Born Wicked
Page 20I lean down and button my boots, wretched all over again. Perhaps Ishouldmarry him and move away—the farther the better. If this prophecy is true, I’m putting my sisters at risk every moment of every day.
“Hello,” Rose Collier says, passing us on her way to the inner sanctum.
Tess practically skips to the counter to examine the bright spools of ribbon.
“Oh,” Maura breathes, running her hand over a bolt of luxurious sapphire silk.
I slouch on a settee in the corner. It’s impossible to care about new dresses with so much to fret about. But that’s my conundrum, isn’t it? I’ve still got to find a husband, still got to look pretty and proper, no matter what terrible thoughts lurk inside my head. I cringe as Rose’s giggles swoop through the air and attack my eardrums.
“This violet would be divine on you, Cate,” Elena says, handing me a color sample. “It would make your eyes look lavender.”
I examine the swatch and shudder. “But it’s so—bright!”
“Exactly,” Elena agrees. “You’re a pretty girl. Why hide away in those dark dresses? What do you think, pink for the sash? All your dresses should have sashes to show off your waist.”
She’s determined to involve me in this. “Notpink.” Pink is for empty-headed girls like Sachi Ishida. Like—I wince as her laugh pierces my skull again—Rose Collier.
“Blue then. Peacock blue,” Elena presses, undeterred.
The bells above the shop door chime, and we all look up. It’s Brothers Ishida and Winfield, flanked by two enormous guards. My heart drops like a stone.
“Good morning.” Elena curtsies, her face smooth and unconcerned. I suppose that’s the security of being a Sister; she knows they’ll never come forher. “Mrs. Kosmoski is in the back with a customer. Shall I fetch her for you?”
“No.” Brother Ishida’s pause seems to stretch out for eternity, a leaden weight in my lungs. “Gabrielle Dolamore, you are under arrest for crimes of witchery.”
Thank the Lord.It’s my first, uncharitable thought, even as Gabrielle lets out a strangled scream. The Brothers’ guards approach her from either side, and she shrinks back against the rack of ribbons. It’s no use. They turn her roughly and grab her wrists, binding them with coarse rope—as though that would keep her if she had magic to stop them! But it makes her seem very small, helpless against the two hulking men dressed all in black. One of them has a hooked nose and a jagged scar over his chin, and he smiles as though arresting wicked girls is a good day’s work.
“Don’t. Please don’t. I haven’t done anything!” Gabrielle gasps.
“We’ll determine that,” Brother Ishida snaps, folding his arms over his chest.
“Wh-what have I been accused of?” Gabrielle asks. “By who?”
“Whom,” Brother Winfield corrects odiously—as though grammar matters at a time like this. It feels as though they’ve sucked all the oxygen from the room. From the whole town. My breath comes in shallow gasps.
“There’s been a mistake. I haven’t done anything!” Gabrielle cries.
Maura and Tess shrink together, grabbing each other’s hands. Mrs. Kosmoski stands slumped in the doorway to the inner room, her perfect posture abandoned. She presses both fists against her mouth as if the barrier is all that keeps her from protesting. But she doesn’t make a move to help Gabrielle. I wonder if she’s suspected this would happen ever since Marguerite was arrested.
“Please, let me go home to my family tonight. I’ll come tomorrow for the trial. I haven’t got anything to hide. I’m innocent,” Gabrielle insists, her brown eyes shining with tears. She looks around the room, searching our faces for reassurance, but we have none to give. Her innocence is irrelevant—only the Brothers’ perception of it matters.
“I’m not a witch!” Gabrielle is hysterical now, tears weaving wet trails down her cheeks. She struggles against the guards, her boots scuffing the wooden floor as they drag her forward. One man holds the door open while the other pulls Gabrielle through it. She trips over the flowered rug and the guard kicks it aside.
Gabrielle casts one last desperate, pleading glance at us over her shoulder. No one moves. Then she’s gone. The Brothers sweep out after her like ghosts, and the door bangs shut behind them. We’re left in a great gaping silence.
“I apologize for the interruption, ladies,” Mrs. Kosmoski says finally. She crosses the room and straightens the rug, but her brisk movements don’t hide the tears in her eyes. “I daresay I could use a good bracing cup of tea. Angeline, could you fetch the ladies some tea?”
I barely hear her; it sounds as though she’s speaking from very far away. My hands are clenched together in my lap, my breath coming fast.
If the Brothers are this cruel to an innocent girl, what would they do to us?
Visions of my sisters sinking, struggling, arms and legs shackled, or screaming as their hair catches fire—
“Cate.” Elena puts a concerned hand on my shoulder. “Are you faint? You look a little pale.”
Ifeelpale. Pale and cowardly and powerless. We all just stood here. We let them take Gabrielle and we didn’t lift a finger to help her!
What could we have done? Nothing, I know—not without looking as though we were sympathizing with a witch. But it still rankles. She’s just a frightened little girl, only fourteen years old—
If it were us, no one would come forward to help either.
“I did feel a little faint for a minute. All the excitement. I’m fine now,” I lie. I summon up a smile, sitting up straight and running a hand over my chignon.
Mrs. Kosmoski sits in the chair beside us while her daughter scurries up to their flat to put on some tea. For once, the seamstress looks at me kindly. “I don’t blame you, dear. No matter how often you see it, it never gets any easier.”
“Has she worked for you very long?” Elena asks, pausing over a watered blue silk.
“Almost a year. She and my Angeline are the same age. Gabby’s always been a good girl. A hard worker. Not that I’m defending her, mind—” Mrs. Kosmoski flushes, as though she’s suddenly remembered that pretty, fashionable Elena is stillSisterElena. “It’s the Brotherhood’s job to determine the righteous from the wicked. But their poor mother, losing two girls. Marguerite was arrested last month. It was a very strange case— no trial, and the family hasn’t gotten any answers about where they took her.”
“Are there other children?” Elena asks.
“Another girl,” Mrs. Kosmoski says, tracing the pineapples and berries carved on the arm of her chair. “Julia’s only eleven.”
Three sisters. Is it a coincidence, or something more sinister? I think back over all the recent arrests. Last spring, there was a trio of sisters arrested in Vermont. Will little Julia Dolamore be dragged away next?