Born Wicked: The Cahill Witch Chronicles, Book One: The Cahill Witch Chronicles, Book One (11 page)

I’M NOT NERVOUS. NOT UNTIL I push open the heavy door to Belastras’ bookshop the next morning. Then I’m struck with the sudden, ridiculous urge to pick up my skirts and run. I glance back at the carriage, but having seen me safely inside—or close enough—John’s already driving away toward the general store. It would hardly be appropriate for me to run down the street after him.

I’m meant to be having a lesson in watercolors at home, but I informed Elena I wasn’t inspired by the basket of fruit and asked to paint the garden instead. When she agreed—landscapes are apparently all the fashion now—I sneaked over to the barn and asked John if I could ride along into town. There was one name, besides Zara’s, that came up again and again in Mother’s diary. One person she trusted with her secrets. Marianne Belastra.

“Could you shut the door, please?”
That’s Finn’s voice. Drat. I assumed he would be working on the gazebo.
I step all the way in.
Belastras’ is a fire warden’s nightmare. Labyrinthine bookshelves stretch from floor to ceiling. The shelves always seem to be full, no matter how

I have never felt comfortable here. I can’t understand the way Maura and Father can linger for hours, stroking spines with loving fingers, paging reverently through old texts, mouths and eyes moving in silent worship.
I don’t understand their church any more than I understand the Brothers’.
Finn Belastra strolls out from behind a row of bookshelves. He’s wearing a proper jacket today instead of shirtsleeves. “Can I help you find—oh, good day, Miss Cahill.”
I shrink back toward the door, feeling shy after our arboreal encounter yesterday. “Good day, Mr. Belastra. Is your mother here?”
Finn shakes his head. “She’s feeling poorly. Headache. I’m looking after the shop for her. Is there something I can help you with?” He sorts through a stack of books on the counter. “We don’t have a package for your father. Did he have something shipped?”
It’s been difficult to slip away from my sisters and Elena’s interminable etiquette lessons to see Marianne. It never occurred to me that when I finally got up the nerve and the opportunity to ask, she wouldn’t be here to answer my questions.
“I’m not here for Father.” I fidget, trying to tamp down my irritation. It’s not Finn’s fault that his mother’s ill, or that today is unlike any other day I’ve set foot here.
“Oh.” Finn gives me that winsome grin of his. “Have you come looking for Arabella?”
“No. I’d hoped—is there any chance your mother could come down and see me, just for a moment? It’s important.”
Finn pushes his spectacles up his nose. “I know you lack confidence in my skill as a gardener, but I can assure you I’m a very good bookseller. What is it you’re looking for?”
I can’t ask him for books on magic. But if I turn around and leave, my trip will be a waste. Who knows when I’ll get another chance to come into town without my sisters?
“I’ve heard you keep a register of trials.” The words are out of my mouth before I can think of the consequences. What if Finn doesn’t know his mother keeps it?
He squints at me. “Where did you hear that?” There’s a touch of iron in his voice. “And even if we had such a thing—what would a girl like you want with it?”
“A girl like me? What sort of girl would that be, exactly?” I ask, hurt. “A girl who doesn’t go around with her nose stuck in a book all day? I’m not allowed to have an interest in—in local history?”
“That’s not what I meant,” Finn says hurriedly. “It’s not something we go lending out on a whim, is all. Why do you want to see it?”
“I had a godmother,” I say slowly. “She and my mother were school friends. But she was arrested for witchery. I wanted to read about her.”
Finn comes closer. “And I can trust you with it?”
I throw my hands up into the air, frustrated. “Yes! I trust you not to go murdering my flowers, don’t I? We all take our chances.”
Finn tilts his head and studies me for a long minute. Evidently, I pass muster. “All right. Wait here.” He opens the door beside the stairs and disappears inside the closet. A moment later, he emerges with a ledger, the sort used to keep records in a shop. “Follow me.”
I follow him down the twisting rows of books, nerves swarming like butterflies. He stops before a desk in the very back. “Do you know what year she was arrested?”
“No. Well—less than sixteen years ago, but more than ten. If she was my godmother, she would have been present at my christening, but I don’t remember her at all.”
“The entries are chronological, of course,” Finn says. He leans against a bookshelf while I situate myself in the desk chair.
“Of course,” I mock. I look up to find him staring at me. “What?”
“Your hair.” My hood’s fallen off, revealing the braids wound around the crown of my head. Maura did them for me this morning, practicing one of the styles in Elena’s fashion magazines. “It’s pretty. That style suits you.”
“Thank you.” My eyes fall to the ledger, my cheeks burning. “Are you going to hover? I promise I won’t run off with this.”
“No, I’ll leave you to it.” But he hesitates. “Mother would prefer the Brotherhood not know about this record. If the bell above the door rings, you might put it in the drawer and occupy yourself with something else. For your own safety, as well as ours.”
“I—yes. Of course. Thank you.”
I wait until his footsteps have receded to the counter. I can hear every step of his shoes against the creaking wooden floor. It’s so quiet in here, I can barely think—not like the quiet of outdoors, where there are always insects buzzing, birds singing and scolding, and wind rustling through the trees. This is an eerie, dead silence.
When I flip open the book, the cover falls back against the desk with a sharp crack. I page back sixteen years to 1880 and scan the list of names in the left-hand column.
Margot Levieux, aged 16, and Cora Schadl, aged 15,
the first entry reads.
12 January 1880. Crime: caught kissing in the Schadls’blueberry fields. Accused of deviance and lust. Sentence: Harwood Asylum for both.
Sent to Harwood for the rest of their lives for kissing another girl? That seems unduly severe.
This register is fascinating! I’ve never seen the Brotherhood’s accusations and judgments laid out plainly before. Normally they’re shrouded in mystery and spoken of only in whispers, like bogeymen under the bed.
Halfway through 1886, I find the name I’m looking for.

It’s no more than what I discovered at the Ishidas’ tea. My godmother managed to smuggle a letter out of an asylum for the criminally insane. Only —how did she know that we’re not safe? Unless—did Brenna predict something?
I continue my reading. Mrs. Belastra writes about the sentencing of girls here in Chatham and also notes what she hears of trials in nearby towns. The vast majority of girls are transported to the coast and put to hard labor. A few, like Brenna, are sentenced to Harwood. A few more are dismissed with only warnings, and Mrs. Belastra notes that all of them subsequently moved away or disappeared.
What happened to those women? Living in Chatham after a trial would be difficult, knowing the Brothers’ vigilant eyes—and spies—are everywhere. Did the women flee to a bigger city, where it might be easier to slip into the crowd unnoticed? Or did something more sinister befall them?
Mother noted in her diary that there was no discernible pattern to the sentencing, and as far as I can tell, that still holds true. Women who steal bread from shops or take a lover are sentenced to backbreaking years at sea, whereas some women accused of witchery are found innocent and dismissed outright. How is that possible, with all the Brothers’ paranoia about magic? Unless—unless they aren’t as oblivious as I thought, and they know how rare true witchery is. That’s almost worse. It would mean the increase in arrests isn’t due to any wrongdoing at all; it’s only meant to keep us frightened.
I turn back to the register. The accused are anywhere from little girls of twelve like Tess to housewives of forty like Mrs. Clay, one of the most notorious cases of the last ten years. Mrs. Clay confessed she had lain with a man not her husband. The town’s gossips never revealed his identity, but it is written here in Marianne Belastra’s neat penmanship:
Mrs. Clay charged that if she were deemed guilty, so was Brother Ishida, for he was the man with whom she had committed the crime of adultery.
Brother Ishida? I think of his cold eyes and his thin lips, and my skin crawls. It is always women who are punished.
I swallow my revulsion. There’s one more thing I need to see. I flip to last October and scan the row of names.
Brenna Elliott, aged 16. Crime: witchery. Accuser: her father. Sentence: Harwood Asylum. Released summer 1896 at her grandfather’s insistence. Obvious attempts at suicide.
Ten months in that place and Brenna would rather have died. My godmother’s been there for almost ten
years
.
I march to the front of the shop, where Finn is reading a book, his chin cupped in his hand, eyes moving rapidly across the page.
“Thank you, Mr. Belastra. That was very helpful.”
“Did you find what you were looking for?” Finn’s brown eyes search mine.
I did, but I’m no closer to learning anything new about the prophecy—or knowing what I’m going to do at my intention ceremony. “Yes. It turns out she was scandalous. Sentenced to Harwood.”
“I’m sorry to hear it.” Finn stands behind the counter. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“No. In fact, I’ll thank you to forget I was ever here.” I pull up my hood and head for the door. Outside the wide picture window, Chatham looks still and sleepy in the midafternoon sun. It’s enough to trick one into forgetting, sometimes.
“Wait! Miss Cahill, you haven’t been accused, have you? Or one of your sisters?”
I whip around. Finn’s shoulders are tense beneath his jacket, his jaw set. “No! Of course not. Why would you suggest that?”
He frowns. “You asked to see the register.”
“I told you, I was curious about my godmother! And besides, if we
were
accused, I hardly think I’d be sitting here reading a book! What use would that be?”
“What would you do? If you were accused?” Finn’s eyes are intent. Curious.
I suck in a deep breath. No one’s ever asked me that before, but it’s a question that haunts me. If someone unsympathetic caught us doing magic, I would be forced to erase his memory. I’m not without qualms about it. But I’d do it.
I can’t very well tell Finn Belastra
that
.
“I don’t know,” I say. That’s true as well. If we didn’t know about the informant until it was too late—if the Brothers and their guards came to our home and made an accusation the way they did with Gabrielle—I don’t know what I’d do. I don’t think my magic would be strong enough to modify half a dozen memories.
I’ve spent hours strategizing, but I don’t have a solution. There aren’t any solutions.
That’s the point, I suppose. We are at the Brothers’ mercy.
“I would run,” Finn says, trailing his hand over the smooth oak of the counter.
My head snaps up. I don’t know what I expected him to say, but that wasn’t it.
“You’re a man. They’ll never accuse you of anything.”
There’s a grim look in his eyes. I didn’t imagine the bookseller’s awkward, clever son could look so foreboding. Like a force to be reckoned with. “I meant if Clara were accused. Or Mother. I would take them and run. We’d try to lose ourselves in the city.”
My hood falls down again. I ignore it, transfixed. I’ve never heard a man talk like this before. It’s treasonous. It’s—fascinating. “How would you escape the guards?”
Finn lowers his voice. “Kill them, if we had to.”
As if it’s as easy as that! Just a dash of murder!
“How?” I can’t keep the skepticism out of my voice. I can hardly imagine Finn Belastra prevailing in fisticuffs with the Brothers’ burly guards.
He bends and draws a pistol out of his boot. I drift closer. I should be horrified—a good girl would be—but I’m captivated. John has a hunting rifle, but he uses it for rabbits and deer for our dinner; it’s not meant for shooting
people
. Even the Brothers’ guards don’t carry guns—at least not openly. Murder is a sin.
But then so is witchery.
Finn balances the pistol in his hand. He seems easy with it. “I’m an excellent shot. Father took me out every Sunday after services.”
My eyes meet his. I have the sudden, unprecedented urge to confess. To tell him I’d do murder for my sisters, too, if it came to that. I’d do anything.
So would he. I can see it on his face, clear as day.
“Why would they be after you?” I ask. Is Marianne a witch, too? Is that why my mother confided in her?
“Mother’s too independent for their liking. They suspect she flouts their rules and sells banned books. They’re right,” he says, his mouth quirking into a smile. “And they’re none too happy with me, either. They offered me a spot on the council. Said they’d give me a place teaching in the school if I closed down the shop. I think I wounded their pride when I refused them.”
Foolish. No wonder they’re so intent on ruining his business. His family would be safer if he’d said yes. “Why did you say no?” I whisper.
He bends over the counter, lowering his voice to match mine. Our faces are only inches apart. He smells of tea and ink. “This place was my father’s livelihood. His dream. I won’t give in to their fearmongering.”
“It’s brave of you. To say no to them.”
His cherry lips twist. “Brave, or foolish? Brother Elliott passed away last night. I imagine they’ll be after me to take his place. If I refuse them again, they may retaliate.”
I freeze. Brenna’s prediction came true, then.
“Why are you telling me this?” My voice comes out strangled. He has to know I could report him: for the register, for the pistol, for threatening the Brothers.
Finn bends and slides the pistol back into his boot. “Perhaps I wanted to prove that you could trust me, too.”
I do. I want to. It stuns me, how much I want to. I’ve known Paul since I was a baby, and I’ve never come so close to telling him my secrets. “Why?”
He straightens. “Even Arabella needed help occasionally.”
Poor misguided, chivalrous man. If I were mad enough to confide in him, to tell him what I am, he’d have nothing at all to do with me. Not if he wants to protect his family.
“You—you’ve already been very helpful,” I stammer, raising my hood back over my hair. “Thank you, Mr. Belastra.”
He studies me for a moment, trying to read me like one of his books. Blessedly, he doesn’t ask questions that I can’t—won’t—answer.
“You’re welcome, Cate.”