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

by Jessica Spotswood

  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 tenyears.

  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 wewereaccused, 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 Belastrathat.

  “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 shootingpeople. 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.”

  CHAPTER 9

  THE NEXT AFTERNOON I GRAB MYwatercolors and head to the garden under the pretense of finishing a painting for Elena. A goldfinch squawks nearby, lifting off with an angry flutter of wings. It swoops in a circle before settling in a nearby oak. I feel rather like squawking myself.

  Instead I walk toward the hammering on the hillside. Finn is perched on the top rung of a ladder, nailing a roof beam into place. “Mr. Belastra!” I

  call.

  Finn turns, startled. His movement sways the ladder, which slumps sideways, taking him with it. I cry out a warning, but it’s too late—Finn windmills his arms, snatching at empty air. He lands awkwardly, one ankle crumpled beneath him.

  I run toward him, throwing my watercolors and sketch pad to the ground, cursing this damned corset.

  “Are you all right?” I crouch beside him.

  He’s sitting up, but his face is ashen beneath his freckles. He turns his head and curses like a sailor.

  I gasp in mock outrage. “Mr. Belastra, I wasn’t aware you knew such words!”


  He tries to grin, but it comes out a grimace. “Large vocabulary.”

  “Shall I fetch John? Do you need help?”

  “I can manage,” he huffs. From my vantage point I can see the back of his neck flush pink beneath his collar. He’s got freckles there, too.

  I wonder how many freckles he’s got. Are they all over, or just where the sun’s touched?

  “—your arm?”

  I’m too mortified to meet his eyes. “What?” Good Lord, why am I thinking of Finn Belastra without his clothes on? My mind’s gone all muddled from the excitement of his accident.

  “Your arm? Could you help me up?” he asks.

  “Oh. Yes!” He grasps my shoulder and heaves himself upright, letting out another string of curses. I stand, too, and grab the overcoat he’s left folded on the floor of the gazebo.

  We begin the slow walk back through the gardens, Finn leaning against me, his arm slung around my shoulders. I can’t help assessing him from the corner of my eye. Now that I know how fiercely he’d protect his mother and Clara, I—

  I can’t help but think of him differently. If he was handsome before, now he’s doubly so. Still, I can’t go falling in love with the gardener. That’s like something out of one of Maura’s novels. And with the Brothers watching the shop so closely, any alliance with the Belastras would only put us under more scrutiny.

  Finn catches me staring. “Don’t worry, I won’t faint,” he jokes.

  “I hope not. I don’t think I can carry you.”

  We limp along to the kitchen door. Finn props himself against the brick wall while I call for Mrs. O’Hare. She stops dinner preparations—possibly for the best—and bustles over. The kitchen smells like freshly baked bread.

  “Finn fell off the ladder,” I announce. We deposit him in her old brown-flowered armchair by the fire.

  Mrs. O’Hare clucks her tongue. “Oh, dear. Should I send for Dr. Allen?”

  Finn shakes his head. “No, thank you. Just let me get my boot off and assess the damage.”

  “Of course. I’ll get you some tea,” she says, ruffling his thick hair like a child. Mrs. O’Hare knows no strangers.

  Finn pulls off his work boot and wriggles his gray-stockinged toes. When he attempts to roll his ankle, he lets out a pained hiss through his teeth.

  Mrs. O’Hare hurries over, clucking. “Poor boy. Is it broken?”

  “Just a bad sprain, I think.”

  Mrs. O’Hare snatches up her sewing basket from the corner. Some of our chemises and stockings are piled there, waiting to be mended. I blush, hoping Finn won’t notice them. “Let me see. I’ve dressed more than one sprained ankle in my time. Cate here can attest to that,” Mrs. O’Hare says.

  “No, no, I can do it,” Finn objects.

  “Nonsense! Just give me one minute.” Mrs. O’Hare lifts the lid to stir something bubbling over in the pot. It lets out a tempting aroma of onions and butternut squash. Perhaps tonight’s dinner won’t be a travesty after all.

  “Could you do it?” Finn asks, his voice low.

  “Me?” I’m hardly a nurse. “You’d be better off with her.”

  He looks at Mrs. O’Hare, busy over the pot of soup, then lifts his pant leg slightly—just enough to reveal the pistol strapped to his shin. “Please, Cate.”

  Oh. I nod and kneel beside him. “Yes, of course.”

  Mrs. O’Hare chuckles when she sees me fumbling with her roll of bandages. “You, playing nursemaid? What’s gotten into you?”

  I blink up at her innocently. “I ought to learn how, shouldn’t I? In case anyone ever takes pity and marries me?”

  “Lord help the man,” she laughs. “All right, but don’t tie it too tight or you’ll cut off his circulation.”

  I give Finn a wicked smile. “Don’t you think a peg leg would be charming? Like a pirate? The first mate on theCalypsohad one, didn’t he?”

  “It would add a certain rakish factor. Have you got a spare eye patch?”

  “Be serious, you two. Gangrene is no laughing matter,” Mrs. O’Hare scolds.

  I look up at Finn, and his brown eyes collide with mine. My hand freezes an inch from his leg. I stare at him, stomach fluttering with nerves. I don’t know why I feel so shy all of a sudden. It’s not as though I’ve never seen a boy’s bare leg before. When Paul and I were children, he’d roll his pants up to his knees and I’d hitch up my skirts and we’d wade in the pond, trying to catch minnows in our hands.

  But that was Paul, and we were only children. Somehow this feels a different thing entirely.

  “Get on with it,” Mrs. O’Hare prompts, and I do, wrapping the bandage snugly over Finn’s instep and up his calf—which is sinewy with muscle, covered in fine coppery hair and more freckles. I’m fascinated by the pattern they form over his skin. Do they go all the way up his leg?

  I flush scarlet at the thought.

  “Now, you have some tea and leave that leg propped up for a bit, and then we’ll have John drive you back to town. Good work, Cate,” Mrs. O’Hare says.

  I hang up my cloak in confusion. If I were to take notice of a man, it should be Paul.But does your heart pound when he’s near?

  My heart’s a hummingbird now, fluttering madly in my chest.

  I drag a chair across the room to sit beside Finn. He’s staring at me, his eyes big and owlish behind his spectacles. “You needn’t stay here with me, you know.”

  “Haven’t anything else better to do.” I shrug. Then I’m struck by the fear that perhaps he’d like me to leave. “Unless—do you want me to go?”

  He chuckles—a nice, low hum of a laugh. I’ve never noticed that before. “No.”

  “What, haven’t you got a book in your coat pocket?”

  “I do, actually. But I only bring it out in dull company.”

  Does he mean he enjoys my company? I smooth my green skirt, glad for once that I’m wearing something pretty, without mud on the knees and ragged hems.

  We’re still sitting there, smiling foolishly at one another, when the kitchen door bangs open and Paul strides in, stamping his feet.

  “There’s my girl! I’ve been combing the gardens for you. Maura said you were working on your watercolors.” He grabs up my hand and kisses it. I give him a warning look—he ought to know better than to take such liberties, especially in company. “Belastra, what have you done to yourself?”

  Finn sips his tea. “Fell off a ladder,” he says coolly.

  Paul’s lips twitch, and I feel a surge of protectiveness. “It was my fault,” I blurt.

  “How’s that?” Paul cocks his head at me, confused.

  I shift in my wooden chair. “I startled him.”

  “No hard feelings. You did a grand job bandaging me up,” Finn says.

  “Cate?” Paul laughs until he sees Finn’s smile, and then his jaw sets. “I ought to fall off more ladders myself, if it means having such a pretty nurse.”

  “Stop,” I protest.

  “Seriously, Cate, I could help John finish the gazebo. I wouldn’t mind an excuse to come by. I might even be able to make a few improvements to the design while I’m at it,” Paul muses, grinning.

  “That’s not necessary. I’ll be right as rain in a few days,” Finn says.

  “What?” I exclaim. “No. No more ladders for you. I won’t have you breaking your head next time.”

  Paul chuckles. “Bossy as ever, aren’t you?”

  Lord, I’ve just ordered Finn about the way I would my sisters. I grimace. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be so forward, I—”

  “I don’t mind it,” Finn interrupts. His hand, on the arm of his chair, is very close to mine, on the arm of my chair. If I stretched out my fingertips, we’d be touching. It is suddenly, unaccountably difficult to resist. My entire body is tilted toward him. Is it very obvious, how enticing I find him? I fold my hands together in my lap.

  Paul is watching us, a strange look on his face. “I don’t suppose you do. I like a woman with spirit myself.”

&nb
sp; “With spirit?” I glare. “You make me sound like a horse.” Like something to be tamed and broken.

  “Hardly.” He grins, grabs a wooden trowel from the hook on the wall, and takes up a fencing position.“En garde.”

  I look to Finn, mortified. Paul and I used to spar in the garden with sticks—and through the kitchen with cutlery—but that was when I was twelve. I shake my head. “Paul, no.”

  Paul flourishes his would-be rapier at me. “Come now, I might actually stand a chance at besting you this time. I’ve been practicing at Jones’s club.”

  Finn chuckles. “My money’s on Cate.”

  “A gentleman’s wager?” Paul suggests, dropping a coin from his pocket on the table.

  Neither of them have the money to waste on something so silly. “No, no betting. There’s only pride at stake,” I announce, seizing a long-handled spoon from the table and advancing on Paul threateningly.

  “Cate!” Mrs. O’Hare wails. “I was using that. Put it down, you’ll get soup every—”

  “Excellent!” I land a hit on Paul’s shoulder. The spoon leaves a squash-colored smudge on his gray overcoat.

  “I’ll get you for that!” Paul waves the trowel at me. “This is a new jacket!”

  We duck and dodge around the kitchen table, the icebox, and the stove. Mrs. O’Hare’s alternately chortling and urging me to behave like a proper young lady. I’m laughing, my hair tumbling out of its pins and down my back.

  “Get him, Cate!” Finn yells.

  I look at him over my shoulder, and he smiles. I catch my breath.

  Paul sneaks up behind me, trapping me against his broad chest. He spins me around and taps the crown of my head with the wooden trowel. “Got you,” he says softly.

  It’s under the guise of play, but it feels more than that. Staking his claim.

  “Miss Cate?” The hall door flies open. One look at Lily’s face and I know something is wrong.

  I disentangle myself from Paul. “What is it?”

  “The Brothers are here.”

  I freeze, but only for a second.