Read Online Born Wicked: The Cahill Witch Chronicles, Book One: The Cahill Witch Chronicles, Book One by Jessica Spotswood - Free Book Online Page A

try, hopefully, and power sizzles through me. I shove my arm in again, and the illusion of emptiness is broken as my fingertips brush against a book.
The familiar blue cloth cover is grimy, but I hug it to my chest because it’s a piece of her. Whatever secrets it contains, for a few minutes, she’ll be with me again. Mother will be able to tell me what to do. She always knew what to do.
Thank the Lord.
“Miss Cate?”
Oh, this is just the dignified pose I’d like the governess to catch me in: on hands and knees beneath Mother’s desk, one shoe off, bottom wiggling in the air. At least she didn’t come in a moment ago and catch me magicking a book out of thin air. Hasn’t she ever heard of knocking?
Adding injury to insult, I bump my head on the desk as I turn around.
“I knocked, but no one answered,” Elena says, a smile tugging at her lips. “Mr. McLeod is here to see you.”
“I was looking for an earbob,” I lie. “I lost it. Somewhere.”
“I see. Would you like to take a few moments to tidy up?”
Is she laughing at me? I’m offended until I look down at myself. My bodice is covered in dust from lying on the floor, my hair is falling into my face, and my hands are gray with dirt. It’s hardly how I want a prospective husband to see me.
I stand, brushing the dust from my sleeves, trying to salvage some shred of dignity. “Yes, I believe I shall. Please tell Paul I’ll be with him directly.”
In the privacy of my room, I wipe off Mother’s diary with shaking hands.
    If it were any other caller, I’d feign illness and spend the afternoon reading. No one would dream I’d stay indoors for anything other than sickness. I’m desperate to know what advice she’s left for me. I was so young when she died, only thirteen, and still such a child. The three years until I had to declare an intention loomed like thirty, especially without her. I wouldn’t have listened to anything she said about marriage and husbands then; perhaps she was clever enough to know it, and she wrote down her words of motherly wisdom instead. My nerves jangle in anticipation like the keys on Mrs. O’Hare’s belt.
But it’s Paul. I can’t put him off. The thought irks me. Never mind that he’s kept me waiting for four years.
    I pull on one of my nicest day dresses, a dark gray with a pale-blue sash and blue lace at the collar. I fix my hair as best I can, then head downstairs to the sitting room.
Paul is there, his long legs spread out in front of him. Elena has disappeared—presumably for her chat with Father about our curriculum. Maura and Tess crowd together on the sofa, chattering like magpies, firing rapid questions at Paul about New London. He takes up more room than I had remembered. He seems very—male, with his beard and his tall black leather riding boots and the deep timbre of his voice, dwarfing the highbacked blue brocade chair he sits in. I suppose I’m very used to living among women, with Father away so much. Not that we are very quiet women.
Paul stands when he sees me, taking both my hands in his. “Cate,” he says, looking at me appreciatively.
He’s seen me covered in slop from the pigpen. He’s seen my hands and face smeared with strawberries. We used to roll down the grassy knoll beyond the pond until our clothes were stained green. But he’s never looked at me like this. It makes me suddenly aware of every inch of myself.
“That dress is just the color of your eyes. You’re lovely.” He says it easily, confidently. As though he’s used to telling girls they’re lovely.
I flush and pull away. I’m not used to hearing it, and I can’t quite reconcile this earnest, admiring man with the mischievous boy I remember. “Thank you.”
“Tess tells me your father’s building a gazebo down by the pond. I should like to see the progress.”
“It’s barely begun. They only erected the frame yesterday.”
“Still. I’ve missed the country air. Come for a walk with me?”
Oh. He doesn’t want to