Born Wicked
Page 32Finn presses his lips together. “That’s nothing new. I’m sorry if it got you into any trouble, but—”
“Not at all, they think I’m practically illiterate!”
“What?” Finn leans against the stone wall bordering the edge of the garden.
“Apparently everyone knows I’m not the clever sort,” I hiss, tossing the ruined flower to the ground. Finn stares. Then—brave man—he reaches out and takes my hand in his.
It’s enough to still the anger in me.
“Don’t let them make you feel small. It’s their specialty, but anyone with half a brain can see how clever you are.” He gives me a sideways glance. “And brave. You barely hesitated when you heard they were here.”
“You think I’m clever?” Him? The brilliant scholar?
“I do.” His fingers curl around my palm, his touch comforting and disturbing all at once. My heart flips over in my chest. “What else did the Brothers ask you about?”
There’s the noise of carriage wheels rattling over a pothole. John’s driving out of the barn. I drop Finn’s hand and move a respectable distance away. “Is your mother feeling better?”
Finn looks puzzled. “Yes. She’s back to minding the shop today.”
“I might stop in tomorrow. I have a question for her.” It’s reckless, I know, with the Brothers watching. But how else am I to find out about this blasted prophecy? I’ll have to dream up another errand for Father. “Will you be there, do you think?” I try to ask carelessly, as though it doesn’t matter, but I find I rather want to see him again.
Finn smiles. “In the morning. See you tomorrow, then.”
I lean against the wall, destroying another black-eyed Susan, watching him hobble down the path and feeling like tomorrow is a very long time to go without seeing him.
No good can come of this.
Back in the kitchen, Paul’s sitting in Finn’s chair. Mrs. O’Hare has made herself scarce. He jumps up when I come in.
“I’m tired,” I say shortly. “It’s been a very taxing morning.”
“Is that so?” Paul works his jaw in that way he has. Another thing that hasn’t changed—I can still tell when I’ve annoyed him. “Well, I’m not going anywhere until you tell me why the Brothers were here, so you may as well have out with it.”
I pick up the loaf of bread on the windowsill and carry it to the table. “It’s nothing.”
Paul leans across the table, bracing himself on his tanned, thickly muscled forearms. “It’s not nothing to me. Not if it involves you. And you didn’t seem to mind telling Belastra. I wasn’t aware the two of you had become such close friends.”
Finn was right. Paul is jealous.
“We’re not. I don’t even know him. Barely.” Paul and I glare at each other for a moment. I’ve lost my temper with him more times than I can count, but I shouldn’t take advantage of his good nature. He’s only worried about me.
Truth be told, I’m worried about me, too.
“It had to do with the bookshop,” I explain, silver knife flashing as I slice the bread ferociously. “The Brothers suspect that Mrs. Belastra’s selling banned books. I was there yesterday, delivering a message for Father. They saw me come and go and questioned me about whether I’d noticed anything untoward.”
“Mostly. They wanted to remind me about my intention ceremony, too,” I sigh.
Paul looks stricken all over again. “You wanted to tell Belastra about that?”
“No, I wanted to warn him about the Brothers watching the shop.”
“Oh.” He grabs his jacket from the chair. “There’s nothing between you two, then?”
“What would be? He’s our gardener.” I try to sound properly incredulous, but I can’t help remembering the flushed, freckled skin on the back of Finn’s neck. The warmth of his fingers cupping my palm.
“I don’t know. I’ve been away.” Paul swings his jacket over his broad shoulders. “How am I to know who’s been calling on you?”
“Finn Belastra has not been calling on me, I can assure you.”
He steps around the table, planting one arm on the wall behind me, trapping me between the icebox, the table, and his body. “Good. I don’t think Belastra’s the sort of man to suit you.”
Presumptuous creature. “Oh? And what sort of man would that be?”
Paul tilts my chin up with one finger. His eyes are dancing, confidence restored. His finger traces the edge of my jaw in a way that leaves my mouth dry and my pulse hammering.
“Me.”
THE NEXT MORNING I STRIDE DOWN Church Street looking very proper in my new, fur-trimmed gray cloak. When I pass Mrs. Winfield outside the chocolatier, she stops to compliment it and ask after Father. She exclaims how dreadfully we must miss him, and I agree without explaining that living with Father these days is rather like living with a very dull, studious ghost.
It wasn’t always this way. He used to bring us chocolates and pick wildflowers for Mother on his way home from teaching at the boys’ school. When she was well and the weather was nice, we went for long Saturday drives. Mrs. O’Hare would pack us lunches of bread and sharp cheese and fresh strawberries, and after we ate, Father would read us stories about Odysseus and Hercules and the heroes of old. He did the same in the winter, when the wind sobbed in the chimneys and the fire roared comfortably in the sitting room. Sometimes he even did the different characters’ voices.
I thought he would get past his grief eventually. It seems not.
As Mrs. Winfield talks, I scan the cobbled sidewalks around us. I have the itchy sensation of being watched. Is the old biddy in brown an informant for the Brothers? Or perhaps it’s Alex Ralston, tying his horse to the hitching post outside the general store. Normally I would discount the feeling as paranoia, but ever since I discovered the prophecy, I feel as though we must be particularly careful, as though putting a single foot wrong could cost us dearly.
Eventually, Mrs. Winfield grows weary of her gossip and disappears into the chocolate shop. I linger in front of the stationer’s, staring at their display of calling cards. After a few moments, I continue on, and meander up the steps of Belastras’ bookshop. Clara is tending the window boxes, pinching withered blooms.
As I enter, Mrs. Belastra glances up at the bell. She’s standing in the middle of the store, shelving a box of books. “Miss Cahill,” she says. “Finn told me to expect you.”
“Yes, I—I was hoping you could help me. With some research.”
Her brown eyes are very like Finn’s—kind, but calculating. Under her gaze, I shift from foot to foot, suddenly ashamed of all the times I’ve been brusque with her. I’ve never bothered to make more than polite conversation when I pick up books for Father or accompany Maura. Not because the Belastras aren’t of our social class—though they are not—but because I don’t like being here. I’ve practically pulled Maura’s arms off to get her out faster. And now I come calling to beg for Mrs. Belastra’s help with secrets that could get us both arrested?