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

tea and cakes and make polite conversation. By the time I was old enough to go visiting with her, Mother was too ill, and then we were in mourning for a year. What do polite people talk about? Not magic or books or Greek mythology. Likely not gardening.
Loath as I am to admit it, this governess might be useful after all.
We eventually make our way down the crowded aisle and outside. Above us, white cotton-boll clouds scud across the cerulean sky. Branches sway in the breeze, sending leaves pirouetting to the ground. On either side of the walk, white chrysanthemums bloom. The plot needs weeding.
    The church and its white spire dominate the town square. The holding cell in the basement and the Brothers’ council chamber serve as jail and courthouse. All of Chatham stretches out from here: the general goods store, the stationer’s, the chocolatier’s, Belastras’ bookshop, the seamstress’s, the apothecary’s, the butcher’s, the bakery, a few dozen homes. Most of the population of Chatham lives on farms outside town, where they grow potatoes and corn, oats and hay, apples and blueberries.
    Father has escaped the dread clutches of Mrs. Corbett and is chatting with Marianne Belastra, Finn’s mother. She’s a thin woman with gray twining through her rust-colored hair. She has Finn’s freckles—or the other way around, I suppose. Finn stands next to her, nodding enthusiastically at something Father says. His sister, Clara, tugs on the sleeve of his jacket. She’s Tess’s age, but tall and gangly, with enormous hands and feet that seem all out of proportion to the rest of her. Her skirt isn’t quite long enough; a hint of her petticoat peeks out beneath.
    “Good day, Miss Cahill,” a deep voice says behind me.
I whirl around. It’s been ages since I’ve heard that dry growl, but I’d know it anywhere.
How on earth did I miss him in church? He must have slipped in at the last minute and sat behind us.
I knew Paul would be home soon; everyone in town knows. Mrs. McLeod’s talked of nothing else for weeks. He must have come a few days early
    to surprise her. Still, I can’t help staring. He looks so much older. A man of nineteen, not a boy of fifteen. He’s taller—I barely come up to his nose now—and he’s got a close-cropped mustache and beard just a shade darker than his blond hair. He looks quite the gentleman in his frock coat, lounging indolently beneath a maple tree.
    “Mr. McLeod, home at last. How are you?” I curtsy, wishing I’d worn a prettier dress. Apple green looks beautiful on Maura, but it does me no favors. Why didn’t I wear the mauve brocade?
“Quite well, thank you, and you?” He shifts from foot to foot. Is he as nervous as I am? His green eyes are so intent on my face, I can’t help flushing under the scrutiny.
“Very well.” Still angry with him.
“Mother and I are leaving. Could we escort you home?”
Oh. No gentleman’s ever offered to escort me home before. I should be pleased. As Maura so helpfully pointed out, Paul is my best chance for finding a husband. If I don’t get betrothed soon, Father will involve himself—or, worse, the Brothers will choose for me. They could pick anyone—a lonely old widower or a devout man poised to join the Brotherhood. I’d have no say in it.
Still, Paul didn’t even bother to come home for Mother’s funeral. Girls are not permitted to receive letters from men unless they are betrothed, but surely he could have written me if he’d wanted to, instead of that dry little note of condolence he sent Father. If he’d thought of me—missed me at all —he would have written. We were the best of friends right up until the day he left. This man in front of me now is a stranger.
And I’m not the carefree Cate he left behind. Seeing him again—it makes me miss that girl. She didn’t realize how much she had to lose. She laughed more and worried a great deal less.
“Let me tell my sisters I’m going,” I decide.
Maura greets Paul with