Born Wicked

Page 52

And here I thought I was doing them a kindness.
“Mrs. Belastra, thank you so much for coming.” My voice rings out clear as the brass church bells. “We’re delighted to have you both. Would you like some tea? Clara, let me present my sister Tess; she’s just your age.”
The running patter feels stilted on my tongue, but I think I carry it off passably. This is Finn’s sister. I can’t let her stand here, defenseless, while these stupid women snub her and call her names.
I usher the Belastras into the dining room as though they are our special guests, pouring tea for them, urging them to try Tess’s desserts. I want to pull Marianne aside and ask her for advice, but I can’t be seen whispering with her here. And with magic off-limits, I have no idea what to say to Finn’s mother. I feel irrationally terrified that she can read my thoughts and know I’ve been thinking of her son in wanton, lustful ways.
Fortunately, Tess is much less awkward. She sizes the situation up in an instant.
“Do you bake, Miss Belastra? I made the poppy-seed cakes myself.”
Clever Tess. I cast an admiring glance at her. She knows the Belastras can’t afford a housekeeper, and with Mrs. Belastra in the shop all day, it’s likely Clara does most of their cooking. Acknowledging that she spends time in the kitchen too puts them on more equal footing. Clara confesses to a mishap with a crust, and soon they’re giggling and chattering like magpies.
I wish I had some of Tess’s skill. I ask Marianne how business is going, and she tells me about a shipment of Brotherhood-sanctioned morality tales for children that have come in. When I ask what she’s reading herself—a question Tess always adores—she enthuses about a French poet she’s just discovered.
I fiddle with the pink and red roses on the table and glance back into the sitting room. Around the piano, Maura is chatting gaily with Cristina Winfield and a few other girls from town, and Sachi and Rory are whispering together on the settee. All normal enough. But several of the Brothers’ wives and Mrs. Corbett are clustered around the sofa, and I wonder what they’re discussing. Have we made some misstep? Is everything up to standard?
“This is a coming-out of sorts for you, isn’t it?” Marianne asks, startling me from my reverie. “You ought to get back to your true guests.”
I look up in surprise, ashamed to have been caught woolgathering. “You and Clara are as much our guests as anyone.”
“It was sweet of you to invite us, Cate, but you’re a sensible girl. Associating with my family has no advantages for you. You must realize that.”
I do, but somehow all my good sense flies out the window when I think of her son.
Has Finn told her about us? I wince at the thought. She and my mother were friends, but that doesn’t mean she’d want her son to marry a witch.
Her no-nonsense tone is just like his.I’m not too proud to say it.The difference in our stations does matter. Not to me, perhaps, but in the eyes of everyone else. We Cahill girls may have our secrets, but money helps us hide them. We don’t have to live right in town; we don’t depend on our neighbors’ custom for our livelihood. Father may not approve of the Brothers’ censorship, but he keeps on their good side, and they don’t come searching the house for banned books. It’s not perfect, but it’s easier for us than it is for Clara Belastra.
“I’ll be fine,” Marianne assures me, misunderstanding my silence. “I’ve long since made peace with my place in this town. Go. Enjoy your tea.”
Shame rises in my stomach, but I go.
Chapter 16
MY CANDLE SHUDDERS. I CUP A hand around it, willing the harsh wind to stop. It bites through the cloak wrapped around my shoulders. Around me, the flowers are asleep, heads bowed to the waxing moon. My hem whispers across the flagstones, adding to the cacophony of night noises. The candle pitches long shadows that turn paths I’ve known forever unfamiliar and eerie.
Something brushes my hair. I jump back, hand flying to my face. It’s only a crumpled leaf twirling to the ground. I laugh, small and shaky, and taste smoke in the back of my throat. The fires are banked for the night, but gray plumes drift like ghosts above the chimneys. Wind knifes in at my wrists and ankles. I pull my cloak tighter and walk faster.
The gazebo looms monstrously at the top of the hill. This is the most dangerous part, when I’ll be visible from the servants’ quarters. I pray that Mrs. O’Hare and John have no cause to be up and looking out windows.
I take a deep breath and dash forward. It’s only a few yards before the candle snuffs out. Lord, but it’s dark.
Up ahead, I hear the lapping of pond water against the bank and smell dank, earthy mud. It’s soothing, a familiar sound amid the strange hooting of night birds. I listen harder and make out feminine voices drifting across the water. In the cemetery, shades dance among the headstones.
They’re there, gathered behind Mother’s tomb.
I hate the thought of her lying inside, her body slowly decomposing, surrounded by insects and earth. When he’s home, Father leaves flowers on her grave. I don’t see the point. Everything that made her Mother is gone.
Laughter—Rory’s distinct bark—echoes in the night.
“Hello?” My voice comes out hoarse.
Sachi steps out from behind the tomb. “Cate?” Her lantern throws strange shadows, turning her pretty features monstrous.
“Spooky, isn’t it? Would you like some sherry?” Rory asks, holding out a bottle.
A tall, thin figure peers around the tomb, her hood obscuring her face. There’s only one other person they might bring on such a mad, macabre adventure.
“Brenna?”
Brenna twirls around the graveyard like a child, sidestepping the little tombs next to Mother’s. She’s singing to herself:
“Days we spend planting flowers,
Nights spent warm in our beds,
Lives of sunshine and showers,
We’re all food for worms in the end.”
Appropriate for the setting, I suppose, but hardly comforting.
“Rory wanted to bring her.” Sachi does not sound pleased. “And she knows about us.”
I whirl on her, angry. “You told her?”
“Ididn’t tell her anything.” Sachi’s voice is tight.
“Nor did I! She just knows things,” Rory explains, tugging Brenna back to us. “That’s why they took her away.”
“She’s mad,” Sachi argues, crossing her arms over her chest. “They took her away because she told your stepfather he was going to die.”
“But Idoknow things.” Brenna’s voice is mournful. “If only I could remember them.”
“What don’t you remember?” I ask. It’s a foolish question—how can she know?—but Brenna takes it seriously.
“Holes in my head,” she explains, tapping her temple. “The crows put them there.”
“Crows?” I ask. Sachi shrugs.
Brenna shudders back against the marble tomb. She squeezes her eyes shut, like a child trying to shut out a nightmare, and wraps her arms around herself. “They came to my trial,” she whispers. “The Brothers left me alone with them. I was so frightened. I thought they would peck out my eyes, but they only took my memories.”