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

by Jessica Spotswood

  Maura or Tess? What could they have done when I wasn’t watching?

  Why wasn’t I watching them better?

  “Thank you, Lily,” I say, and my voice doesn’t shake at all. I want very badly to look at Finn, but I don’t. If I do, I might beg him to let me borrow that pistol.

  “Cate, your hair!” Mrs. O’Hare rushes over to fix it. When she’s finished, I smooth the wet grass from my hem and straighten my shoulders. I take some strength from the brave smile Mrs. O’Hare puts on, and then I follow Lily out.

  Brother Ishida and Brother Ralston wait for me in the sitting room. Brother Ralston is a whiskered man with a big belly and a forehead so furrowed it looks like a spring field. He teaches literature and composition at the boys’ school; he’s a friend of Father’s.

  “Good day, Miss Cate,” he says.

  “Good day, sir.” I kneel before them.

  Brother Ishida puts his plump, soft hand on my head. “Lord bless you and keep you this and all the days of your life.”

  “Thanks be.” I stand but bite my tongue. I don’t dare ask why they are here. It would be impertinent.

  They make me wait a long minute.

  “Have you had any correspondence with Zara Roth?” Brother Ishida asks.

  I raise my head, relief flooding through me. “No, sir,” I lie. “I wasn’t even aware I had a godmother until Mrs. Ishida told me about her. Isn’t she in Harwood Asylum? I didn’t think the patients there were permitted to write letters.”

  “That is true, but there have been unscrupulous nurses willing to post a letter in the past. You haven’t had any contact with her whatsoever?” I make my gray eyes go wide with puzzlement. “No, sir. Never.”

  “If you hear from her—if she attempts to contact you in any way—you must let us know immediately,” Brother Ralston urges. I clasp my hands before me and lower my eyes to their boots. “Of course, sir. I’d tell you straightaway.”

  “She was a wicked woman, Miss Cahill. A witch masquerading as a devout member of our Sisterhood. She was treasonous to our government and to our Lord. I do not know why your mother, Lord rest her soul, would have appointed such a person to be your godmother.” Brother Ishida’s dark eyes focus on me, as though I am somehow tainted by association.

  I glance up at the family portrait—Mother, serene and beautiful—and shake my head sadly. “I don’t know either, sir. Mother never mentioned her.”

  “We hope it was only a matter of womanly frailty on her part,” Brother Ralston said. “You must be wary of the devil’s tempting whispers masquerading as the voice of friends, Miss Cate. Trusting the wrong sort of people can lead down dark paths.”

  “We hope you will not follow in your godmother’s footsteps,” Brother Ishida says. “We noted that you visited Belastras’ bookshop yesterday.”

  I start. They were following me? Why would they follow me? But Brother Ralston makes a calming gesture, as though I’m some skittish filly. “We have been watching the comings and goings of the bookshop for some time. It does not behoove a young lady of your station to linger in such a place, Miss Cate. The company a girl keeps is vital to her reputation.”

  “I was only there on an errand for Father,” I lie.

  “You didn’t leave with any parcels,” Brother Ishida says.

  “I thought your father was in New London,” Brother Ralston adds.

  Lord, theyaremonitoring things. I think quickly. “I was delivering a message. Finn Belastra is our new gardener. Only I got to talking and . . .” I hope they won’t ask why John couldn’t deliver the message. Or whether Finn and I were alone together in the shop.

  Brother Ralston smiles fondly, only too willing to believe in my womanly frailty. If it weren’t to my advantage, I’d slap the smile from his face. “Ah, that makes more sense. Your father’s said you aren’t the clever sort.”

  I grit my teeth. “I confess I don’t see the appeal in so much book learning.” I give them a look of doe-eyed distress, fluttering my spindly blond lashes. Sachi Ishida herself would be proud.

  “There’s no harm in that. Too much knowledge turns a woman’s head,” Brother Ralston says.

  “You won’t ever miss your godmother, Miss Cahill,” Brother Ishida says. “You have all the guidance you need. It is our duty to care for our sons and daughters, and we are happy to do it.”

  I mask my fury with a smile. “Yes, sir. I’m very grateful for that.”

  “When do you turn seventeen, Miss Cahill?”

  Oh no. “March fourteenth, sir.”

  Brother Ralston peers down at me, his jolly blue eyes uncomfortable. “You are aware of the importance of your next birthday, correct?” I nod, hoping that will be all, but he continues. “Three months before your birthday, you must announce either your betrothal or your intention to join the Sisterhood. In mid-December, there will be a ceremony at church in which you will pledge yourself in service to your husband or to the Lord. We take the declaration of intent very seriously.”

  “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 th
ink 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. “Isaidit 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.”

  CHAPTER 10

  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.”