Born Wicked: The Cahill Witch Chronicles, Book One: The Cahill Witch Chronicles, Book One (7 page)

Dinner is a strange affair. Mrs. Corbett is here, prattling on about Regina’s advantageous marriage. She’s in absolute raptures over how lovely Regina’s estate is and to what great effect Regina’s decorated the rooms. She eyes our own dining room with clear distaste. The heavy red damask paper on the walls hasn’t been replaced since Father was a boy, and the flowered carpets are starting to show signs of wear. The mahogany table and chairs have curved backs decorated with scrollwork and dragons, in the old Oriental style instead of the new Arabian fashion. All the houses in town have gaslights now, but we still rely on candles. Father insists on it.

I hear the hum and buzz of conversation but barely take in the words; I find myself watching Elena instead. I wish I could read people the way Tess can. She’s the observant one, brilliant at seeing motives and desires written out on people’s faces, in the pauses between their words. All I notice about Elena is her impeccable table manners and her sycophantic flattery of Mrs. Corbett.

The soup is salty but serviceable; the boiled codfish is decent if dull. But when Lily brings out the main course, I wince at the platter of gray, overcooked roast. I can’t bring myself to complain to Mrs. O’Hare, but it’s rather mortifying to serve our guests meat that’s tough as shoe leather.
Except when I bite into it—it’s not. I ladle a bit of the thin, watery onion gravy: it’s seasoned to perfection. After I capture a forkful of mashed potatoes, only to have them melt buttery in my mouth, I’m afraid to try anything else. The limp string beans, the historically dreadful stewed squash— I’m certain it’s all delicious.
I stare at Grandmother’s pale blue china in horror. Tess promised me! Improving dinner for Father’s pleasure is one thing—still dangerous, but it’s unlikely that he would notice the discrepancy. But to risk it in front of guests—
I glare at her, but she shakes her head, eyes wide. We both swivel to Maura. She’s listening to whatever Mrs. Corbett and Elena are saying, purposely not meeting our eyes.
I concentrate on my dinner, pushing against the glamour until it gives way. The next bite requires a goodly amount of chewing, so I let the glamour slip back over me.
No one in her right mind would
choose
to taste this food.
I glance around the table again. Father is scooping up his potatoes; Mrs. Corbett is dabbing her greasy lips with her napkin. Even Elena is taking delicate bites of the squash. It was a ridiculous gamble, but it doesn’t seem any harm was done. This time.

As soon as we’ve eaten Tess’s fruit compote and apple tart, I make my excuses, pleading a headache. Maura, who knows my constitution is quite strong, offers to keep me company. I refuse. I need to read Mother’s diary in private. My heart hums, hopeful, in my chest. Whoever my mysterious correspondent is, she wouldn’t have told me to look for the diary unless it contained something that would help. There have been times I have resented Mother for leaving me with so much responsibility and so little guidance. But she must have always intended me to find it. I feel silly for not looking sooner. Perhaps I could have saved myself a great deal of worry.

Mrs. O’Hare has started a fire in my room to ward off the chill. I kick off my slippers and grab the quilt from the foot of my bed. Mother sewed it especially for me, embroidering it with the blue daylilies that were my favorite flower when I was little.

I fling myself onto the faded violet settee with Mother’s diary in hand. I took a few things from her sitting room when she died—this settee, the rose-patterned rug next to my bed, her little watercolor painting of the garden. If I bury my face in the arm of the settee and breathe in deep, sometimes I think I can still catch the scent of the rose water she always wore.

The September wind whistles at the windowpanes and the candle dances on my table, throwing eerie shadows against the walls. If I believed in ghosts, tonight would be a perfect night for an apparition.
If Mother’s spirit could give me answers, I’d welcome it and gladly.
You must watch over your sisters for me. Keep them safe. There’s so much I wanted to tell you. And nowI haven’t time,
Mother lamented the last time I saw her. She was pale as a ghost and fought for each breath. Her sapphire eyes, so much like Maura’s, had dimmed, as though part of her had already gone ahead into the next world.
I promised, of course. What else could I do? But it was a heavy promise for a girl of thirteen.
I flip open the diary, eager for advice. It begins in my twelfth year. Her first real mention of me comes after my magic has already manifested:

I worry for Cate. It is not an easy burden to be a woman, much less one with powers such as ours, and she is a bold, outspoken child. The combination will be dangerous if she does not learn to hide her true self. When she is a little older, I will teach her all I know, lest she suffer the same fate as her godmother. I must go into town at the earliest opportunity, before my condition begins to show, and see Marianne. Perhaps she will have some news of Zara.

I break away from the page for a moment. I can feel my pulse twitching in my fingertips as the questions tumble through me. Zara? Was Z. R. my godmother? Was she a witch, too? What happened to her? I don’t remember her; I don’t remember Mother even mentioning her. Later, in another entry:

I have been to visit Marianne. Together, we read the registry of trials. Neither my knowledge of magical history nor all of Marianne’s scholarship can make sense of the Brothers’sentencing. Some girls are condemned for witchery and sentenced to a lifetime at Harwood on precious little evidence, whereas others are acquitted and simply disappear. I fear they have been murdered; we find no trace of them after they leave Chatham, and we hear of similar disappearances throughout the country. I can find no rhyme or reason to it. I do not think I will ever see Zara again. And what of her research into the prophecy? It is vital to our future and the future of every witch still in New England.

I skim over Mother’s joyous accounts of her pregnancy, her fervent, futile hopes that this child would be born healthy and male. Three weeks later:

Today was my last visit to town; perhaps I should not be jostling about the roads even now, but I would not trust John or even Brendan
— [Father!]—
to deliver Zara’s book back to Marianne. I worry for my daughters. What concessions will they make to keep themselves safe? What if Emily Carruthers is right and I do not survive this confinement—who will teach them? Cate is already capable of mind-magic, a gift so rare and frightening, I would not have anyone but Zara or myself instruct her in it. I have tried to make her aware of howvery, very wrong it can be to invade others’minds. It puts her at such great risk—from the Brothers and from those who would seek to use her as a weapon.

I bite my lip. So my godmother was a witch, then—and capable of mind-magic. I remember how horrified Mother was when she discovered what I could do. She made me swear on the family Bible—then on my sisters’ lives—that I would never use it except to protect them, and that I would never tell
anyone
I could do it. Mother claimed it made women go just as power mad and wrongheaded as the Brothers;
that
, she said, was why the witches fell.

Then, two months later:

Maura has come into her power overnight. She is not as careful as Cate. I have warned her that she must not be seen, even by her father or Mrs. O’Hare. I have tried to impress upon her that she can trust only Cate. I hope she will heed me, but I am too tired to be stern with her. I have not the vigor of earlier confinements. Emily is worried about my successful delivery, but I worry only for my girls. What if Tess is cursed with this magic, too? I cannot stop thinking of that damned prophecy. Emily says I am thrice blessed with daughters. Howlittle she knows of blessings and curses. I wish Zara were here.

By the time I come to the end, the candle has burned down. The fire is only ashes in the grate; I’m shivering, huddled beneath the quilt. I’ve been so absorbed, I barely registered the sounds of Mrs. Corbett’s carriage rumbling away or of Tess calling my name outside my door. I ignored her and she went away eventually.

Mother’s handwriting goes fainter as her confinement progresses, as though she hasn’t the strength to push the pen into the page. She begins to write every day—rambling entries full of worry and doubt. She worries whenever Maura and I have one of our rows; she frets over whether Tess, only nine at the time, might prove a witch as well. But there’s nothing here for me. No message to guide me, no helpful words on what she would have me do when I came of age.

Eventually I come to the last page, dated the day before she died. After the last little grave was dug on the hillside. Her handwriting changes here: it’s all dark slashes. There are places where it’s torn clean through, as though she used all her energy to convey one last vehement message.
To my relief, it is addressed to me.

My dearest, brave Cate:
I am so sorry. I did not want to burden you too young, but it seems that instead I waited too long. I have not taught you enough about your magic—what you are capable of, and what you must guard against.

Before the Great Temple of New London fell, the oracle made one last prophecy. She foresaw that before the dawn of the twentieth century, a trio of sisters will come of age, all witches. One of the sisters, who will be gifted with mind-magic, will be the most powerful witch born in centuries—powerful enough to change the course of history—to bring about a resurgence of the witches’power or a second Terror.

Cate, I am so worried for you. It is very rare to have three witches in one generation. If Tess manifests as well, it seems terribly likely that you are the ones they have prophesied. You will—

No. Please, Lord, no.
I slide off the settee onto the floor. I just lie there for a moment, in a heap of petticoats, my mind reeling. This is mad. It’s impossible. Only—there are three of us, all witches. I can do mind-magic. Tess will come of age just before the turn of the century. We fit the bill exactly. The Lord does not hear the pleas of wicked girls.

I do not feel brave. I feel small and frightened and furious. I have enough on my plate without worrying about some damned prophecy made a hundred years ago. I came to this diary looking for help, for guidance, and instead Mother’s heaped more responsibility onto my head. But there was more. Perhaps some of it’s actually useful. Something to tell me what I ought to do, besides cowering here in the corner.
I pick up the diary again.

You will be hunted by those who would use you for their own ends. You must be very, very careful. You cannot trust anyone with your secrets.

There is more, and it is worse. I have been frightened to write it all here, lest it fall into the wrong hands. You must seek answers. Those who love knowledge for its own sake will help. Until you knowthe whole truth of the prophecy, you must not share it with anyone. I am so sorry I am not there to protect you, but I trust you to take care of Maura and Tess for me.

Love always,

 

Mother

 

I hurl the diary across the room. It hits the wall with a satisfying crack.

It’s rare that I’ve let myself feel angry with Mother. She’s dead; she can’t defend herself. But now I’m shaking with it. How could she? How could she die and leave me here to deal with all of this alone?
My magic rises, baited by my fury. I haven’t lost control in years, not since the episode with Mrs. Corbett and the sheep, but now I’m tempted to let go.
I could smash everything in this room and take pleasure in the breaking.
But I don’t.
I’d only have to fix it before Father or Mrs. O’Hare saw.
I close my eyes. I take deep breaths, the way Mother taught me.
When I feel convinced of my own calm, I pick up the diary. I go back and reread the last page. It’s mad. Perhaps Mother was delirious when she wrote it. Even if she’s correct—even if there is such a prophecy—there must be other sisters who are witches. Other girls who can do mind-magic besides me. I’m not
that
powerful.
An uncomfortable voice niggles at me.
Howdo you know? You don’t knowwhat other witches are capable of,
it points out logically.
You don’t even
know
any other witches.
I’ve always known more must exist besides Mother and my sisters and me, but I’ve never met one. At least, I’ve never met one who’s admitted what she was. I went to Sunday school with Brenna Elliott, and Marguerite and Gwen and Betsy. But I never saw any signs of magic in them, and most of the Brothers’ claims seem rather dubious—
Fear prickles my arms with gooseflesh. What if it’s true? What if it
is
me?
If I’m fated to bring about the resurgence of the witches’ power—if the Brothers found out, they would kill me. Immediately and without trial. They would believe they were doing it for the good of New England. Perhaps they’d make an example of all three of us—burn us at the stake, or hang us in the town square, the way they did in Great-Grandmother’s day. They stopped because normal people began to object to the brutality of it. But they’d bring those methods back to show their strength, to frighten witches and normal girls alike into submission. I have no doubt they’re capable of it.
How can I have that on my head?
I curl into myself, wishing there were someone else who could take this burden for me.
Mother must have written more. She couldn’t leave me like this, without telling me what to
do
! I find the magic coiled inside my chest, waiting.
“Acclaro,”
I whisper. I turn the pages frantically, hoping that more words will appear in the black endpapers.
Nothing happens. I say it again, louder, and push down the tide of rising panic. I scrutinize each page, waiting for a message to leap out at me. But there’s nothing added to the blank pages at the beginning or end—no secret words crisscrossing the other entries, nothing circled or underlined in code. Nothing at all.
I feel for a trace of her magic, but I don’t sense anything. Did her strength fail before she had time to write more?
I try again and again. I try different spells; I try until I’m exhausted and my power feels faint and far off. Tears begin to blur her words. I swipe irritably at my eyes and toss the diary onto the bed, striding to the window, the quilt falling to the floor behind me.
The gibbous moon peeks in through the daylily-dotted curtains. I look down at the statue of Athena in the garden, stark in the moonlight. Goddess of wisdom and war.
Mother didn’t trust Father to fight for us. Truth be told, she didn’t do a very good job of it herself. She left me with a diary full of cryptic warnings and a responsibility that should have been hers.
I will keep my sisters safe. Whatever happened to Mother’s friend Zara, whatever happened to Brenna Elliott, I will not let it happen to Maura and Tess. Not while I have breath left in my body.