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

by Jessica Spotswood

  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 calledThe 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 simplyThe Oracles of Persephone.In small letters beneath the title it saysZ. 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 openThe Oracles of Persephoneand 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.

  By the time of this writing, the author suspects there are only a fewhundred witches alive in NewEngland. All of the priestesses in temples across the country have been dead since the summer of 1780. Women suspected of witchery were burned and beheaded in mass numbers into the early nineteenth century.

  The Great Temple of Persephone was burned to the ground at sunrise on 10 January 1780. The doors to the temple were locked and barred from the outside to prevent escape. Several priestesses jumped from the roof rather than be consumed by fire.

  The Book of Prophecy was burned to ashes—and with it, records of hundreds of years’worth of the oracles’work. But it was rumored that one final prophecy was made—a prophecy that gave hope to the doomed priestesses. It foresaw that before the turn of the twentieth century, three sisters—all witches—will come of age. One of them, gifted with mind-magic, will be the most powerful witch in centuries, capable of bringing about a newgolden age of magic—or a second Terror. This family will be both blessed and cursed, for one sister will

  The words end abruptly. The bottom right corner of the page is smudged, completely illegible.

  “One sister will what?” I demand, my eyes flying up to Marianne’s.

  “I’m afraid I don’t know. Zara hid the manuscript on the porch roof of the Coste boardinghouse before she was arrested. Fortunately, the Brothers

  did not find it. Unfortunately, parts of it were destroyed before I was able to retrieve it.”

  “But I need to know. Mother was worried—was afraid thatwewere the sisters of the prophecy,” I whisper.

  “I know,” Marianne says. Her face furrows. “I think Anna knew the rest of the prophecy, but she didn’t share it with me. Neither did Zara. I was their

  friend, yes, but I was not privy to all their secrets.”

  I dig my nails into my palms. “It can’t be right.”

  “The oracles were never false. You can read more about the other prophecies in—”

  “I don’t care about the other prophecies!” I stand so quickly, the chair tumbles over. “This—it can’t be about us. There must be other sisters who

  can—who are—” Even now, I can’t bring myself to confess, to say the words out loud.

  “Can one of you do mind-magic?” Marianne asks.

  I stare at the woven red rug beneath the desk. She takes my silence for the admission of guilt that it is. “Good Lord,” she breathes. “But does that mean that we’re the sisters? Absolutely? Perhaps there are others who can—”

  Marianne puts a hand on my shoulder. “I don’t think so. Even without taking that into account, having three witches in one generation—I’ve never

  heard of it before. Even in the old days.” Before the Terror, she means. “And now—you read it yourself. All the priestesses were murdered, and there were witch hunts well through the beginning of this century. Some witches chose not to marry and have children. For those who did—it is very rare that more than one daughter manifests powers. Three witches in one generation is a precious thing.”

  “Precious?” I choke. “It’s not precio
us, it’s horrible!”

  “I know you didn’t ask for this kind of responsibility. But you could have the opportunity to change history. To give women back their power. Did

  Anna tell you anything else?”

  “Anything that would tell me what to do, you mean? How to keep Tess and Maura safe? Anythinguseful?” I slump against a row of bookshelves.

  “No. My intention ceremony is so soon, and I don’t know what to do. I’ll have to marry, I suppose.”

  Marianne takes a deep breath. “You should know all of your options. Sit down, Cate. I have something to tell you.”

  I sit, fingers tapping a nervous rhythm against the desk.

  “I notice you didn’t mention the Sisterhood.”

  I shake my head. “Wouldn’t we only be in more danger there?”

  “Less than you might think. The Sisters—Cate, they’re witches.”

  My jaw drops. “All of them?”

  Marianne nods. “Since the Sisterhood first began. They’re the Daughters of Persephone re-formed. It’s a very important secret, very closely

  guarded.”

  “But then—there must be more witches than Zara thought, aren’t there?” I ask, hopeful. If there are more, perhaps we’re not the three sisters after

  all.

  “No. There are a few dozen Sisters, and perhaps fifty pupils at any given time. Some of the girls receive their training in magic and then go back

  out into the world. Some stay and become full members of the order.”

  “Wait.” I gasp as another realization nearly bowls me over. “So our governess—Elena Robichaud—she’s a witch?”

  “She must be.” Marianne leans over the desk, as though she’s worried I might faint from the shock of it. “I imagine she’s been sent to see if the

  three of you could be the sisters from the prophecy.”

  I think of Elena, giggling with Maura in the sitting room. Walking arm in arm through the garden. “She’s a spy, then.”

  Marianne puts her hand on my shoulder again, her long fingers kneading as if to reassure me. “Yes. But the Sisterhood will do everything they

  can to teach and guide you. They’ll want to keep you safe from the Brothers at any cost.”

  I bite my lip. “But how did they know we might be witches in the first place? We’ve been so careful.”

  “When Anna was in the convent school, they made her use her mind-magic against their enemies. I imagine any daughter of hers would have

  been of interest to them. And the fact that there are three of you . . .” Marianne takes off her spectacles, her brown eyes peering down into mine.

  “I’ve wanted to reach out to you girls for some time—it was a matter of finding the right opportunity. The Brothers think me eccentric, and I was

  afraid taking an interest might not reflect well on you. But I want you to know I’ll do everything I can to help. You mustn’t ever hesitate to ask.” Tears spring to my eyes. She knew about Mother’s mind-magic—and now she knows about mine—and she would be our friend anyway. “Thank

  you. That—it means a great deal,” I say softly.

  A door opens above us and footsteps come limping down the stairs. It’s Finn, disheveled in boots and shirtsleeves, his hair sticking up

  impossibly. “Cate? I thought I heard you.”

  “Finn.” His mother gives him a quelling look. “We’re just in the middle of—”

  Finn sobers. “What’s the matter?”

  I struggle to compose myself. “Nothing’s the matter. Everything’s grand.”

  “Could you give us just a moment, please?” Marianne asks, and Finn obediently heads off to the front of the shop. She picks up Zara’s book and

  holds it out to me. “I know this must be overwhelming, Cate. If you girls are the subject of the prophecy, it’s a very great responsibility. And a great

  hazard. Perhaps putting it into the context of the oracles’ other prophecies would help. Anna truly believed—”

  The bell above the door stops her.

  “Mama!” Clara rushes in. “Brother Ishida and Brother Winfield are coming!”

  I bolt to my feet. Marianne’s already rewrapping the histories and dumping them into my arms.

  “What do I do with these?” I ask, panicked.

  “Into the closet,” Finn orders from behind me.

  “What?”

  “Cate, I haven’t time to argue with you. Get in the damned closet!”

  I didn’t know Finn had a voice like that. He gives me a not-entirely-gentle push toward the front of the shop, and I stumble forward. He throws open

  the door beside the one that leads up to their flat—the closet he retrieved the register from yesterday. There’s a towering bookshelf inside with a

  few leather-bound ledgers. Are we meant to hide in here? It doesn’t seem very hidden.

  But Finn shoves the big bookshelf aside like it weighs nothing. Behind it, there’s a narrow door set a foot up the wall. He bends and steps through

  and beckons to me. I peer doubtfully into the tiny room beyond. It looks like a root cellar. There’s barely space for Finn to stand upright. Stacks of

  books line the earthen walls, and frankly, it looks like an ideal home for spiders.

  “Hurry,” Finn says. He holds out a hand to help me over the sill, but I climb in on my own. Mrs. Belastra hands him a candle and Clara throws my

  cloak at me and shuts the door. I hear the scratching of wood against the wall as they shove the bookshelf back into place. I put the books down,

  carefully, on top of one towering pile.

  Just as the closet door slams, I hear the jangle of bells above the Church Street entrance. The heavy tread of men’s boots. Brother Ishida’s

  unmistakable voice, greeting Mrs. Belastra.

  I’ve hardly gotten my bearings when Finn blows out the candle, plunging us into darkness. In my haste to get away from the damp wall, my foot

  nudges something on the floor. Another stack of books. I teeter, windmilling my arms. If I knock them over, we’ll all be caught. Finn catches me and pulls me back. Right up against him.

  Brother Ishida is asking Mrs. Belastra for a list of her recent customers. I freeze, my mind sifting through all of our purchases. Only linguistic

  textbooks and scholarly tomes. They’ll assume I’ve been here on Father’s behalf.

  “No customers at present, Mrs. Belastra?”

  “Not at present. Business has been a bit slow for some reason or other,” she says, and I can hear her cheeky grin.

  “Didn’t Miss Cahill come in earlier? We didn’t notice her leaving.”

  “She went out the back. Wanted to get a look at my roses.”

  Finn grabs my hand.

  Normally I’d yank away from him. I’m not easily frightened; he should know that by now.

  Except I am quite frightened, actually. So I twine my fingers with his and squeeze back. His hand is warmer than mine. There are calluses at the

  base of his fingertips. Are they from the hammer and trowels he’s been wielding in our gardens?

  My heart stops as the outer closet door opens and those heavy footsteps move in our direction. I hold my breath, lungs strangling in my chest.

  Finn goes still as a stone beside me. The only sound is the rapid, uneven beating of my own heart.

  But the footsteps move away, and the door bangs behind them.

  It’s only when I taste salt that I realize tears are running in a silent river down my face, dripping off my chin and onto the cold stone floor. Finn is still clasping my hand. Now he reaches out and wipes a tear away with the soft pad of his thumb.

  How did he know I was crying? He can’t see in the dark, and I never cry.

  His thumb slips down over my cheek and rests softly, sweetly, on the curve of my bottom lip.

  “It’s all right,” he says. He’s so close that his warm breath tickles my neck.

  I turn and nestle my hot face into the soft co
tton of his shirt. He smells of rainy spring days and old books. His hands move to my back and hover

  there, tentative, as if he expects me to push him away.

  I have never been this close to a man before. Something stirs deep, pulsing through my body, and it’s quite like the tug of magic, but it’s not the

  magic; this is something entirely different, just between Finn and me and this moment.

  His hands are firmer now. One settles at the small of my back, its weight burning through my dress and corset and even my chemise. My skin

  shivers under his touch. I should back away.

  I should but I won’t.

  I want his hands on me.

  If I could see his face, would I have such bold thoughts?

  My hands slide up his chest. My mouth reaches for his.

  Our noses bump in the dark, but Finn tilts his head sideways until his lips touch mine. They brush back and forth, testing. Tasting. He waits, but I

  only press closer, and he reads that for the invitation it is. His kisses grow bolder. My toes curl in my slippers; my fingers clench the fabric of his

  shirt; fireworks explode in my belly.

  His mouth explores the sharp line of my jaw, then moves to the hollow of my throat.

  “Finn,” I sigh. Never in my life has my voice sounded like that.

  I knot my fingers in his hair and pull his mouth back to mine.

  His hands move over me, light as feathers, stroking my back, my hip. Tangling in the sash around my waist, anchoring me tighter against him. My

  body burns wherever he touches.

  I’ve never devoted much thought to kissing. Never had cause to. But this—oh, this is lovely. Mad and hungry and lovely. I could stay like this for

  hours.

  And then the outer closet door bangs open, and Clara’s voice calls out, “They’ve gone!” and we spring apart, both of us breathing as though

  we’ve run a footrace.

  Something soft crunches beneath my slippers and I look down.

  There are feathers. Feathers everywhere—scattered over all the books, tangled in Finn’s hair, caught in my skirts, blanketing the floor in white. Oh no.