Born Wicked

Page 22

“Oh.” Finn looks at the snarl of red and pink tea roses. “You don’t have to do that. I’ve been working on the gazebo, but I can find time to—”
“No, I like it,” I interrupt. “I want to do it myself.”
Finn grins, gap toothed and boyish. “Ah, then you must be my elf.”
“Pardon me?” I tuck a strand of hair beneath my hood.
“I noticed someone’s been weeding and planting the spring bulbs. I fancied you had a garden elf. I imagined him short. And green. You’re prettier.” He flushes behind his freckles.
“Why, thank you,” I laugh. I hardly imagined Finn Belastra the fanciful sort. He always seems so serious.
“I should have suspected,” Finn says. “Your father mentioned one of you was good with flowers.”
“He did?” That’s twice now. Perhaps Father pays more attention than I give him credit for. I’m not certain whether I ought to be pleased or alarmed. Frankly, we’ve come to count on his obliviousness. “Well, that would be me, then. Gardening helps clear my head.”
“Well, no need to come back later. I don’t mind if you want to puzzle something out. I’ll finish my book.”
The gold lettering of the book in his hand catches my attention. “Wait.Tales of the Pirate LeFevre?”
“Even a scholar needs leisurely lunchtime reading, Miss Cahill. Are you familiar with the dreadful adventures of Marius the pirate? They’re quite entertaining.”
“I prefer the stories of his sister Arabella,” I blurt before I can stop myself. I can’t believe Finn Belastra reads pirate stories. I assumed he would be struggling through some incomprehensible German philosophy.
Finn lowers his voice to a confidential whisper. “Arabella was my first literary infatuation. I had a mad crush on her.”
I squeal. “I used to want to be just like her! Remember when she saved Marius during the shipwreck? And when she was captured, she chose to walk the plank rather than sacrifice her virtue to that awful captain. And the time she dressed in Marius’s clothes and fought the duel with—” I catch myself gesturing wildly with a pretend rapier.
“With Perry, the soldier who accused the pirates of not having a code of honor?” Finn finishes. “That was a good one.”
“She obviously made quite an impression on me. She was a model of—of courage and resourcefulness,” I say quietly, folding my hands behind my back.
Finn peers down at me, curious. “I didn’t think you were much of a reader.”
My face falls. “Did Father tell you that?”
“No. I presumed—you pick up books for your father, but I’ve noticed you rarely get anything for yourself.”
He’s right. I can’t remember the last time I voluntarily picked up a book besides an almanac, to see when to plant the bulbs or herbs. But I used to read—not ever as much as Tess or Maura, but more than I do now. I spent loads of summer afternoons in the gnarled arms of our apple tree, immersed inTales of the Pirate LeFevre.
Maura’s always loved the fairy tales and romances that Mother favored, but I liked the adventure stories from Father’s library best. I used to beg him to read them to me—the more bloodthirsty the better. Tales of evil kings and rascals and pirates and shipwrecks. Once I persuaded Paul to help me build a raft, and we paddled it across the pond. It started to take on water out in the middle, and we had to swim to shore. I came home looking half drowned and gave Mrs. O’Hare quite a shock.
I shrug, smoothing my skirt. “Young ladies aren’t meant to read pirate stories.”
Finn laughs and tosses his apple in the air. “I thought your father believed in educating his girls.”
“Father believes in reading for edification, not enjoyment.”
“Well, then, he and I will have to agree to disagree on that. What’s the point of a book you don’t enjoy?” Finn holds out his dog-eared copy. “You can have mine if you want. We have half a dozen in the shop.”
I’m half tempted. It would be nice to climb a tree again and let my mind wander to foreign ports and deserted islands along with Arabella.She never had to worry about finding a man to marry. They all threw themselves at her—except when she was dressed as a boy, of course. And once even then.
Unfortunately, I live in New England, not aboard theCalypso.And I do have to worry about marriage. And the Brotherhood and now this damned prophecy.
“No, thank you.” I walk past Finn and kneel before the tangle of roses. “I still have my copy. I just don’t have time to read anymore.”
“That’s the saddest thing I’ve heard all day,” Finn says, swiping his hands through his messy hair. “Reading is the perfect escape from whatever ails you.”
But I can’t escape.
“You seem—upset,” he continues carefully. “I’m sorry for bothering you.”
“I’m notbothered,” I snap, deftly separating one branch from another. I’m angry. Why aren’t girls ever allowed to just be angry?
Finn kneels next to me. He reaches out a hand to help and promptly stabs himself on a thorn. “Ouch.” A drop of blood wells up on his finger, and he sticks it in his mouth. He has a nice mouth—red as a cherry—his lower lip a bit fuller than the top.
I rummage in the pocket of my cloak and pull out an old handkerchief. “Here,” I offer, practically throwing it at his head.
“Thank you.” Finn catches it and wraps it around his forefinger. He reaches into the bushes again.
“Let me,” I insist. “You don’t know what you’re doing.” I remember when Mother planted these. I won’t have Finn ruining them, pulling out flowers instead of weeds.
There’s a pause, and I fully expect him to scramble away, tired of being snapped at by this mad, pirate-loving harridan of a girl.
“Show me what to do, then,” he suggests, his face earnest. “I’m the gardener. I ought to know how.”
I sigh. I want to resent him for being here, in my place; for being a boy, with all the freedoms I lack; for being the sort of clever son Father wishes he had. But he’s making it difficult. He’s not at all the conceited prig I thought he was.
And he’s let me take all my anger out on him without a single word of complaint. As though he knows it’s what I need. I’m a little afraid of what I might do—what I might say—if he doesn’t go away now.
“Not today,” I say. “Please. I just want to be alone.”
Finn stands up and gathers his book and his lunch pail. “Of course. Some other time, perhaps. Have a good afternoon, Miss Cahill.”
Chapter 7
I FEEL LIKE A TRUSSED-UP TURKEY. Maura and I went back to Mrs. Kosmoski’s this morning for last-minute alterations. Angeline, red eyed and bereft at the loss of Gabrielle—who was sent away without trial, like her sister before her—tucked and pinched while her mother stuck us with pins. Now our new dresses fit beautifully. We are perfectly fashionable—and I feel perfectly ridiculous, a silly wedding cake of a girl in my violent violet dress with the enormous puffed sleeves. The tiered skirts—four yards of brocade—flare into a bell; the rear is padded and ruffled like the underside of an umbrella. Elena’s laced my corset so tight, I can barely breathe, much less protest.