Born Wicked

I grit my teeth. “I confess I don’t see the appeal in so much book learning.” I give them a look of doe-eyed distress, fluttering my spindly blond lashes. Sachi Ishida herself would be proud.

“There’s no harm in that. Too much knowledge turns a woman’s head,” Brother Ralston says.

“You won’t ever miss your godmother, Miss Cahill,” Brother Ishida says. “You have all the guidance you need. It is our duty to care for our sons and daughters, and we are happy to do it.”

I mask my fury with a smile. “Yes, sir. I’m very grateful for that.”

“When do you turn seventeen, Miss Cahill?”

Oh no. “March fourteenth, sir.”

Brother Ralston peers down at me, his jolly blue eyes uncomfortable. “You are aware of the importance of your next birthday, correct?” I nod, hoping that will be all, but he continues. “Three months before your birthday, you must announce either your betrothal or your intention to join the Sisterhood. In mid-December, there will be a ceremony at church in which you will pledge yourself in service to your husband or to the Lord. We take the declaration of intent very seriously.”

“One month before your ceremony, if you have not identified a prospective suitor or received an offer from the Sisters, the Brotherhood will take an interest in the matter. We will make a match for you,” Brother Ishida adds. “We consider it an honor and a privilege to help our daughters find their place in our community.”

Brother Ralston looks at me anxiously. “That’s mid-November.”

A chill runs up my spine. Today is the first of October. That’s only six weeks. I’ve got to make a decision even sooner than I thought.

“We’ve already received a few inquiries for your hand,” Brother Ishida says. “Your devotion to your sisters since your mother’s passing has not gone unnoticed. We know of several widowers who have small children requiring a mother’s care. Brother Anders and Brother Sobolev would both make fine husbands for you.”

I can’t marry either of those old men! I won’t. Brother Sobolev is a dour man with seven children ranging in age from eleven to two. At least in heaven his wife has some peace. And Brother Anders is older than Father—he’s forty if he’s a day, he’s got five-year-old twin boys, and he’s bald.

“Yes, sir. Thank you,” I murmur.

“Very well, then. We’re finished here,” Brother Ishida says. “We clear our minds and open our hearts to the Lord.”

“We clear our minds and open our hearts to the Lord,” Brother Ralston and I echo.

“You may go in peace to serve the Lord.”

“Thanks be.” And indeed I am thankful. Once they’re out of my sight, I’m so thankful, I could spit.

How dare they! How dare they come here to my home and tell me to keep my mouth shut and my head empty and find a husband before they have to do it for me!

I listen as the Brothers’ carriage rattles down the drive, and then I stalk back toward the kitchen. The magic ripples through me like rough waves on the pond during a storm. I take a deep breath, pressing my palm against the chilled windowpane in the dining room.

A flash of red catches my eye. Maura is walking in the garden with Elena, arm in arm beneath the oaks. A hint of Maura’s bright hair shows beneath her hood. I can never get her to leave her blasted novels and come outside with me. But for this stranger with her pretty dresses and pretty ways, Maura’s all too willing. She listens to Elena, adores her, but I’m the one who spends all my time worrying over how to keep her safe.

Only—which decision would keep her safer? Should I marry Paul and move away, never see my sisters but once or twice a year, and leave them to Elena’s guidance? Or stay here in Chatham and let the Brothers marry me off like some prize filly, keeping a watchful eye out, ready to wield my mind-magic if my sisters come under suspicion?

Neither option feels tenable.

There’s a cracking like ice on the pond in March. The glass windowpane breaks into tiny fissures beneath my palm.

I take a deep breath. If I’d lost control in the kitchen, in front of Finn and Paul and Mrs. O’Hare—

I don’t like to think of it. I must be more careful.

“Renovo,”I whisper. The glass repairs itself.

In the kitchen, I’m greeted with a flurry of questions. Paul’s soup-splashed frock coat is thrown over the back of a chair, and he’s pacing in his fawn-colored waistcoat and shirtsleeves. “What did they want?” he demands.

Mrs. O’Hare lifts her eyes from the table, where she’s kneading dough again, even though there’s a fresh loaf on the windowsill. “Is everything all right, Cate?”

But it’s Finn I look to, still in his chair by the fire. He doesn’t seem frantic like the others, though his thick hair is a bit more disheveled than before, as though he’s been running his hands through it again. His expression is cool. Calculating. Like he’s been doing mathematics problems in his head—or thinking how to get me out of trouble, should I need it.

“It was nothing. I’m fine,” I insist.

Paul moves closer, hovering. “Cate, the Brothers don’t just stop by for—”

I round on him, temper exploding. “Isaidit was nothing!”

He holds up both palms. “Yes, yes, all right.” I can tell he doesn’t believe me, but what should I say? That they want to marry me off to ensure I won’t be troublesome like my godmother and could he help me with that, please? It’s humiliating.

“John should have the carriage ready,” Finn says. He winces as he stands. Mrs. O’Hare’s lent him her wooden walking stick. “Thank you again.”

I try to smile, but it falls short. “I’ll see you out.”

Finn clears his throat. “It’s fine. I’ll manage.” He limps to the door.

“Sit and have some tea with me. You look exhausted,” Paul urges, pulling out a chair.

“In a minute. Let me see Finn out first.” I storm past Finn and outside before either of them can argue it further. I’ll have to accede to a husband’s orders soon enough; I won’t do it now.

I get several yards down the garden path before Finn catches up. “I could have managed on my own, you know. I don’t want to cause trouble with your fiancé.” He leans heavily on the walking stick, his face aimed at the ground.

“He’s not my fiancé,” I snap, plucking a black-eyed Susan. What sort of insinuations was Paul making while I was gone?

Six weeks. That’s so little time. Six weeks ago, I didn’t have a godmother or a governess; I didn’t know anything about this prophecy; I barely knew Finn to say hello to.

“Oh? He—well. I apologize. Obviously I jumped to the wrong conclusion.” Finn smiles.

“Obviously.” I yank petals from the flower in my hand—he loves me, he loves me not—and brush off a twinge of guilt. There are no promises between Paul and me. I said I’d think about his intentions, and I am thinking. “The Brothers—they asked me why I was at your shop. They knew I was there, and for how long, and that I left without a package. They’re watching the store. I didn’t want to tell you in front of Paul and Mrs. O’Hare.”