Born Wicked: The Cahill Witch Chronicles, Book One: The Cahill Witch Chronicles, Book One (13 page)

“One month before your ceremony, if you have not identified a prospective suitor or received an offer from the Sisters, the Brotherhood will take an interest in the matter. We will make a match for you,” Brother Ishida adds. “We consider it an honor and a privilege to help our daughters find their place in our community.”
Brother Ralston looks at me anxiously. “That’s mid-November.”
A chill runs up my spine. Today is the first of October. That’s only six weeks. I’ve got to make a decision even sooner than I thought.
“We’ve already received a few inquiries for your hand,” Brother Ishida says. “Your devotion to your sisters since your mother’s passing has not gone unnoticed. We know of several widowers who have small children requiring a mother’s care. Brother Anders and Brother Sobolev would both make fine husbands for you.”
I can’t marry either of those old men! I won’t. Brother Sobolev is a dour man with seven children ranging in age from eleven to two. At least in heaven his wife has some peace. And Brother Anders is older than Father—he’s forty if he’s a day, he’s got five-year-old twin boys, and he’s bald.
“Yes, sir. Thank you,” I murmur.
“Very well, then. We’re finished here,” Brother Ishida says. “We clear our minds and open our hearts to the Lord.”
“We clear our minds and open our hearts to the Lord,” Brother Ralston and I echo.
“You may go in peace to serve the Lord.”
“Thanks be.” And indeed I am thankful. Once they’re out of my sight, I’m so thankful, I could spit.
How dare they! How dare they come here to my home and tell me to keep my mouth shut and my head empty and find a husband before they have to do it for me!
I listen as the Brothers’ carriage rattles down the drive, and then I stalk back toward the kitchen. The magic ripples through me like rough waves on the pond during a storm. I take a deep breath, pressing my palm against the chilled windowpane in the dining room.
A flash of red catches my eye. Maura is walking in the garden with Elena, arm in arm beneath the oaks. A hint of Maura’s bright hair shows beneath her hood. I can never get her to leave her blasted novels and come outside with me. But for this stranger with her pretty dresses and pretty ways, Maura’s all too willing. She listens to Elena, adores her, but I’m the one who spends all my time worrying over how to keep her safe.
Only—which decision would keep her safer? Should I marry Paul and move away, never see my sisters but once or twice a year, and leave them to Elena’s guidance? Or stay here in Chatham and let the Brothers marry me off like some prize filly, keeping a watchful eye out, ready to wield my mind-magic if my sisters come under suspicion?
Neither option feels tenable.
There’s a cracking like ice on the pond in March. The glass windowpane breaks into tiny fissures beneath my palm.
I take a deep breath. If I’d lost control in the kitchen, in front of Finn and Paul and Mrs. O’Hare—
I don’t like to think of it. I must be more careful.
“Renovo,”
I whisper. The glass repairs itself.
In the kitchen, I’m greeted with a flurry of questions. Paul’s soup-splashed frock coat is thrown over the back of a chair, and he’s pacing in his fawn-colored waistcoat and shirtsleeves. “What did they want?” he demands.
Mrs. O’Hare lifts her eyes from the table, where she’s kneading dough again, even though there’s a fresh loaf on the windowsill. “Is everything all right, Cate?”
But it’s Finn I look to, still in his chair by the fire. He doesn’t seem frantic like the others, though his thick hair is a bit more disheveled than before, as though he’s been running his hands through it again. His expression is cool. Calculating. Like he’s been doing mathematics problems in his head—or thinking how to get me out of trouble, should I need it.
“It was nothing. I’m fine,” I insist.
Paul moves closer, hovering. “Cate, the Brothers don’t just stop by for—”
I round on him, temper exploding. “I
said
it was nothing!”
He holds up both palms. “Yes, yes, all right.” I can tell he doesn’t believe me, but what should I say? That they want to marry me off to ensure I won’t be troublesome like my godmother and could he help me with that, please? It’s humiliating.
“John should have the carriage ready,” Finn says. He winces as he stands. Mrs. O’Hare’s lent him her wooden walking stick. “Thank you again.”
I try to smile, but it falls short. “I’ll see you out.”
Finn clears his throat. “It’s fine. I’ll manage.” He limps to the door.
“Sit and have some tea with me. You look exhausted,” Paul urges, pulling out a chair.
“In a minute. Let me see Finn out first.” I storm past Finn and outside before either of them can argue it further. I’ll have to accede to a husband’s orders soon enough; I won’t do it now.
I get several yards down the garden path before Finn catches up. “I could have managed on my own, you know. I don’t want to cause trouble with your fiancé.” He leans heavily on the walking stick, his face aimed at the ground.
“He’s not my fiancé,” I snap, plucking a black-eyed Susan. What sort of insinuations was Paul making while I was gone?
Six weeks. That’s so little time. Six weeks ago, I didn’t have a godmother or a governess; I didn’t know anything about this prophecy; I barely knew Finn to say hello to.
“Oh? He—well. I apologize. Obviously I jumped to the wrong conclusion.” Finn smiles.
“Obviously.” I yank petals from the flower in my hand—he loves me, he loves me not—and brush off a twinge of guilt. There are no promises between Paul and me. I said I’d think about his intentions, and I am thinking. “The Brothers—they asked me why I was at your shop. They knew I was there, and for how long, and that I left without a package. They’re watching the store. I didn’t want to tell you in front of Paul and Mrs. O’Hare.”
Finn presses his lips together. “That’s nothing new. I’m sorry if it got you into any trouble, but—”
“Not at all, they think I’m practically illiterate!”
“What?” Finn leans against the stone wall bordering the edge of the garden.
“Apparently everyone knows I’m not the clever sort,” I hiss, tossing the ruined flower to the ground. Finn stares. Then—brave man—he reaches out and takes my hand in his.
It’s enough to still the anger in me.
“Don’t let them make you feel small. It’s their specialty, but anyone with half a brain can see how clever you are.” He gives me a sideways glance. “And brave. You barely hesitated when you heard they were here.”
“You think I’m clever?” Him? The brilliant scholar?
“I do.” His fingers curl around my palm, his touch comforting and disturbing all at once. My heart flips over in my chest. “What else did the Brothers ask you about?”
There’s the noise of carriage wheels rattling over a pothole. John’s driving out of the barn. I drop Finn’s hand and move a respectable distance away. “Is your mother feeling better?”
Finn looks puzzled. “Yes. She’s back to minding the shop today.”
“I might stop in tomorrow. I have a question for her.” It’s reckless, I know, with the Brothers watching. But how else am I to find out about this blasted prophecy? I’ll have to dream up another errand for Father. “Will you be there, do you think?” I try to ask carelessly, as though it doesn’t matter, but I find I rather want to see him again.
Finn smiles. “In the morning. See you tomorrow, then.”
“See you,” I echo.
I lean against the wall, destroying another black-eyed Susan, watching him hobble down the path and feeling like tomorrow is a very long time to go without seeing him.
No good can come of this.
Back in the kitchen, Paul’s sitting in Finn’s chair. Mrs. O’Hare has made herself scarce. He jumps up when I come in.
“I’m tired,” I say shortly. “It’s been a very taxing morning.”
“Is that so?” Paul works his jaw in that way he has. Another thing that hasn’t changed—I can still tell when I’ve annoyed him. “Well, I’m not going anywhere until you tell me why the Brothers were here, so you may as well have out with it.”
I pick up the loaf of bread on the windowsill and carry it to the table. “It’s nothing.”
Paul leans across the table, bracing himself on his tanned, thickly muscled forearms. “It’s not nothing to me. Not if it involves you. And you didn’t seem to mind telling Belastra. I wasn’t aware the two of you had become such close friends.”
Finn was right. Paul is jealous.
“We’re not. I don’t even know him. Barely.” Paul and I glare at each other for a moment. I’ve lost my temper with him more times than I can count, but I shouldn’t take advantage of his good nature. He’s only worried about me.
Truth be told, I’m worried about me, too.
“It had to do with the bookshop,” I explain, silver knife flashing as I slice the bread ferociously. “The Brothers suspect that Mrs. Belastra’s selling banned books. I was there yesterday, delivering a message for Father. They saw me come and go and questioned me about whether I’d noticed anything untoward.”
“That’s it?” Relief washes over Paul’s face.
“Mostly. They wanted to remind me about my intention ceremony, too,” I sigh.
Paul looks stricken all over again. “You wanted to tell Belastra about that?”
“No, I wanted to warn him about the Brothers watching the shop.”
“Oh.” He grabs his jacket from the chair. “There’s nothing between you two, then?”
“What would be? He’s our gardener.” I try to sound properly incredulous, but I can’t help remembering the flushed, freckled skin on the back of Finn’s neck. The warmth of his fingers cupping my palm.
“I don’t know. I’ve been away.” Paul swings his jacket over his broad shoulders. “How am I to know who’s been calling on you?”
“Finn Belastra has not been calling on me, I can assure you.”
He steps around the table, planting one arm on the wall behind me, trapping me between the icebox, the table, and his body. “Good. I don’t think Belastra’s the sort of man to suit you.”
Presumptuous creature. “Oh? And what sort of man would that be?”
Paul tilts my chin up with one finger. His eyes are dancing, confidence restored. His finger traces the edge of my jaw in a way that leaves my mouth dry and my pulse hammering.
“Me.”

THE NEXT MORNING I STRIDE DOWN Church Street looking very proper in my new, fur-trimmed gray cloak. When I pass Mrs. Winfield outside the chocolatier, she stops to compliment it and ask after Father. She exclaims how dreadfully we must miss him, and I agree without explaining that living with Father these days is rather like living with a very dull, studious ghost.

It wasn’t always this way. He used to bring us chocolates and pick wildflowers for Mother on his way home from teaching at the boys’ school. When she was well and the weather was nice, we went for long Saturday drives. Mrs. O’Hare would pack us lunches of bread and sharp cheese and fresh strawberries, and after we ate, Father would read us stories about Odysseus and Hercules and the heroes of old. He did the same in the winter, when the wind sobbed in the chimneys and the fire roared comfortably in the sitting room. Sometimes he even did the different characters’ voices.

I thought he would get past his grief eventually. It seems not.
As Mrs. Winfield talks, I scan the cobbled sidewalks around us. I have the itchy sensation of being watched. Is the old biddy in brown an informant for the Brothers? Or perhaps it’s Alex Ralston, tying his horse to the hitching post outside the general store. Normally I would discount the feeling as paranoia, but ever since I discovered the prophecy, I feel as though we must be particularly careful, as though putting a single foot wrong could cost us dearly.
Eventually, Mrs. Winfield grows weary of her gossip and disappears into the chocolate shop. I linger in front of the stationer’s, staring at their display of calling cards. After a few moments, I continue on, and meander up the steps of Belastras’ bookshop. Clara is tending the window boxes, pinching withered blooms.
As I enter, Mrs. Belastra glances up at the bell. She’s standing in the middle of the store, shelving a box of books. “Miss Cahill,” she says. “Finn told me to expect you.”
“Yes, I—I was hoping you could help me. With some research.”
Her brown eyes are very like Finn’s—kind, but calculating. Under her gaze, I shift from foot to foot, suddenly ashamed of all the times I’ve been brusque with her. I’ve never bothered to make more than polite conversation when I pick up books for Father or accompany Maura. Not because the Belastras aren’t of our social class—though they are not—but because I don’t like being here. I’ve practically pulled Maura’s arms off to get her out faster. And now I come calling to beg for Mrs. Belastra’s help with secrets that could get us both arrested?
She would have every right to refuse me.
“I don’t know what Finn told you,” I say, squaring my shoulders. “But I’ve just discovered my mother’s diary, and she wrote about some curious things—things that I found rather alarming. I would appreciate any help you can give me.”
I’m at her mercy. I don’t know what else to do. If Marianne decides not to help me, I’m sunk.
“I’ll do what I can.” Marianne doesn’t quite smile, but her shoulders relax. “I was very fond of your mother.”
“I didn’t know you were friends. Not until I came across her diary. She mentioned you in it. She said—that is—” I crane my neck, looking toward the back of the shop.
Mrs. Belastra catches my meaning. “We’re alone. Finn’s upstairs. I thought you might prefer to keep this conversation between us.”
“I would, thank you.”
I hover just inside the door. The sunlight from the wide picture window catches at the small ruby on her ring finger. Her hair is pulled back in a tight chignon—like the rest of her appearance, more serviceable than fashionable. There are crows’ feet at the corners of her brown eyes, and permanent lines of worry etched on her forehead, but there are laugh lines around her mouth, too. She was a beauty once, I can tell. She has Finn’s square jaw and full, red lips and his handsome snub nose.
When did I come to think Finn’s nose handsome?
“My friendship with your mother came about because of our mutual love of books,” Marianne explains, waving a slim volume of poetry at me. “We were both very fond of the Romantic poets. And after Zara came to town—”
“You knew Zara, too?”
A smile tugs at her lips. “As well as anyone could. She was a private sort of person. Very brave—foolhardy, some would say, about her own safety. Her research was her guiding passion. Finn said you came to read the registry and find out what happened to her.”
I stare down at the gleaming wooden floorboards. The shop smells of wax and lemons, as though Marianne’s been doing her fall cleaning.
If Zara was so important to Mother, why didn’t she ever mention her? Was she afraid to frighten us with stories of girls being locked up in Harwood? “I didn’t even know I had a godmother until I read the diary. I don’t remember her at all.”
“You would have been only six when she was sent away. That last year, she traveled a great deal—and when she was in town, the Brothers were watching. It was only a matter of time for her. She and your mother met here sometimes, but Zara was afraid of casting suspicion on Anna.”
Anna.
It’s been so long since I’ve heard my mother’s given name. I force back a desperate swell of missing her.
“Why did you stay friends with her? If it was dangerous?”
Marianne smiles as though it’s a reasonable question and not an impertinent one. “Some things are worth the danger, aren’t they? I don’t believe anyone should be allowed to dictate what I read or who my friends are. It gives me pleasure to know that I can thwart the Brotherhood in some small way. And I thought Zara’s work was important. She studied the oracles of Persephone, and that last year she was researching a prophecy, which, if it comes to fruition, could very well influence the course of history.”
I bite my lip. “Mother wrote about the prophecy, but not much. Do you—do you know more about it?” I ask, praying that Mother’s faith in Marianne was not misplaced.
Marianne gives a brisk nod. “A bit. I have something that might help. Why don’t you go sit at the desk in back, and I’ll fetch some books.”
I wind my way back to the desk where I read the register of trials. Marianne’s spectacles lie on the desk, along with a cold cup of tea and a note jotted in her neat penmanship.
Is Marianne a witch herself, or just a scholar and purveyor of books? Does Finn know how deeply his mother is involved in the study of magic? Women have been murdered for less.
Marianne joins me, carrying two packages wrapped in cheesecloth. She unwraps them to reveal two handwritten manuscripts. According to the ornate blue script, the first is called
The Tragic Fall of the Daughters of Persephone
. The second is badly water damaged, the bottom right corners stained, the ink illegible in places. It is titled simply
The Oracles of Persephone.
In small letters beneath the title it says
Z. Roth.
My fingers dart out, running over the words. When the Daughters of Persephone made the laws, education was available for everyone. Girls like Tess were allowed to study mathematics and philosophy right alongside boys, and some of them became scholars of great renown. Now girls aren’t permitted in the village schools; the desire to learn anything beyond needlework from one’s governess is suspect. The writings of women have been banned and burned, witches or no.
“Zara wrote this?” I feel a dash of pride at having such a progressive godmother.
Marianne slips on her spectacles. She looks even more like Finn now. “She did. Her research on that last prophecy is what had Anna so worried.”
I stare at her expectantly, but she flips open
The Oracles of Persephone
and turns it toward me. “You ought to read it for yourself. Words mean more that way.”
I lean over and read the section she’s indicated.