Born Wicked

I don’t want to be a witch. I’d stop using magic entirely if I could, but it’s impossible. I tried once, two years ago.

It was the winter after Mother died, and Mrs. Corbett and some of the Brothers’ wives came to call. They kept bleating on about how sorry they were and my poor dear mother. It was infuriating. They didn’t know Mother at all; she never liked any of them. They were just nosy, noisy sheep.

I thought of sheep and the magic swayed up and there it was: a great woolly creature in the corner of the sitting room, right next to Mrs. Corbett. It actually nosed her sleeve. She jumped, and I was certain she’d seen it. I was ready for the shrieks to begin—ready to be arrested and hauled off to Harwood.

Maura saved me with anevanescospell. She magicked it away.

Mrs. Corbett didn’t see the sheep at all. None of them saw it.

I’ve never tried to suppress the magic since. I practice sparingly, grudgingly, to keep from losing control. But I follow the rules Mother laid out for us. We must use magic only in the rose garden. We must speak of it only in hushed voices and behind closed doors. We must never forget how dangerous it can be—nor how wicked, in the hands of those without scruples. Mother told me these things—told me vehemently and often—sitting right here on the bench where I am now, with me listening from the grass at her feet.

I wish Mother were here. I need her. Not just to tell us how to keep the magic a secret from Father and the Brothers and the governess and all our neighbors. To teach us how to be witches and ladies and grow up without losing the best and truest parts of ourselves.

But Mother isn’t here and I am. It’s up to me to figure out how to remedy our reputations. I’ll call on the Brothers’ wives. Buy more fashionable dresses. Smile and nod and laugh. I’ll do everything in my power to make certain the new governess thinks we’re ordinary, empty-headed girls who don’t pose a threat to anyone.

I didn’t fall to pieces when Mother died. I can’t do it now.

“Novo,”I whisper, peeking through my hands. This time the rose morphs into a bright blossom.

The garden grows dark, the statuary looming ghostly behind me. I stand reluctantly and head for the house. It’s an old saltbox farmhouse that Father’s grandparents built when they settled here. Maura wishes we lived in one of the new houses in town, one with a turret and a widow’s walk and scrollwork above the doors, but I like our house the way it is: sturdy and safe. If the white paint is peeling a little, if one of the dark shutters on the second floor hangs at a crooked angle, if the steeply sloped roof is missing a few shingles since the big storm back in August—well, John’s been busy. The Carruthers boy quit midsummer. Who cares if it’s looking a bit ramshackle? No one comes to call on us anyway.

As soon as I turn the corner into the garden proper, I smack into someone.

I stumble back in surprise. It’s seldom that I encounter anyone out here save John, our handyman. I like it that way. Tess is comfortable in her kitchen; Maura prefers the company of books over flowers; Father rarely leaves his study except for supper or sleep. The garden ismine.

I feel a punch of irritation at this intruder.

He reaches out to steady me, a book tumbling from his hand, and that’s how I recognize him: Finn Belastra. Of course he would have his nose in a book, though how he can see to read in the dusk I don’t know. He must have a cat’s eyes.

“Excuse me, Miss Cahill.” Finn pushes up his glasses with his index finger. He’s got freckles scattered like cinnamon all over his cheeks. And his face—he’s grown into it since I saw him last. He used to be a scrawny beanpole of a boy. Now he’s—well. Not.

“What are you doing here?” I demand gracelessly. And dressed like that? I’m hardly one to stand on ceremony, but he’s wearing a pair of ragged brown corduroy trousers, held up with a pair of suspenders, and a work shirt rolled up to the elbows.

Finn doffs his slouchy hat. Beneath it, his thick coppery hair stands up every which way. “I’m your new gardener.”

He must be joking. Only, he is carrying a pail full of weeds.

“Oh,” I say finally. I don’t know what else is appropriate.Welcomewould be a lie. We don’t need more strangers around the place. After Mother died, I convinced Father that we could get by with only Mrs. O’Hare and John and Lily. Father agreed to leave the housekeeping decisions to me, but he’s insisted on hiring a succession of gardeners. His latest scheme is to build a gazebo up by the pond, overlooking the cemetery.

Mother loved the gardens. Father’s never said as much, but I think he keeps them up for her sake. He certainly never comes outside himself.

“Do you knowhowto garden?” I ask, not bothering to hide the doubt in my voice. I can’t think of anyone more poorly suited to the task. The other gardeners have been brawny boys from surrounding farms, not pale, scholarly booksellers’ sons.

“I’m learning,” Finn says, holding out the book. It’s an encyclopedia of plants.

That hardly inspires confidence. I’ve been pitching in, weeding plots, planting the spring bulbs. I like it. What’s more, I don’t need a book to tell me how. I watched Mother and John for years. I hope Finn won’t go around pontificating about new irrigation methods and optimal soil conditions. He used to be the most insufferable know-it-all in Sunday school.

Finn swings the pail by its handle. His forearms are all lean, wiry muscle. “Your father heard I was looking for work and was kind enough to offer me a place here. We’ve been having some difficulties with the shop.”

It’s just like Father to be softhearted—at least where his books are concerned. I’ve never heard him object to the Brothers’ witch hunts, but he gets quite livid about their censorship.

I shove my hands into the pockets of my cloak. “Are you—your shop isn’t closing?”

“Not yet.” Finn squares his shoulders—which have gotten a good deal sturdier since the last time I saw him. Or paid attention, at any rate. How long has it been since I actually looked? He’s gotten awfully handsome; it can’t have happened overnight.

“Good! That’s good.” Finn looks surprised that I care, but Mother loved the bookshop. She was a great one for reading, like Maura and Tess. Like Father.

I hesitate, feeling like I ought to say something more.

“Well, don’t murder my flowers,” I mutter, running a protective hand over a bush of pink tea roses.

Finn laughs. “I’ll do my best. Good day, Miss Cahill.”

I scowl. “Good day, Mr. Belastra.”

My mood does not improve at dinner.

Mrs. O’Hare’s fish chowder is as awful as I’d anticipated: salty and ill seasoned. She’s an excellent housekeeper but a poor cook. I spread fresh butter on thick slabs of sourdough and ignore the bowl in front of me. Tess holds Father’s bowl in her gaze, and a moment later he’s declaring it a wonder.

I frown at Tess until Maura kicks me under the table.

I kick her back harder, and she jumps in her seat. The bread in my mouth turns to peppery ashes. I gag and reach for my glass of water.

“All right, Cate?” Father asks, looking up from his miraculous chowder.

“Fine,” I choke. Maura gives an angelic smile. She knows I won’t fight back magically, I never do, but I’m hard-pressed not to lean across the table and slap her.