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

by Jessica Spotswood

  “Ye—es.” Mrs. Corbett blinks slowly, like a lizard in the sun. “I noticed that you and Miss Ishida have become particular friends.”

  “Sachi’s marvelous. I take her as a model of what a proper young lady ought to be.” I shoot a desperate glance toward the door, wishing Sachi would come and rescue me.

  “Your father couldn’t ask you to keep better company. Miss Ishida is above reproach,” Mrs. Corbett agrees. But her eyes rove over me like tiny, suspicious brown spiders, as though she’s just praying to find something wrong.

  Have I overdone it? Perhaps I ought to be less cloyingly agreeable.

  Mrs. Corbett glances up at the family portraits above the fireplace. “Have you made any decisions about your intention? I saw you speaking with Paul McLeod at church. The McLeods are a good family. Respected.”

  Paul. I’ve hardly thought of him all day. “I haven’t made any decisions yet,” I murmur.

  “Cate!” Sachi swoops in. She’s wearing a diamond comb in her hair and a bright turquoise dress. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Corbett. You’re looking well. Excuse us, won’t you?”

  She whirls me out into the hall and collapses into giggles. “The look on your face! Like someone was plucking out your eyelashes!”

  I scowl, leaning against the banister of the staircase. “She’s an interfering old toad.”

  Sachi casts a look over her shoulder. “Never liked her much myself. Wearing all that black like a big carrion bird. It’s carrying mourning a bit far, don’t you think? Her husband died four years ago. And always going on about Regina this, Regina that. Regina Corbett’s nothing but a—”

  “Cabbagehead,” I pronounce gleefully.

  “Indeed,” Sachi agrees. We pause to greet Mrs. Ralston and Mrs. Malcolm as Maura ushers them into the dining room. “So. Have you found any books for us yet?”

  “I haven’t been able to get away, but I asked Mrs. Belastra to bring one with her.”

  Sachi arches her eyebrows. “You invited her here? Today?”

  “I did. Why?” I tamp down the rush of defensiveness.

  “She’s a shopkeeper, Cate.”

  “That’s snobbery.”

  “No, it’s fact,” Sachi says, leaning down to smell the roses. “The other ladies will cut her. Everyone will whisper behind her back, and she’ll be miserable. Did you invite Angeline Kosmoski and her mother? Or Elinor Evans?”

  The dressmaker’s daughter and the chocolatier’s. “No.”

  “No, of course you wouldn’t, and Marianne Belastra is less respectable than any of them. You know the Brothers have it in for her. My father loathes the idea of all that information just sitting there in her shop, available to anyone.”

  “People would still buy books without Belastras’. They’d order them from New London.”

  “People with money, perhaps. And then they’d have to come through the post. Father has a source at the post office. Old man Carruthers reports on forbidden materials.”

  “He goes through people’s mail?” My eyes widen, momentarily diverted. “Imagine all the gossip he must have!”

  Sachi glances into the sitting room, where her mother is holding court, her green silk fan waving briskly. “My point is, you’re taking a risk. It’s one thing to drop by the bookshop. People will assume you’re running errands for your father. If you associate with Mrs. Belastra socially, people will talk.”

  I don’t like it, but I’m practical enough to recognize the truth when I hear it. It’s just what Finn was warning me about. A love match might be romantic in Maura’s novels, but not here. Not involving a family with two strikes against them—their poverty and their willingness to go against the Brothers.

  If I married Finn, it would put my sisters in danger.

  But am I strong enough to give him up?

  All day I’ve been turning the problem over in my head like a mathematics equation. I wish it were possible, but I don’t see how I could marry him, no matter how much I want it. Wanthim. A nervous blush sweeps over me. I’ve never thought of what goes on between man and wife before, but now—I can’t help but wonder what it would be like to share Finn’s bed.

  Sachi elbows me. “That’s a secretive look. Do tell.”

  I hesitate, caught. I do need advice. Both times my magic’s run amok lately, it’s been because of Finn. Because of kissing Finn, to be more precise. Is that a normal thing for magic to do? The only person who would know is another witch, and I certainly can’t ask Elena. But I can’t ask Sachi either—not here, not with half the town coming and going.

  I pitch my voice low. “I can’t tell you here.”

  Sachi leans in. She smells of powder and lemon verbena.

  I shrink back against the wooden banister of the staircase, blushing hotter. “My magic has been—unwieldy. In certain—situations. Certain company.”

  Sachi smooths her black hair. “What kind of company?”

  “Men. Well. One man,” I amend.

  “Intriguing. I’ll bring Rory, that’s her specialty,” Sachi giggles.

  “Do you have to? I’d rather keep this private.” I look nervously at the cluster of ladies in the sitting room, sipping tea, nibbling on Tess’s lemon poppy-seed cakes. Rory stands out in her orange dress, prowling like a restless tiger from group to group.

  “I daresay you would. But I’m hardly an expert. Do you want help or not? If it’s got to do with a man, Rory will know.”

  “I do want help. But Rory—well, she is a bit—flighty. Can I trust her?”

  Sachi purses her lips. “You trust me, don’t you?” I nod. “Then I give you my word on Rory. Can you meet us Friday night? Late?”

  I’m no coward, but I don’t relish the thought of traipsing into town alone in the dark. “I thought—can’t we meet at Rory’s tomorrow?”

  Sachi tosses a demure smile at Mrs. Collier and Rose as they come through the door. “Mrs. Elliott fired Elizabeth. The new girl’s a busybody. We’ll get rid of her, but it might be a few days until we have the house to ourselves again. If you want to wait—”

  “No.” I can’t afford another mishap. And I can’t bear the thought of avoiding Finn. “Sooner is better.”

  “We could meet somewhere on your property. If you’re not afraid to go out after dark, that is.” Sachi smirks.

  I can’t trust the rose garden anymore, not with Elena creeping around like a ghoul. There’s one place that might work. It’s not a place I relish going, not even in broad daylight, but what choice do I have?

  “On the other side of the pond, there’s a graveyard. I’ll meet you there Friday night. If you come across the fields, no one can see you from the house.”

  Sachi’s lips twitch. “Witching hour in a cemetery. It’s the perfect place for our little coven’s first meeting.”

  Half an hour later, I’m in the process of being bored to death by Rose Collier. She’s inclined to proclaim everything “darling” in the same way Mrs. Ishida employs “lovely”—my gown, Tess’s pumpkin bread, the paper on the sitting room walls. We soon resort to making observations about the weather. It’s a fine day, perfect Indian summer, unusual for October in New England; I’ve never seen such a blue sky; and oh yes, I’m quite glad we thought to serve lemonade as well as tea.

  I’m watching a lone housefly buzz against the window when Rose lets out a little hum of disapproval. “Shouldn’t she go to the kitchen with her delivery?”

  Marianne Belastra hovers in the doorway, looking as uncomfortable as Sachi predicted. She wears a high-necked, rust-colored gown with an out-of-fashion bustle and straight sleeves. The color and style flatter neither her complexion nor her figure.

  “Look, she’s brought her odd little duckling with her. That child’s shooting up like a weed, Mama says. You’d think she’d be ashamed to traipse around in public with her ankles showing. What kind of mama would allow it? But Mrs. Belastra doesn’t care for anything except her books, I suppose.”

  Rose’s voice is full of feigned pity. She clea
rly expects me to respond in kind. But my heart clenches at the sight of Clara, trailing awkwardly after her mother, dressed in a brown pinafore that’s too childish and too short.

  I peer into the dining room at Tess. She’s expertly pouring tea, engaging the matrons in effortless conversation, acting as though their gossip is as fascinating to her as Ovid. She’s a pretty girl with none of Clara’s awkward growing pains, but just a few weeks ago she would have been strange and unfashionable, too. Elena’s lessons have given Tess poise; her orders at the dress shop have turned us all from odd ducks into swans. Whatever her faults, Elena has taught us to blend in.

  No one rises to greet the Belastras. Teacups pause midair as rattlesnake whispers slither through the room. Clara stares at her feet, her face going a blotchy red beneath her freckles, her dark eyes hooded with misery. It’s plain she’d rather be somewhere else. Anywhere.

  And here I thought I was doing them a kindness.

  “Mrs. Belastra, thank you so much for coming.” My voice rings out clear as the brass church bells. “We’re delighted to have you both. Would you like some tea? Clara, let me present my sister Tess; she’s just your age.”

  The running patter feels stilted on my tongue, but I think I carry it off passably. This is Finn’s sister. I can’t let her stand here, defenseless, while these stupid women snub her and call her names.

  I usher the Belastras into the dining room as though they are our special guests, pouring tea for them, urging them to try Tess’s desserts. I want to pull Marianne aside and ask her for advice, but I can’t be seen whispering with her here. And with magic off-limits, I have no idea what to say to Finn’s mother. I feel irrationally terrified that she can read my thoughts and know I’ve been thinking of her son in wanton, lustful ways.

  Fortunately, Tess is much less awkward. She sizes the situation up in an instant.

  “Do you bake, Miss Belastra? I made the poppy-seed cakes myself.”

  Clever Tess. I cast an admiring glance at her. She knows the Belastras can’t afford a housekeeper, and with Mrs. Belastra in the shop all day, it’s likely Clara does most of their cooking. Acknowledging that she spends time in the kitchen too puts them on more equal footing. Clara confesses to a mishap with a crust, and soon they’re giggling and chattering like magpies.

  I wish I had some of Tess’s skill. I ask Marianne how business is going, and she tells me about a shipment of Brotherhood-sanctioned morality tales for children that have come in. When I ask what she’s reading herself—a question Tess always adores—she enthuses about a French poet she’s just discovered.

  I fiddle with the pink and red roses on the table and glance back into the sitting room. Around the piano, Maura is chatting gaily with Cristina Winfield and a few other girls from town, and Sachi and Rory are whispering together on the settee. All normal enough. But several of the Brothers’ wives and Mrs. Corbett are clustered around the sofa, and I wonder what they’re discussing. Have we made some misstep? Is everything up to standard?

  “This is a coming-out of sorts for you, isn’t it?” Marianne asks, startling me from my reverie. “You ought to get back to your true guests.”

  I look up in surprise, ashamed to have been caught woolgathering. “You and Clara are as much our guests as anyone.”

  “It was sweet of you to invite us, Cate, but you’re a sensible girl. Associating with my family has no advantages for you. You must realize that.”

  I do, but somehow all my good sense flies out the window when I think of her son.

  Has Finn told her about us? I wince at the thought. She and my mother were friends, but that doesn’t mean she’d want her son to marry a witch.

  Her no-nonsense tone is just like his.I’m not too proud to say it.The difference in our stations does matter. Not to me, perhaps, but in the eyes of everyone else. We Cahill girls may have our secrets, but money helps us hide them. We don’t have to live right in town; we don’t depend on our neighbors’ custom for our livelihood. Father may not approve of the Brothers’ censorship, but he keeps on their good side, and they don’t come searching the house for banned books. It’s not perfect, but it’s easier for us than it is for Clara Belastra.

  “I’ll be fine,” Marianne assures me, misunderstanding my silence. “I’ve long since made peace with my place in this town. Go. Enjoy your tea.”

  Shame rises in my stomach, but I go.

  CHAPTER 16

  MY CANDLE SHUDDERS. I CUP A hand around it, willing the harsh wind to stop. It bites through the cloak wrapped around my shoulders. Around me, the flowers are asleep, heads bowed to the waxing moon. My hem whispers across the flagstones, adding to the cacophony of night noises. The candle pitches long shadows that turn paths I’ve known forever unfamiliar and eerie.

  Something brushes my hair. I jump back, hand flying to my face. It’s only a crumpled leaf twirling to the ground. I laugh, small and shaky, and taste smoke in the back of my throat. The fires are banked for the night, but gray plumes drift like ghosts above the chimneys. Wind knifes in at my wrists and ankles. I pull my cloak tighter and walk faster.

  The gazebo looms monstrously at the top of the hill. This is the most dangerous part, when I’ll be visible from the servants’ quarters. I pray that Mrs. O’Hare and John have no cause to be up and looking out windows.

  I take a deep breath and dash forward. It’s only a few yards before the candle snuffs out. Lord, but it’s dark.

  Up ahead, I hear the lapping of pond water against the bank and smell dank, earthy mud. It’s soothing, a familiar sound amid the strange hooting of night birds. I listen harder and make out feminine voices drifting across the water. In the cemetery, shades dance among the headstones.

  They’re there, gathered behind Mother’s tomb.

  I hate the thought of her lying inside, her body slowly decomposing, surrounded by insects and earth. When he’s home, Father leaves flowers on her grave. I don’t see the point. Everything that made her Mother is gone.

  Laughter—Rory’s distinct bark—echoes in the night.

  “Hello?” My voice comes out hoarse.

  Sachi steps out from behind the tomb. “Cate?” Her lantern throws strange shadows, turning her pretty features monstrous.

  “Spooky, isn’t it? Would you like some sherry?” Rory asks, holding out a bottle.

  A tall, thin figure peers around the tomb, her hood obscuring her face. There’s only one other person they might bring on such a mad, macabre adventure.

  “Brenna?”

  Brenna twirls around the graveyard like a child, sidestepping the little tombs next to Mother’s. She’s singing to herself:

  “Days we spend planting flowers,

  Nights spent warm in our beds,

  Lives of sunshine and showers,

  We’re all food for worms in the end.”

  Appropriate for the setting, I suppose, but hardly comforting.

  “Rory wanted to bring her.” Sachi does not sound pleased. “And she knows about us.”

  I whirl on her, angry. “You told her?”

  “Ididn’t tell her anything.” Sachi’s voice is tight.

  “Nor did I! She just knows things,” Rory explains, tugging Brenna back to us. “That’s why they took her away.”

  “She’s mad,” Sachi argues, crossing her arms over her chest. “They took her away because she told your stepfather he was going to die.”

  “But Idoknow things.” Brenna’s voice is mournful. “If only I could remember them.”

  “What don’t you remember?” I ask. It’s a foolish question—how can she know?—but Brenna takes it seriously.

  “Holes in my head,” she explains, tapping her temple. “The crows put them there.”

  “Crows?” I ask. Sachi shrugs.

  Brenna shudders back against the marble tomb. She squeezes her eyes shut, like a child trying to shut out a nightmare, and wraps her arms around herself. “They came to my trial,” she whispers. “The Brothers left me alone with them. I was so fri
ghtened. I thought they would peck out my eyes, but they only took my memories.”

  “When she came home from Harwood, she didn’t remember any of us at first. She’d only talk to Jake,” Rory says. Jacob is Brenna’s brother, a gentle tower of a boy.

  “M-mustn’t ask questions,” Brenna stutters. “You’ll be punished!”

  Another shiver presses along my spine, but this one has nothing to do with the cold and everything to do with Brenna’s creepy chatter.

  “That’s enough. Keep her quiet,” Sachi orders. “We didn’t come all the way out here to listen to her nonsense. Cate has something to tell us.”

  “Hush,” Rory says, putting an arm around Brenna. Brenna is several inches taller, but she bends like a reed, all the energy draining out of her. “Sit.”

  They all crouch on the cold marble dais around Mother’s tomb. Brenna stares into the darkness, her eyes unfocused. Sachi draws her knees into her chest and buries her face in her cloak. Only Rory seems unaffected by the cold, bouncing in her seat like a child.

  Now that the moment’s here, I feel awkward.

  What happened in the secret room—and then again at the gazebo—it’s private. What should I say? That now I’ve seen how brave and loyal and handsome Finn is, I can’t un-see it? That his kisses make me reckless? That I can’t bear the idea of giving him up, even if marrying Paul would protect our reputations? I need to know how to keep control of the magic, even when I don’t feel entirely in control of my own heart.

  I only wanted to ask Sachi, not an audience of three. But I need answers.

  I kneel on the cold grass, the dew soaking through my cloak. “Twice now, I’ve cast without intending to. On Monday it was powerful—much more so than usual. I couldn’t reverse the spell by myself.”

  “What were you doing right before?” Sachi asks. One long black braid falls over her shoulder. “When I first started manifesting, strong emotions made my magic go awry. There were some very close calls around my father.”