dreadful adventures of Marius the pirate? They’re quite entertaining.”
“I prefer the stories of his sister Arabella,” I blurt before I can stop myself. I can’t believe Finn Belastra reads pirate stories. I assumed he would be struggling through some incomprehensible German philosophy.
Finn lowers his voice to a confidential whisper. “Arabella was my first literary infatuation. I had a mad crush on her.”
I squeal. “I used to want to be just like her! Remember when she saved Marius during the shipwreck? And when she was captured, she chose to walk the plank rather than sacrifice her virtue to that awful captain. And the time she dressed in Marius’s clothes and fought the duel with—” I catch myself gesturing wildly with a pretend rapier.
“With Perry, the soldier who accused the pirates of not having a code of honor?” Finn finishes. “That was a good one.”
“She obviously made quite an impression on me. She was a model of—of courage and resourcefulness,” I say quietly, folding my hands behind my back.
Finn peers down at me, curious. “I didn’t think you were much of a reader.”
My face falls. “Did Father tell you that?”
“No. I presumed—you pick up books for your father, but I’ve noticed you rarely get anything for yourself.”
He’s right. I can’t remember the last time I voluntarily picked up a book besides an almanac, to see when to plant the bulbs or herbs. But I used to read—not ever as much as Tess or Maura, but more than I do now. I spent loads of summer afternoons in the gnarled arms of our apple tree, immersed inTales of the Pirate LeFevre.
Maura’s always loved the fairy tales and romances that Mother favored, but I liked the adventure stories from Father’s library best. I used to beg him to read them to me—the more bloodthirsty the better. Tales of evil kings and rascals and pirates and shipwrecks. Once I persuaded Paul to help me build a raft, and we paddled it across the pond. It started to take on water out in the middle, and we had to swim to shore. I came home looking half drowned and gave Mrs. O’Hare quite a shock.
I shrug, smoothing my skirt. “Young ladies aren’t meant to read pirate stories.”
Finn laughs and tosses his apple in the air. “I thought your father believed in educating his girls.”
“Father believes in reading for edification, not enjoyment.”
“Well, then, he and I will have to agree to disagree on that. What’s the point of a book you don’t enjoy?” Finn holds out his dog-eared copy. “You can have mine if you want. We have half a dozen in the shop.”
I’m half tempted. It would be nice to climb a tree again and let my mind wander to foreign ports and deserted islands along with Arabella.She never had to worry about finding a man to marry. They all threw themselves at her—except when she was dressed as a boy, of course. And once even then.
Unfortunately, I live in New England, not aboard theCalypso.And I do have to worry about marriage. And the Brotherhood and now this damned prophecy.
“No, thank you.” I wal
k past Finn and kneel before the tangle of roses. “I still have my copy. I just don’t have time to read anymore.”
“That’s the saddest thing I’ve heard all day,” Finn says, swiping his hands through his messy hair. “Reading is the perfect escape from whatever ails you.”
But I can’t escape.
“You seem—upset,” he continues carefully. “I’m sorry for bothering you.”
“I’m notbothered,” I snap, deftly separating one branch from another. I’m angry. Why aren’t girls ever allowed to just be angry?
Finn kneels next to me. He reaches out a hand to help and promptly stabs himself on a thorn. “Ouch.” A drop of blood wells up on his finger, and he sticks it in his mouth. He has a nice mouth—red as a cherry—his lower lip a bit fuller than the top.
I rummage in the pocket of my cloak and pull out an old handkerchief. “Here,” I offer, practically throwing it at his head.
“Thank you.” Finn catches it and wraps it around his forefinger. He reaches into the bushes again.
“Let me,” I insist. “You don’t know what you’re doing.” I remember when Mother planted these. I won’t have Finn ruining them, pulling out flowers instead of weeds.
There’s a pause, and I fully expect him to scramble away, tired of being snapped at by this mad, pirate-loving harridan of a girl.
“Show me what to do, then,” he suggests, his face earnest. “I’m the gardener. I ought to know how.”
I sigh. I want to resent him for being here, in my place; for being a boy, with all the freedoms I lack; for being the sort of clever son Father wishes he had. But he’s making it difficult. He’s not at all the conceited prig I thought he was.
And he’s let me take all my anger out on him without a single word of complaint. As though he knows it’s what I need. I’m a little afraid of what I might do—what I might say—if he doesn’t go away now.
“Not today,” I say. “Please. I just want to be alone.”
Finn stands up and gathers his book and his lunch pail. “Of course. Some other time, perhaps. Have a good afternoon, Miss Cahill.”
Born Wicked: The Cahill Witch Chronicles, Book One: The Cahill Witch Chronicles, Book One Page 9