Born Wicked

I lean down and pick up the discarded bottle. I don’t believe that Mother’s spirit lingers here, but leaving trash is disrespectful to the dead.

“Will Rory be all right?” I ask, concerned. Between the liquor and Nils and her magic, she’s taking far too many chances.

“At the pond or in general?” Sachi sighs. “She’d never do anything to hurt any of us, if that’s what worries you. Only herself.”

“Why?” I sit next to Sachi on the tomb. The marble is cold under my thighs.

“She hates the magic. Nothing I say seems to make any difference. She’s so blasted careless,” Sachi swears. “It’s almost as though she wants to get arrested. Father looks the other way where she’s concerned, but for how long? Even his nepotism can stretch only so far.”

I wish I were more like Tess. I don’t know the right thing to do, to say. I never imagined I’d be sitting in a graveyard at midnight, listening to Sachi Ishida pour her heart out. I know that mix of love and worry well. It’s just how I sound when—

My eyes pop.Nepotism. Vocabulary has never been my strong suit, but if it means what I believe it means—

“Oh. She’s your sister? Your father—”

Sachi curls into herself, a small dark figure against the white marble tomb. “You mustn’t tell.”

I think of Mrs. Clay, the woman from the registry who accused Brother Ishida of adultery. “Of course not.”

Sachi grips my knee. “No one can know. No one. Rory doesn’t know it herself.”

I look at her solemnly. “No one. I swear it.”

“I’ve never told anyone else. I’ve wanted to—I almost did tell her once. After they took Brenna away. The notion of her being sent to Harwood—I couldn’t bear it.”

That, I understand. “What made you decide against it?”

“I was afraid she’d do something rash. She drinks too much. Usually she just gets sleepy, you know, and a bit silly. But I was afraid she might confront Father.”

“How long have you known?” I trace the letters carved on Mother’s tomb:beloved wife and devoted mother.

“Since we were ten.” Sachi passes her hand over her face. Six years. Lord, how exhausting it must have been, keeping a secret like this for so long. “Her mother came to the door and insisted on seeing Father. She was drunk, but not so drunk she didn’t make sense. She wanted money, and she laid out very plainly why he ought to give it to her.”

“Why didn’t he arrest her?”

Sachi squints, trying to make out Rory and Brenna crouched on the bank of the pond. “Because of Rory, I suppose. Father’s a hypocrite and a coward, but he wouldn’t want his bastard raised in an orphanage. And there was a scandal before. Another woman. He had her tried and sent away. I don’t think he could risk it again. It wouldn’t serve his standing in the community,” she mocks.

I reach out and squeeze Sachi’s gloved hand.

“I’ve always wanted a sister,” she says. “I didn’t know she’d be so broken.”

There have certainly been days when I’ve wished Maura were easier to manage. But then she wouldn’t be Maura, would she? Who else would act out the plots of romance novels I’ll never read? Who else would sing bawdy songs, push the furniture to the walls, and dance across the sitting room with me?

I look over at the five small headstones, my gaze lingering on the last one. Danielle. She would be three now: a toddler running pell-mell through the house. What would it have been like if she’d survived? If Father had had a baby to care for, would he have stayed home more, or would he have remarried and foisted us off onto someone else?

“We don’t get to choose who we love. Or stop loving them when they’re difficult.”

“No.” Sachi sighs, swiveling toward me. “I knew you would understand.”

She stares at me expectantly. A cloud passes over the moon, shrouding us in darkness, and I watch the warm orange flicker of the lantern. I don’t know what she wants me to say. Just because she confided in me, am I obliged to return the favor? I don’t know how female friendships work. The trading of confidences—is that expected?

“It’s not Paul I’ve been kissing,” I say finally. “It should be. He asked me to marry him. It’s Finn Belastra.”

Sachi laughs. “The bookseller? Isn’t he a bit—”

“If you say he’s beneath me, I’ll slap you.”

“I was going to say serious. He looks quite serious!” she protests. “I can’t believe you’ve been keeping this all to yourself. What are you going to do?”

I lean back against the tombstone, groaning. “I don’t know. It’s down to nine weeks now. Five before your father would give me to Brother Anders.”

Sachi shudders. “That’s revolting.”

“I know. But I can’t marry Paul when I’m in love with someone else.”

Sachi grabs me by the shoulder. “Yes, you can. To save yourself, you can. Do you think I love Renjiro?” She laughs, and it’s Rory’s laugh, bitter and humorless. “I do not. He’s an idiot. But we do what we have to do, and it could be worse.”

We could be in Harwood. We sit together in glum silence. “I suppose so.”

“You have a lot of secrets, Cate Cahill. That wasn’t what I expected you to tell me,” Sachi says.

I bite my lip. “What do you mean?”

“Your sisters. One of them is a witch,” Sachi prompts me.

“No.” I pull my cape more tightly around me. “What makes you think that?”

“You said your magic went awry and you couldn’t reverse it yourself. You didn’t come to Rory or me. You’d only go to another witch. Who else is there?”

My mind whirrs frantically, trying to come up with a pat explanation. No matter how friendly and open Sachi’s been, she’s still Brother Ishida’s daughter. It’s one thing to tell her my own secrets. That can’t hurt anyone but me.

There’s a great splash, a mad cackle, and then Rory’s plaintive voice. “Sachi!”

I jump to my feet, relieved at the interruption. “The pond is freezing. She’ll catch her death.”

Sachi pulls her cloak tighter around her shoulders. “You don’t have to tell me now. But I want you to know you can trust me, Cate. If you ever need me, I’ll help. So long as it doesn’t put Rory in danger.”

“Thank you. I’ll keep that in mind,” I say.

But I hope I won’t need her help.

That night, I dream I’m at one of Mrs. Ishida’s teas. In the dream, I’m wearing Marianne Belastra’s awful rust-colored dress. It’s starched and it itches. Whenever I move, the skirts rustle, loud as a fire crackling, and everyone looks at me. Sachi and Rory bend their dark heads together and whisper behind their hands, and I just know it’s me they’re whispering about.

What have I done wrong? I feel suffocated—by their stares, by the high ruffled collar of this dress. My hands fumble at the buttons but I’m too rough; one button falls off in my hand. It’s gray; it doesn’t even match. Is that why they’re laughing at me?