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

by Jessica Spotswood

“What happened in the garden was a fluke.” I avoid her eyes, looking into the gilt-edged mirror above the hall table. My face is paler than usual, with enormous purple shadows beneath my eyes.

  “Was it?” Elena lays a hand on my arm, her smooth brown skin a contrast against the icy blue of my dress. “I know one of you can do mind-magic, Cate.”

  I pull away under the pretext of fussing with my hair. “I don’t see how that could possibly be true.”

  “Your father’s got some very interesting holes in his memory,” she says.

  I freeze. How could she know that? “My mother could do mind-magic.”

  “But these gaps are fromafterher death. He doesn’t seem to have any memory of Mrs. Corbett suggesting that you go to the Sisters’ convent school,” Elena says. “Funny, that. Who would have used such dark magic to keep you all together?”

  Mrs. Corbett, that wretched old bat. I don’t know why I’m surprised. I ought to be thankful she hasn’t turned us in to the Brothers.

  “Tess would have been only, what, nine at the time? Ten? That’s too young for her magic to have manifested. That leaves you or Maura, and if Maura knew she could do mind-magic, she would have told me. So we’re back to you.” Elena’s reflection gazes at me from the mirror. “I have an obligation to the Sisters. I don’t think Maura is the one they want, but if you won’t cooperate with me, I daresay she will. She’s eager to go off to New London. She’d leave today if I suggested it—especially if she found out how many secrets you’ve been keeping.

  “I’m quite fond of Maura,” she continues slowly. Her chocolate eyes never leave mine. “I wouldn’t want to see her come to any harm. Unfortunately, those who run the Sisterhood—they subscribe to some rather Machiavellian notions. They wouldn’t harm her irreparably, but they aren’t above using her as bait.”

  I whirl around, my heart pounding like a drum. Enough. “Leave Maura alone. It’s me. I’m the one you want.”

  Elena peers up at me. “I’ll need you to prove it. I can’t trust you, Cate. I believe that you’d lie to me, even now.”

  I ball my hands into fists. “You pretend to be her friend, but you don’t care about her. The only thing you care about is the damned Sisterhood.”

  Elena’s hand twitches up, as though she’s tempted to slap me. “I’mnot the one putting her in danger—you are. If you’d just cooperate—”

  My nails cut crescent moons in the center of my palms. “What do you want me to do?”

  Elena’s smile is serpentine and triumphant. “You can start by meeting me this afternoon for a lesson in mind-magic. Half past two, in the rose garden.”

  “Half past two,” I agree, cursing her. “And if I prove that I can do it, you’ll leave Maura and Tess out of this?”

  “Insofar as it’s in my control, yes,” she agrees, cagey as always. “If you prove that you’re the prophesied sister, and if you agree to join the Sisterhood and play your role in the prophecy, we’ll keep them safe for you.”

  It’s not much of a promise, but it’s better than nothing.

  “Fine,” I snap. What choice do I have?

  I tell Mrs. O’Hare I won’t be having breakfast. I can’t stand to see the smug look on Elena’s face—not without hurling the china at her. I grab an apple from the kitchen on my way out the back door. All around me, the autumn air is as crisp as the apple. Fallen leaves drift across the path, crunching beneath my boots.

  I stop beside a bed of blowsy white roses. Their plot needs a weeding. I listen for the sound of hammering up at the gazebo, but I suppose it’s too early for Finn yet. My shoulders slump. Perhaps it’s just as well.

  Giving him up would be a heavy sacrifice—is that what Brenna foresaw? It’s far more than anything Mother asked of me. I know a life with him would require sacrifices, too—learning to cook, to sew, to make do with twice-turned dresses. But if I could be with him, living in the Belastras’ cramped flat would be like heaven. I could still see my sisters, still practice magic with Sachi and Rory, still visit my garden when I needed to get away from town and all its gossiping tongues.

  New London is so very far away.

  But if it would keep my sisters safe—what I want can no longer matter.

  I drop to my knees, wrap my hand around the stem of a stubborn weed, and yank. Five minutes later, there’s a pile on the path next to me. The plot looks much better, and I feel a good deal calmer. I glance at the next plot over—wine-dark roses in front of the Cupid fountain, just beginning to bud again. They could use some attention, too. I scoot over, humming to myself and smoothing the rumpled soil.

  A shadow falls over me. “Stealing my job out from under me?”

  My heart beats faster at the sound of his voice. “You can help if you’d like.”

  Finn kneels next to me, keeping a careful distance. We’re in full view of the kitchen window. “You wouldn’t mind the company?”

  I smile at him, besotted. At his cherry lips and freckles and warm brown eyes. “Not yours.”

  “You love this, don’t you?” he asks, gesturing at the flowers. “Not just the pretty result, but the work.”

  “I do.” Mrs. O’Hare is always fussing at me about it. I never remember my gloves, and she’s always going on about ruining my hands and getting dirt under my nails. Personally, I do not see how a little dirt hurts anyone. “I find it satisfying, leaving things better off than when I started. And I don’t like being cooped up inside.”

  “I see that.” He rubs the pad of his thumb across my cheek. “You’re beautiful, you know. I’ve been remiss in not telling you that more often. Like a modern-day Pomona. Or Venus—she was the goddess of gardening and fertility before she became the goddess of love.”

  He holds my eyes for a moment—long enough to turn me flushed and prickly—then begins to untangle the bindweed that’s twisted its way through the roses. I rock back on my heels, watching his fingers move, gently separating the leaves.

  He’s so tempting. When I’m with him, I want to forget all about prophecies and obligations and sisters. I want to be a normal girl in love.

  I move to sit on the lip of the fountain, trailing my hands behind me in the cool water. “What do you love?” I ask.

  “Pardon?” He cocks his head at me like a parakeet.

  “I garden. Tess bakes. Maura—” Maura dreams of escape. I shake my head, refusing to go down that path. “If you didn’t have to work here, if you didn’t have to work at the bookshop even, how would you spend your time?”

  He takes a minute to think. “Cooped up inside, probably. Before my father died, I’d planned to go to university. There isn’t much of a market for independent scholars these days, but I’d like to do my own translations of the myths. Orpheus and Eurydice is one of my favorites. Baucis and Philemon. All of Apollo’s exploits.”

  I know those stories; they’re the ones Tess has been studying with Father. “Well—you can still do your translations, can’t you?” I ask, plucking a stray leaf from the fountain.

  “I try. It’s hard to find time.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, remembering that I’m not the only one who’s suffered a loss. “About your father. That must have been awful.”

  “It was very sudden. I don’t know if that made it better or worse. Mother’s been a rock, but I know it’s been hardest on her. I try to help where I can.”

  “I’m sure you’re immensely helpful.”

  Finn runs a hand over his already-rumpled hair. Does he even bother to comb it in the morning? “Perhaps. I wish there were more I could do.”

  I feel a great surge of protectiveness. I have enough worries of my own, I know, but somehow I want to take his on, too. “I want to know what worries you. I want to knowyou. Everything. Your favorite flower. Your favorite foods. Your favorite book.”

  Finn smiles. “There’s plenty of time for that.”

  But there isn’t! I haven’t got any time left at all. Once Elena confirms that I can do mind-magic, will she even wait for my int
ention ceremony? Will I get to see him again before I’m shipped off to New London?

  My mood darkens. I lean forward, yanking at more hapless weeds. A branch of the rosebush breaks under my careless hands. I snap it off and hurl it across the garden.

  “Cate? Did I say something wrong?” Finn stands, hovering over me uncertainly.

  “No. It’s not you.” A muscle tics in my eyelid. I press the back of a hand to it.

  Perhaps the Sisterhood won’t be so bad. They’ll protect us from the Brothers; they won’t send us to prison or the asylum. They want to help girls like us. Can I really blame them for their ruthlessness? I’d do anything to protect Maura and Tess, even if it hurt other people. The Sisters feel the same way, only their scope is much bigger.

  I might be able to forgive their methods if they weren’t aimed squarely at my family.

  If they weren’t willing to hurt Maura to force me into a future I don’t want.

  The future I want is standing in front of me, his forehead furrowed, his eyes full of worry. “What is it then? Tell me,” he says.

  “I can’t.” I push back onto my feet.

  “If something’s making you unhappy, tell me. Please.”

  I look at him—really look, beyond the freckles and the messy hair and the magnificent kissing. Finn is a clever, capable man, raised by a clever, capable mother. He likes me as I am—not just the laughing girl who caught minnows in her hands and climbed trees, but the stubborn, snappish girl I can be at my worst. I think he would still like me—love me—even if he knew about my magic.

  But what if he knew I’d done magic to him? I stare at the cobblestone path beneath my boots. It’s unforgivable.

  I don’t deserve him.

  I brush dirt from the knees of my pale-blue dress. “I should go in. I’m not good company today.”

  He watches me go, plainly puzzled, and I can’t say I blame him. I’m halfway down the path when he calls after me. “Lilies, I suppose. And a good apple pie, and theMetamorphoses.”

  I can’t stop my answering smile. “Red roses, strawberries, andTales of the Pirate LeFevre!”

  Mrs. O’Hare scowls at me as I enter the kitchen. “Miss Cate! Wash those hands before you touch anything. And take off your boots before you track dirt across my floors. You’ve been playing in the mud again, I see.”

  “I’ve been gardening,” I correct, unbuckling my boots and stepping out of them. “The roses needed me.”

  “I thought we hired young Finn Belastra to take care of the roses.”

  “He’s been busy.” I bend over the sink to hide my blush, lathering my hands with soap. “With the gazebo.”

  She harrumphs and rubs a spot on my cheek. “You look like a street urchin. You might have fine airs now, but you’re still the little girl who liked to splash about in mud puddles, aren’t you?”

  “I suppose I am.” I give her a quick, fond squeeze. She smells like buttered toast—it’s been her standard midmorning snack for as long as I’ve known her.

  “Oof,” she huffs, but she smiles. “And what was that for?”

  “For being you. For always being here for us,” I say, and she flushes with pleasure.

  She must be getting on in years; she’s always had gray hair and wrinkles. Sometimes, when it rains, her bad left knee protests, and she draws her chair up to the kitchen fire and calls it a sewing day. She doesn’t show any other signs of slowing down, though, and it’s a good thing, because I don’t know what we’d do without her. Tess will need her more than ever now, if I’m gone.

  Maura pops her head into the kitchen. She’s wearing a simple, cream-colored day dress with a red sash, and her hair is in one long red braid down her back. She looks very young.

  “Excellent,” she pronounces, but her grin has a touch of nervousness to it. “I wanted to talk with you, Cate. It’s important. Can you come upstairs?”

  I follow her to her room, dread creeping over me like a shadow. Maura pushes the door shut behind us and ushers me over to the window seat.

  “I know you won’t like it, so I’ll just have out with it. I’m going to write Father this afternoon. I’ve made a decision. I’m going to join the Sisters.”

  She can’t. Not without knowing about the prophecy and what it portends. I bite my lip, torn between what my sister needs to know and what my mother asked me to do. “Maura, you don’t have to declare yourself for an entire year!”

  Maura turns, gesturing for me to retie the bow at her waist. “Why wait?”

  “Why are you in such a rush? Are you that eager to leave your family?”

  “I’ll have a new family. Dozens of sisters.” Maura beams.

  My heart bangs, wounded, inside my chest. I give a hard yank on the knot. “You already have sisters.”

  “I know. I didn’t mean—” Maura admires herself in the mirror, then turns to face me. “I know we’ve been arguing more than usual, but I’ll miss you, Cate.”

  “But you’d still leave us without a second thought, just like that?” I snap my fingers.

  “No.” Maura sits next to me, pushing the yellow curtains aside. She looks out over the potholed drive and the red maples. “I’ve had second thoughts, and third and fourth ones, too. Mother didn’t teach us half of what she ought, and we haven’t practiced enough. I’ll be behind for my age. But magic is part of our heritage. I want to learn more about it.”

  “You can’t go!” I insist. “Father won’t allow it.”

  Maura rolls her eyes. She can get around him and we both know it. “Father might be surprised at my sudden religious fervor, but he won’t fight me. He’ll appreciate how scholarly and charitable they are.”

  “I’ll tell him,” I threaten, standing. “I’ll tell him what they really are.”

  “You wouldn’t risk it. Father’s rebellious about his books, I grant you that. But if he found out his daughters are all witches, he’d have the vapors. His health might not withstand the shock.”

  I imagine myself knocking on the door of Father’s study. Sitting in one of his leather chairs. Leaning forward, opening my mouth, and telling him that Mother was a witch. That Tess and Maura and I are witches, too. Then—what? What would he say? Mother loved him, but she obviously didn’t believe he could handle it.

  “You can’t stop me. You might as well accept my decision. I’ll write you. I won’t be able to say much in case the post is intercepted. But you can visit if you like. I hope you will. Perhaps once you see how happy I am there . . .” Maura trails off, standing and taking both my hands in hers. “Iwill miss you.”

  She’s right. I can’t stop her; she won’t hear anything I have to say. I can only go around her, and that means making a deal with Elena. “I’ll miss you, too. Desperately,” I say truthfully.

  Maura wraps me in a tight hug. “Thank you. I didn’t think— I’m so glad you’ve decided to support me. You’re thebestsister, Cate. Really you are.”

  “You’re welcome,” I murmur, feeling like a traitor.

  It’s a full hour later when I storm into Belastras’ bookshop. Marianne is perched on her stool behind the counter, her reading glasses low on her little snub nose. She pushes them up with her index finger. The gesture is heartbreakingly reminiscent of Finn.

  “Have you got any customers?” I ask.

  She shakes her head, putting her book aside. “No, but—”

  “I found this,” I interrupt, pulling the crumpled letter from my pocket. “Mother left it for me. The rest of the prophecy—it says that only two of the sisters will live to see the twentieth century—because one of them’s going to kill another. Mother wants me to find a way to stop it. She thinks there’s a war coming, and because of mygift,I’ll be at the center of it. I don’t see how I can avoid it. The Sisters are already threatening Maura to get to me. They’re ruthless. Did you know that?” I stomp up to the counter and throw the letter down. “Because I must say I think it’s an oversight on her part for not telling me before she went and died and left me in c
harge of everything!”

  I’m full-out roaring, so I’m not surprised when Marianne’s brown eyes go wide. Only—she’s not looking at me. She’s looking—past me.

  I gulp. I have the uncomfortable feeling there’s someone behind me, in the labyrinthine rows of bookshelves. And if it’s not a customer—

  I turn around slowly.

  It’s Finn, his face pale as a sheet. “You—Cate. What are you saying?”

  My stomach claws its way into my throat.

  He was not supposed to be here. Not supposed to find out like this.

  The moment stretches out between us, interminable.

  I can’t lie to him anymore. “I’m a witch.”

  CHAPTER 18

  HE LOOKS—HOW? DISAPPOINTED? His eyes are inscrutable behind his spectacles. The only clue is the rumpling of his forehead, that crease between his eyebrows.

  “You didn’t tell me,” he says.

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  How can I explain it? He thinks I’m brave and strong, and I’m not. Not half as much as I’d like. Sometimes I’m scared and uncertain. Right now,

  I’m a whole host of emotions—desperate and angry and so, so resentful of being the one who’s got to fix all this. If I admitted that—how would he feel about me then?

  I don’t want to give him up. But telling him how I feel, how much he’s come to matter to me in just a few short weeks—

  I’m not sure if I’m brave enough.

  “I thought perhaps you’d guessed,” I say weakly. “When I came to see the register.”

  He shakes his head. “I thought one of your sisters, perhaps—”

  “All three of us. And we’re not just any garden-variety witches. We’re the subject of a prophecy. You—I assume you heard that.”

  He shrugs. “You were shouting.”

  I look at Marianne, glancing between the two of us with curiosity written plainly on her face. I wonder how much she’s deduced.

  “I don’t know what to do anymore.” My voice comes out small and defeated. “They’re going to force me to go to New London. The prophecy says one of us will be the key to either a second Terror or the witches coming back to power. They think it’s me, and the Sisterhood—they’re all witches really and—I’ll have to leave Chatham forever and—”