Born Wicked: The Cahill Witch Chronicles, Book One: The Cahill Witch Chronicles, Book One (9 page)

I stride into the rose garden—only it’s already occupied. Finn Belastra sits on the bench—
my
bench—beneath the statue of Athena, a book open on his lap, munching on an apple.
“What are you doing here?” I demand crossly. He might be nice to look at, but I need a few hours alone with the roses and my thoughts.
He jumps up. “I was just”—he chews furiously—“eating my lunch. Obviously. Am I in your way? I can go somewhere else.”
“Yes.” It sounds horrid, even to me. I sigh. “No. I was going to do a bit of weeding. I’ll come back later.”
“Oh.” Finn looks at the snarl of red and pink tea roses. “You don’t have to do that. I’ve been working on the gazebo, but I can find time to—”
“No, I like it,” I interrupt. “I want to do it myself.”
Finn grins, gap toothed and boyish. “Ah, then you must be my elf.”
“Pardon me?” I tuck a strand of hair beneath my hood.
“I noticed someone’s been weeding and planting the spring bulbs. I fancied you had a garden elf. I imagined him short. And green. You’re prettier.” He flushes behind his freckles.
“Why, thank you,” I laugh. I hardly imagined Finn Belastra the fanciful sort. He always seems so serious.
“I should have suspected,” Finn says. “Your father mentioned one of you was good with flowers.”
“He did?” That’s twice now. Perhaps Father pays more attention than I give him credit for. I’m not certain whether I ought to be pleased or alarmed. Frankly, we’ve come to count on his obliviousness. “Well, that would be me, then. Gardening helps clear my head.”
“Well, no need to come back later. I don’t mind if you want to puzzle something out. I’ll finish my book.”
The gold lettering of the book in his hand catches my attention. “Wait.
Tales of the Pirate LeFevre
?”
“Even a scholar needs leisurely lunchtime reading, Miss Cahill. Are you familiar with the dreadful adventures of Marius the pirate? They’re quite entertaining.”
“I prefer the stories of his sister Arabella,” I blurt before I can stop myself. I can’t believe Finn Belastra reads pirate stories. I assumed he would be struggling through some incomprehensible German philosophy.
Finn lowers his voice to a confidential whisper. “Arabella was my first literary infatuation. I had a mad crush on her.”
I squeal. “I used to want to be just like her! Remember when she saved Marius during the shipwreck? And when she was captured, she chose to walk the plank rather than sacrifice her virtue to that awful captain. And the time she dressed in Marius’s clothes and fought the duel with—” I catch myself gesturing wildly with a pretend rapier.
“With Perry, the soldier who accused the pirates of not having a code of honor?” Finn finishes. “That was a good one.”
“She obviously made quite an impression on me. She was a model of—of courage and resourcefulness,” I say quietly, folding my hands behind my back.
Finn peers down at me, curious. “I didn’t think you were much of a reader.”
My face falls. “Did Father tell you that?”
“No. I presumed—you pick up books for your father, but I’ve noticed you rarely get anything for yourself.”
He’s right. I can’t remember the last time I voluntarily picked up a book besides an almanac, to see when to plant the bulbs or herbs. But I used to read—not ever as much as Tess or Maura, but more than I do now. I spent loads of summer afternoons in the gnarled arms of our apple tree, immersed in
Tales of the Pirate LeFevre.
Maura’s always loved the fairy tales and romances that Mother favored, but I liked the adventure stories from Father’s library best. I used to beg him to read them to me—the more bloodthirsty the better. Tales of evil kings and rascals and pirates and shipwrecks. Once I persuaded Paul to help me build a raft, and we paddled it across the pond. It started to take on water out in the middle, and we had to swim to shore. I came home looking half drowned and gave Mrs. O’Hare quite a shock.
I shrug, smoothing my skirt. “Young ladies aren’t meant to read pirate stories.”
Finn laughs and tosses his apple in the air. “I thought your father believed in educating his girls.”
“Father believes in reading for edification, not enjoyment.”
“Well, then, he and I will have to agree to disagree on that. What’s the point of a book you don’t enjoy?” Finn holds out his dog-eared copy. “You can have mine if you want. We have half a dozen in the shop.”
I’m half tempted. It would be nice to climb a tree again and let my mind wander to foreign ports and deserted islands along with Arabella.
She
never had to worry about finding a man to marry. They all threw themselves at her—except when she was dressed as a boy, of course. And once even then.
Unfortunately, I live in New England, not aboard the
Calypso.
And I do have to worry about marriage. And the Brotherhood and now this damned prophecy.
“No, thank you.” I walk past Finn and kneel before the tangle of roses. “I still have my copy. I just don’t have time to read anymore.”
“That’s the saddest thing I’ve heard all day,” Finn says, swiping his hands through his messy hair. “Reading is the perfect escape from whatever ails you.”
But I can’t escape.
“You seem—upset,” he continues carefully. “I’m sorry for bothering you.”
“I’m not
bothered,
” I snap, deftly separating one branch from another. I’m angry. Why aren’t girls ever allowed to just be angry?
Finn kneels next to me. He reaches out a hand to help and promptly stabs himself on a thorn. “Ouch.” A drop of blood wells up on his finger, and he sticks it in his mouth. He has a nice mouth—red as a cherry—his lower lip a bit fuller than the top.
I rummage in the pocket of my cloak and pull out an old handkerchief. “Here,” I offer, practically throwing it at his head.
“Thank you.” Finn catches it and wraps it around his forefinger. He reaches into the bushes again.
“Let me,” I insist. “You don’t know what you’re doing.” I remember when Mother planted these. I won’t have Finn ruining them, pulling out flowers instead of weeds.
There’s a pause, and I fully expect him to scramble away, tired of being snapped at by this mad, pirate-loving harridan of a girl.
“Show me what to do, then,” he suggests, his face earnest. “I’m the gardener. I ought to know how.”
I sigh. I want to resent him for being here, in my place; for being a boy, with all the freedoms I lack; for being the sort of clever son Father wishes he had. But he’s making it difficult. He’s not at all the conceited prig I thought he was.
And he’s let me take all my anger out on him without a single word of complaint. As though he knows it’s what I need. I’m a little afraid of what I might do—what I might say—if he doesn’t go away now.
“Not today,” I say. “Please. I just want to be alone.”
Finn stands up and gathers his book and his lunch pail. “Of course. Some other time, perhaps. Have a good afternoon, Miss Cahill.”

Maura and I went back to Mrs. Kosmoski’s this morning for last-minute alterations. Angeline, red eyed and bereft at the loss of Gabrielle—who was sent away without trial, like her sister before her—tucked and pinched while her mother stuck us with pins. Now our new dresses fit beautifully. We are perfectly fashionable—and I feel perfectly ridiculous, a silly wedding cake of a girl in my violent violet dress with the enormous puffed sleeves. The tiered skirts—four yards of brocade—flare into a bell; the rear is padded and ruffled like the underside of an umbrella. Elena’s laced my corset so tight, I can barely breathe, much less protest.

My hand, encased in an elbow-length gray kid glove, rests daintily on John’s outstretched arm. He smiles as he hands me down—or perhaps he’s laughing at me behind his whiskers. I’m none too steady in my new heeled boots, picked up yesterday from the cobbler’s.
Maura sails ahead of me, hips swaying in her voluminous cornflower-blue dress. She’s all graceful curves and poise. She looks beautiful: chin held high and confident, cheeks flushed with excitement. Her dress has black lace trim and a matching black buckled belt, unlike my peacock-blue monstrosity of a cummerbund.
The Ishidas’ maid directs us into the sitting room. A dozen ladies are sipping tea from china cups painted with pink cherry blossoms—a nod to the Ishidas’ Japanese heritage. When the Daughters of Persephone established the colonies, they abolished slavery and promised religious freedom. Witches from all over the world flocked to New England. Two centuries later, there are faces of every color on the street, and a dozen families of Japanese origin in town. There was some ugliness during the war with Indo-China, but that was twenty years ago: now the Ishidas are one of the most respected families in Chatham. Still, Mrs. Ishida is always careful to stress that their ancestry can be traced back to
Japan,
lest the neighbors confuse one Oriental face with another.
“Miss Cahill, Miss Maura, good afternoon! Don’t you both look lovely?” Mrs. Ishida coos.
I force a smile and make an appropriately insipid response. The room is already full of the Brothers’ wives and daughters. Mrs. Ishida directs us through the pocket doors to the dining room, where Sachi and Rory are pouring tea and chocolate at a long table laden with dahlias.
“Miss Cahill, Miss Maura, we’re so glad you could come,” Sachi says. Her delicate doll’s face is dominated by striking, almond-shaped eyes set off by thick black lashes. “Miss Cahill, that’s such a lovely shade of purple! Why, your eyes look almost violet in this light!”
“Thank you,” I murmur. “It was very kind of your mother to invite us.”
Rory tosses Sachi an arch look across the table, and Sachi laughs. “Oh, that was my doing; Mama would never think of it. I just saw you at church the other day and thought, why, it’s silly we don’t know each other better. We’re all of the same age, and you don’t live so very far away, and my father thinks very highly of yours. We ought to be friends. Are those new dresses you’re wearing?”
“Our governess convinced Papa we needed a new wardrobe,” Maura says. I raise my eyebrows. We haven’t called him Papa since we were very young.
“Lucky ducks.” Sachi pouts. “My papa says I have far too many dresses as it is and lectures me about greed when I ask for more.”
“Your dress is magnificent,” Maura gushes. It’s garish, actually—an orange taffeta with tiny pink polka dots, and Sachi’s got a ridiculous pink feather tucked in her hair. But she’s so beautiful that she manages to make it look tasteful rather than ostentatious.
“Milk or sugar?” Rory asks. She has the same dark, lustrous hair as Sachi, but otherwise they couldn’t be more different. Where Sachi is tiny and petite, Rory is tall, with an ample hourglass figure that she takes pains to show off. Today she’s dressed in a red satin frock with a heart-shaped neckline that’s far too low cut for a day dress.
“No, thank you, I take my tea plain.”
Sachi hands Maura a cup of hot chocolate. “You’ve got a new governess, haven’t you? Is she very dreadful? Mine’s always yammering on about French. As though I’ll ever go to France! I’ll be lucky to get a wedding trip to the seashore.”
“Should we be expecting news of your betrothal?” Maura asks, choosing a gingersnap from the plate on the table.
“Oh, not for a few months yet, I expect,” Sachi says airily. “I’m going to marry my cousin Renjiro, you know. Father’s been planning it since I was a little girl. His family lives in Guilford. We’re going to visit in November, on the way to Papa’s National Council meeting in New London. I imagine Renjiro will propose then.”
Maura gives me a sly look. “If my sister plays her cards right, she’ll be living in New London soon.”
I shoot her a murderous glare, but it’s too late. “Is that so?” Rory drawls.
“Have you had a proposal? I saw Mr. McLeod escorted you home from services on Sunday,” Sachi says.
“We were only getting reacquainted. We were fast friends as children.” I turn away, trying to discourage the conversation, inhaling the spicy scent of the pink dahlias. They’re just the color of the polka dots on Sachi’s dress. I wonder if she did that on purpose.
“Well, you’re not children anymore. Mr. McLeod’s gotten awfully handsome. Yum,” Rory says, popping a whole gingersnap into her mouth. She’s got an overbite that gives her the slightest rabbity look.
Sachi laughs and swats at her. “You needn’t be coy, Miss Cahill, you can tell us. We’re really not the blabbermouths everyone thinks.”
“Cate’s being modest. He came back from New London especially to court her,” Maura brags. “He’s mad about her. I expect he’ll propose any day now.”
Sachi looks at me, her dark eyes impenetrable. “Will you say yes?”
I’m saved by the arrival of Cristina Winfield. She saunters in, kissing Rory on the cheek in greeting, and then they’re busy inquiring about
her
newly announced betrothal.
“Did Matthew kiss you when you said yes?” Rory asks.
Maura and I drift out of the way, choosing little cakes to accompany our tea.
“Don’t think you’ll get off so easily, Miss Cahill; we’re not finished with you yet!” Sachi warns me.
I wander into the sitting room. Why did Sachi invite us, and why is she suddenly so curious about my prospects? We’ve barely spoken a dozen words to each other our whole lives. She and Rory are inseparable, the kind of close that doesn’t allow room for anyone else, and she has all the other girls in town vying to be her friend—proper town girls who don’t need a governess to tell them how to dress and how to behave.
Maura takes a chair next to Rose and is drawn into an animated discussion about Mrs. Kosmoski’s newest shipment of silks. I’m left to perch on the green-and-gold-striped sofa between Mrs. Ishida and Mrs. Malcolm. The latter has dark circles under her eyes, but she’s full of cheery talk about her new son. Mrs. Ralston, another of the young wives, boasts about her latest goddaughter.
The word strikes a chord with me. I had a godmother once, and I’m in a room with the biggest gossips in town.
I put a hand to my temple, a brave smile on my lips. I’m the picture of one of the swooning, consumptive heroines in Maura’s novels.
“I wish
I
had a godmother,” I sigh. The sadness in my voice isn’t entirely feigned. “It would be such a help, now that Maura and I are older. With Mother gone . . .”
Mrs. Ishida’s feathery eyebrows fly up to perch on her hairline. “But you do. Or—well. You did.”
“I did? I don’t remember her.” I scan the room, puzzled, as if expecting her to pop out from behind the gold damask curtains.
Mrs. Winfield’s ash-blond hair is pulled back so tightly, it gives her a pinched look—unless that’s just the natural shape of her face. “I believe she moved away,” she says. “When you were still very young.”
“Oh. That’s a pity, that she didn’t take the responsibility more seriously. I know that to
some
people, it means a great deal.” If I know these women at all, they won’t be able to resist. The Brothers’ wives each have half a dozen namesakes scattered throughout Chatham. Parents hope that it will provide some measure of safety for their baby daughters, when they grow up to be suspect young women. It doesn’t actually work that way, but it remains a point of pride for the Brothers’ wives. They all flock to visit newborns, vying to be the first to call at a house with a new baby.
Mrs. Ishida takes the bait. “Your dear mother, Lord rest her soul, was just lovely. So sweet, and so devoted to family matters. I can’t see how she was friends with that woman.”
“And to entrust her with the spiritual guidance of her firstborn! I wonder that she didn’t choose someone else. Someone more respected in the community,” Mrs. Winfield huffs, pursing her lips. Someone like her, she means. “Zara Roth was a scandalous creature. You’re better off not knowing her. I fear what kind of influence she would have been on you poor, impressionable, motherless girls!”
“Miss Roth did seem harmless at first,” Mrs. Ishida allows. “A bit—intellectual. A governess, you know, from the Sisters.”
My godmother was a Sister
and
a witch? I clasp my hands together docilely, but inside I’m wishing I could grab these women by the shoulders and shake them until the whole story spills out.
“She was a bluestocking,” Mrs. Winfield adds. She pronounces the word as if it’s something shameful—almost the way people say
witch.
She lowers her voice, and Mrs. Malcolm and Mrs. Ralston lean in closer to hear. “I loathe being the bearer of bad news, but I daresay you’re old enough to know the truth. Miss Roth—your godmother—was tried and convicted of witchery.”
They watch me with eager eyes, thrilled that the conversation has taken such a shocking turn. My hand flies to my mouth. “Oh, how dreadful! I can’t believe Mother was taken in by that sort of woman!”
Mrs. Ishida pats my arm comfortingly. “I’m afraid so, my dear. When they raided Miss Roth’s room, they found a number of heretical books hidden away beneath her floorboards and in cupboards and things. All about”—she mouths the word as though it’s a curse—“
magic
.”
I wish
I
had those books. Mother taught Maura and me very basic spells: namely, how to create and reverse glamours. I know witches are capable of other magic. Mother always said she’d teach us more. Later. But now it is later, and she isn’t here.
“What happened to Miss Roth?” I ask, trying to sit still. My starched taffeta underskirts announce every shift of my body against the sofa.
“She was sent to Harwood.” Mrs. Winfield wags her head, the jeweled comb in her hair catching the light from the chandelier. “I’m sure your dear mother would never have associated with her if she’d known. They were old school chums. Studied together in the Sisters’ convent. I’m sure she thought Miss Roth was a good, upstanding, religious woman. She was a Sister, after all! It was quite shocking. They cast her out after her arrest, of course.”
“Of course. Is she still there in the asylum?” I ask, shuddering.
“I imagine so. She could hardly be allowed out in polite society,” Mrs. Winfield says, waving her green silk fan to disperse the heat of the crowded room.
“You must let us know if you need anything, Cate. I may call you Cate, may I not? You poor girls. It’s not an easy thing, coming of age without a mother’s guidance,” Mrs. Ishida sighs sympathetically, dabbing at her eyes with a lace handkerchief. “My mama died giving birth to my youngest brother, and my father never remarried. I understand full well how difficult it can be.”
Somehow I doubt that. She didn’t have to worry about getting arrested for being a witch, did she? But Mrs. Ishida carries on, reminiscing about her own dear departed mama, and the conversation drifts away from Zara Roth. The message is clear: women who are too opinionated or too educated, too odd or too curious, are punished. They deserve whatever fate they get. Women like Zara.
Women like us.