Born Wicked: The Cahill Witch Chronicles, Book One: The Cahill Witch Chronicles, Book One

by Jessica Spotswood

  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.”

  Elena looks surprised. “Of course. We’ll be down in just a moment,” she tells Maura, who troops downstairs with Tess. “You know, I brought a stack of ladies’ magazines from New London with step-by-step instructions. You can borrow them if you like.”

  “That would be lovely, thank you.” I sit at my wooden dressing table before the looking glass. Elena stands behind me, brushing my hair, teasing it up at the crown. I meet her dark eyes in the mirror. Her black curls are swept up, just a few perfect ringlets left to frame her face. My hair won’t curl without irons and hours of effort.

  “Is there something you wanted to discuss?” she asks carefully.

  I might as well say it straight out. “I know you’re a witch.”

  She doesn’t even hesitate; her hands stay busy in my hair. “When did you figure it out?”

  “That doesn’t matter. You haven’t been honest with us. You being here—it’s no coincidence. You’ve been sent to spy on us.”

  “Notspy. I’ve been sent to protect you. It had already been confirmed that at least one of you was a witch, but the Sisters were eager to—”

  I twist around to face her. “Confirmed? By whom?” I’ve always known the Brothers have spies in Chatham. Do the Sisters? Are there other witches in town besides Maura and Tess and me?

  Elena sits on the settee, arranging her inky blue skirts elegantly around her feet. “I’m not at liberty to say. I can assure you it’s not someone who means you ill. I was sent to discern which of you could do magic—and to my astonishment, I discovered all three of you can. That’s very rare. Exceedingly so.”

  My first instinct is to deny it, but Elena raises a hand, forestalling my argument.

  “Maura told me. Don’t be angry with her, please. I know you’ve worked very hard to keep it secret, and you’ve done a good job of it.”

  Not good enough, apparently. My temper simmers. “So now you’ve gone and told the whole Sisterhood?”

  “Not yet. I’m also meant to find out what kinds of magic you can do. Mind-magic, for example.” Elena cocks her head at me. “Maura says she’s never tried it. Have you?”

  “No. Good Lord. It’s bad enough being a witch, isn’t it? That’s the last thing I’d want.” I turn back to the mirror, bolstered by the half-truth.

  “You don’t like being a witch?” Elena’s smooth brown forehead wrinkles, as though I’ve divulged something deplorable. “Why?”

  “Why would I?” I make a face and slip on Mother’s sapphire earbobs.

  “Maura said you’ve taken the Brothers’ sermons to heart. That you think magic is wicked.”

  Maura talks too much. “She thinks magic is a toy. Do you know how many times Father or the servants have almost seen something she couldn’t explain? It’s a wonder we haven’t been discovered.”

  “It’s to your credit, I’m sure.” Elena twists the silver ring on her finger, the symbol of her marriage to the Lord. “The Sisterhood could help you, Cate. I know how much your sisters mean to you. We could help you keep them safe. Youmustlet us help you. The three of you may be in more danger than you can imagine.”

  “Because of the prophecy?” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I want to bite my tongue.

  “How do you know about that?” A slight arching of her brows—that’s the only sign of her surprise. She’d make a marvelous card player.

  “Mother told me. She was worried because—well. There are three of us.” I fiddle with the white lace cloth that drapes the dressing table.

  “You ought to know, Cate, that the Brothers are aware of the prophecy. They found a record of it in the home of a witch they arrested.” Elena frowns. “Haven’t you noticed they’ve been cracking down on girls the last few years? Trios of sisters, in particular. How long will it be before they turn their attention to you?”

  The Dolamores. And those girls in Vermont. I wonder how many other trios of sisters are left in Chatham. In New England. It’s not uncommon to find families of six or seven children, particularly on the farms outside town—but how many have three girls?

  “Cate!” Maura hollers from downstairs. “Hurry, or we’ll be late!”

  “Just a moment!” I call.

  “I’m sorry,” Elena says, “that I haven’t been more forthright with you. You must understand�
��the true nature of the Sisterhood and the prophecy are vital secrets. We do not share them lightly.”

  I bite my lip. “Does Maura know?”

  There it is again—that tiny lift of her brows. She stands. “You haven’t told her?”

  “Not yet. I’d like to tell her and Tess myself.”

  “Of course.” Elena leans down and adjusts one of the pins in my hair. I fight the urge to flinch away from her. “Please, think about it. The convent in New London is beautiful, and it’s very secure. Even if you’re not the three sisters, we would welcome you there. If youare—there isn’t any other place in the world where you’d be as safe.”

  I stand, eager to put distance between us. My trust isn’t as easily won as Maura’s. “Why do you think it’s us?”

  She smiles. “Let’s just say I have a very strong hunch one of you can do mind-magic. Your mother could, couldn’t she? Even within the Sisterhood, that’s a rare and fearful thing. You may not be capable of it—or you may—but those who are learn quickly. I’d like to try to teach you. All three of you.”

  “No.” I back toward the door. “I don’t want you teaching my sisters that!”

  Elena’s a few inches shorter than me, but the look she gives me makes me feel like a stubborn child. “Cate. Mind-magic has unfortunate side effects if it’s used too often, that’s true. But wielded responsibly, it’s not inherently worse than any other kind of magic. That’s just the Brothers’ paranoia. It can help protect a witch from those who would do her harm. Your sisters have a right to know what they’re capable of. It could save them someday.”

  “Catherine Anna Cahill!”Maura screeches. “We’re going to be late!”

  Elena laughs. “Think about what I’ve said, Cate. I know you’re used to doing things on your own, but you don’t have to anymore. We’re here to help.”

  Brother Sutton is leading Sunday school today. He’s tall, with skin the color of walnuts, and close-cropped fuzzy hair. He’s got a rich, melodious voice, and he smiles and gestures as he talks, like an actor in the now-defunct theater. If he weren’t preaching about the evils of mind-magic, I’d almost like listening to him. It makes me uneasy that it’s come up two weeks in a row. This time, Hana Ito asked him why a girl would ever do something so wicked.

  “Perhaps this sort of magic doesn’t seem so wrong at first. Say you were roughhousing with your brother and knocked over your grandmother’s china vase. It wasn’t very ladylike, but these things happen.” Brother Sutton smiles, indulging our girlish faults. His brown eyes are warm. “Say your grandmother has passed on and the vase is a treasured reminder of her. You’re afraid your mother will be heartbroken. Afraid of being punished. So you lie and say it was your brother who knocked it over. Instead of lying—which is wicked in itself, girls, you should never lie to your parents—a witch might choose to do mind-magic. Erase her mother’s memory of that vase altogether. It would save her from punishment and save her mother from grief. Perhaps she even convinces herself it’s the noble thing to do.”

  I stare at the pew in front of me, at the mass of blond curls bobbing as Elinor Evans nods, and I feel sick with guilt. Mother taught me how to do mind-magic in the months before she died, letting me practice on her. I still remember the look on her face when she realized I could do it—a mix of pride and fear.

  The Brothers act as though mind-magic is common as dirt, as though there are witches practicing it all around us and we must be ever vigilant. But if I’m to believe Elena, it’s a rare gift. If there are only a few hundred witches left in total, how many of us are capable of it? Thirty? Ten? Fewer? There was Mother. Zara. Elena. And me.

  “You might think that erasing one little memory isn’t so bad. But it is,” Brother Sutton insists. “What if your grandmother gave that vase to your mother as a present on her wedding day? What if she bequeathed it on her deathbed, along with her last words of motherly love and advice? What if those memories are gone now, too? Mind-magic is never noble, girls. It is always a selfish, wicked thing to do.”

  Twice now, I’ve modified people’s memories. Both times I’ve convinced myself it was justified. But in protecting us, I’ve hurt them. What if the thought of sending me away to school was linked to Father’s memories of me as a baby, of my first words or steps, of some precious moment over my cradle with Mother?

  And Finn. There’s no way to know what memories I erased along with the feathers. It could be one of his shooting sessions with his dead father, or his favorite book, or some other memory he cherished. But I can’t help praying: please,pleaselet him remember kissing me.

  I am wicked in many ways.

  “Cate?” Maura elbows me. The sermon is over and girls are stretching, standing, moving to their customary pews to await their families. “Elena and I are going to take a turn around the room to stretch our legs. Would you like to join us?”

  “No, thank you.” I stand to let them leave, then sit back down, determinedly facing front. I want to squirm in my seat and look for Finn, but I won’t. I’ve got more sense than that—and more important things to fret about.

  Sachi and Rory pause their promenade at the end of my row. “Good morning, Miss Cahill!” Sachi chirps.

  “Do you mind if we sit with you for services?” Rory asks. I can hardly say no. She doesn’t wait for an answer anyway, pressing in beside me, her yellow taffeta skirt taking up an enormous amount of room. Sachi squeezes in after her. It’s a good thing Father’s not here—he’d never fit. But why do they want to sit with us? They usually sit with Mrs. Ishida and the Winfields in one of the front pews. Tess stares at me, flabbergasted, but scoots over to make extra room.

  “Are you engaged after church?” Rory asks. Her cheeks are suspiciously rosy despite the Brothers’ stance against women making up their faces. “Would you like to join us for tea at my house?”

  I shake my head, staggered by the sudden attention. We’ve known each other since we were children—why are they so interested in me now? Is it really just because I’ve got new dresses and a man’s attention?

  “Please say yes,” Sachi says, fluttering her thick, dark lashes at me. “There’s something we’d like to talk to you about.”

  That sounds dire—and quite mysterious. I don’t dare say no. “I—yes. All right.”

  “Excellent. Don’t bring your sister. Just the three of us. It’ll be very intimate.”

  When Maura and Elena come back, they’re astonished to see Sachi and Rory, but well mannered enough not to comment on it. I barely hear the sermon, too busy wondering and worrying about Sachi’s invitation. Then it’s time for Cristina to get up on the dais and declare her intention to marry Matthew. Intention ceremonies can be odious, particularly when it’s a match forced by the Brothers or a girl’s parents. Today isn’t like that. Cristina’s beautiful, her pale hair done up in elaborate curls, her cornflower-blue eyes shining as she looks down at Matthew, sitting in the second pew behind his father. Cristina promises to serve him faithfully for the rest of her life, and his answering grin lights up the plain wooden church. The congregation fairly roars its support.

  Will that be me, in a few weeks, announcing my engagement to Paul?

  My resolve wavers, thinking of Elena’s promises. The Sisterhood could take all three of us. They’d make sure we were safe. But what would they expect of us in return?

  Afterward, I whisper to Maura that I’m going to Rory’s for tea and will see them at home. Then I’m surrounded as a flock of town girls rushes to pay court to Sachi and Rory—and now to me.

  Rose Collier, thrilled with her brother’s betrothal to her best friend, chatters on about how excited she and Cristina are to attend our tea on Tuesday. Rose links her arm through mine as though we’re bosom friends, and I have to force myself not to jerk away. Two weeks ago I overheard her and Cristina laughing at me outside the dry-goods store. They were poking fun at my old blue-checked frock and the unfashionable way I braided my hair. Rose said I’d never catch a husband looking like such
a sourpuss, and Cristina imagined I thought I was too good for the boys in town anyway.

  Now they adore me, just because Sachi’s marked me as her new favorite. Because I’ve let Elena do my hair and dress me like a doll. Because I smile even when I think they’re cabbageheads.

  By the time Paul rescues me from the crowd, my face hurts from smiling. He tucks my hand into the crook of his elbow and leads me out onto the lawn. Eyes follow us, and our neighbors’ whispers fill my ears.

  “What a throng. May I escort you home, milady?” he asks.

  “Thank you, but I’m having tea with Sachi and Rory.” They’ve left already, Rory winking at me and Sachi promising they’d have the maid hunt up some scones.

  “I thought Mrs. Ishida’s grand teas were on Wednesdays.”

  “No, this is just tea at Ror—how on earth do you remember that?” I laugh, pulling my skirts in close to keep from trampling the flowers lining the sidewalk.

  “You weren’t home on Wednesday afternoon when I called. Lily told me where you were, and I have an excellent memory when it pertains to my favorite girl.” Paul smiles.

  He’s shaved off his beard and mustache, and his cheeks and the tip of his nose are red, as though he’s been spending time outdoors.

  “You’re staring,” he notes, voice low.

  His face looks familiar now—like the boy I used to play with. “You’re sunburned.”

  “I’ve been fixing up the barn,” he says, “and building a shed behind the house. My shoulders are red as a lobster. Wearing this suit hurts like the dickens.”

  I look at his broad shoulders admiringly. His lips twitch as though he’s guessed what I’m thinking. “I’ve shaved as well,” he points out.

  “I noticed. I like you clean shaven,” I say, then realize how proprietary it sounds.

  “I understand mustaches tickle.” He grins, and when I catch his meaning, I stare at the chrysanthemums in confusion. What would it be like, kissing Paul? Different from kissing Finn? I imagine Paul has more experience with girls, but I can’t imagine anything nicer than the kiss in the closet. I go hot and prickly all over, remembering Finn’s mouth on mine, his hands on my waist.