Read Online Born Wicked: The Cahill Witch Chronicles, Book One: The Cahill Witch Chronicles, Book One by Jessica Spotswood - Free Book Online
Authors: Jessica Spotswood
Tags: Fiction, General, Romance, Contemporary, Family, Juvenile Fiction, Fantasy & Magic, Love & Romance, Siblings
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about a thing, Cate. Leave it all to me.”
I stare at the dusky pink rug, resentment swelling up again. I’m hardly the type to leave the worrying to anyone else, to start with. And how can I leave my future to a complete stranger?
Maura thinks it’s all very straightforward: I’ll marry Paul. But he didn’t say whether he was back in Chatham for good, or only for a visit. And the way he spoke of New London, with such fervor—I can tell he likes it there. What if he asks me to marry him but move away?
How did Mother expect me to keep my promise when I came of age? She knew I wouldn’t be able to stay home forever.
I’ve got to find her diary. Soon.
An hour later, I’m kneeling on the hardwood floor of Mother’s sitting room, surrounded by the contents of her writing desk. Nibs and sealing wax and parchment are scattered helter-skelter on the floor. A neat stack of correspondence, bound with a blue velvet ribbon, sits next to me. I’ve already read through it—twice. There are no mentions of any Zuzannahs or Zinnias anywhere. Who is this mysterious Z. R.?
I know Mother kept a diary during that last year; I interrupted her scribbling in it whenever I came into her rooms. I’ve never been able to find it. But I’ve never been as determined as I am now. I need her guidance. Not just about magic, but about my future. What did she want me to do?
I feel along the drawers, looking for a spring or a latch that might reveal a false bottom. There’s nothing. I throw things back into the drawers, slide them into place, and rock back on my heels, frustrated. Elena’s very presence here pinches at me like too-tight slippers. I’ve put off thinking about myself, concentrated instead on Tess and Maura and my promise. But I can’t ignore the reality any longer. Father didn’t hire Elena to teach us French and flower arrangements; he hired her to make sure that Maura and I find husbands.
The Brothers are afraid the witches will rise up again someday, Mother said, so they loathe the idea of powerful women. We are not permitted to study and go to university as men do, or to take up professions. There are a few notable exceptions: the town midwife, Mrs. Carruthers; the dressmaker, Ella Kosmoski; and Marianne Belastra—but Mrs. Belastra took over the running of the bookshop only after her husband’s death. Women are not normally granted permits to run businesses.
The Sisterhood is held up as an alternative to marriage, and an honorable one. They do the charitable work of the Brotherhood: serving as governesses and nurses, visiting the sick and dying, and feeding the poor. But no one in Chatham has actually joined them in years. The notion of spending my life studying scriptures or teaching orphan girls is odious. I’m fairly certain I’d murder my pupils. Furthermore, living in a cloister with dozens of other women sounds suffocating. Trying to keep my magic a secret would be too risky.
No. The Sisterhood is not an option.
I crawl beneath the desk, running a hand along the underside. The diary can’t have disappeared into thin air. But there’s nothing here. I wince as my slipper catches on a nail in the floorboard, then pull off my shoe, frowning at the run in my stockings. Mrs. O’Hare is sure to scold me again about how I go through them faster than Maura and Tess together, and—
Wait.
I inch backward. The floorboard nearest the wall tilts beneath my palm. I pull at the nail that sticks up; it comes free. I lift the board. Underneath, there’s a hollow space. I thrust my arm in to the elbow, hoping I won’t disturb anything crawling. My hand searches over dusty wood. It touches something small and smooth and round. I pull it out—only a gray button. It must have fallen in here by accident. I remember the dress it belonged to: high necked, with each of its gray flounces edged in black lace, and a row of these buttons up the back.
I tuck it into a drawer and keep searching.
There’s nothing else.
“Acclaro?” I
I stare at the dusky pink rug, resentment swelling up again. I’m hardly the type to leave the worrying to anyone else, to start with. And how can I leave my future to a complete stranger?
Maura thinks it’s all very straightforward: I’ll marry Paul. But he didn’t say whether he was back in Chatham for good, or only for a visit. And the way he spoke of New London, with such fervor—I can tell he likes it there. What if he asks me to marry him but move away?
How did Mother expect me to keep my promise when I came of age? She knew I wouldn’t be able to stay home forever.
I’ve got to find her diary. Soon.
An hour later, I’m kneeling on the hardwood floor of Mother’s sitting room, surrounded by the contents of her writing desk. Nibs and sealing wax and parchment are scattered helter-skelter on the floor. A neat stack of correspondence, bound with a blue velvet ribbon, sits next to me. I’ve already read through it—twice. There are no mentions of any Zuzannahs or Zinnias anywhere. Who is this mysterious Z. R.?
I know Mother kept a diary during that last year; I interrupted her scribbling in it whenever I came into her rooms. I’ve never been able to find it. But I’ve never been as determined as I am now. I need her guidance. Not just about magic, but about my future. What did she want me to do?
I feel along the drawers, looking for a spring or a latch that might reveal a false bottom. There’s nothing. I throw things back into the drawers, slide them into place, and rock back on my heels, frustrated. Elena’s very presence here pinches at me like too-tight slippers. I’ve put off thinking about myself, concentrated instead on Tess and Maura and my promise. But I can’t ignore the reality any longer. Father didn’t hire Elena to teach us French and flower arrangements; he hired her to make sure that Maura and I find husbands.
The Brothers are afraid the witches will rise up again someday, Mother said, so they loathe the idea of powerful women. We are not permitted to study and go to university as men do, or to take up professions. There are a few notable exceptions: the town midwife, Mrs. Carruthers; the dressmaker, Ella Kosmoski; and Marianne Belastra—but Mrs. Belastra took over the running of the bookshop only after her husband’s death. Women are not normally granted permits to run businesses.
The Sisterhood is held up as an alternative to marriage, and an honorable one. They do the charitable work of the Brotherhood: serving as governesses and nurses, visiting the sick and dying, and feeding the poor. But no one in Chatham has actually joined them in years. The notion of spending my life studying scriptures or teaching orphan girls is odious. I’m fairly certain I’d murder my pupils. Furthermore, living in a cloister with dozens of other women sounds suffocating. Trying to keep my magic a secret would be too risky.
No. The Sisterhood is not an option.
I crawl beneath the desk, running a hand along the underside. The diary can’t have disappeared into thin air. But there’s nothing here. I wince as my slipper catches on a nail in the floorboard, then pull off my shoe, frowning at the run in my stockings. Mrs. O’Hare is sure to scold me again about how I go through them faster than Maura and Tess together, and—
Wait.
I inch backward. The floorboard nearest the wall tilts beneath my palm. I pull at the nail that sticks up; it comes free. I lift the board. Underneath, there’s a hollow space. I thrust my arm in to the elbow, hoping I won’t disturb anything crawling. My hand searches over dusty wood. It touches something small and smooth and round. I pull it out—only a gray button. It must have fallen in here by accident. I remember the dress it belonged to: high necked, with each of its gray flounces edged in black lace, and a row of these buttons up the back.
I tuck it into a drawer and keep searching.
There’s nothing else.
“Acclaro?” I
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