Born Wicked
Page 12

Maura tosses her hair. “It’s falling apart. It was my great-grandparents’ originally—this is Great-Grandmother. Sour looking, isn’t she? I’d love to move into town proper, but Father won’t hear of it. It’s frightfully dull out here in the country. It must seem horrid to you after all the excitement of New London.”
Good Lord. “We’re hardly in the country,” I object. “It’s only two miles to town. And Father will never move, not with the cemetery here.”
Elena takes Maura’s frankness in stride. “I’m very sorry about your mother. You must be tired of hearing that, I know. I lost both my parents when I was eleven. People never know what to say, do they? Mrs. Corbett told me you were in full mourning for a year. That you’ve put off coming out into society. Of course, with your father away so much, with no mother to introduce you, how could you? But it must be rather lonely.”
“Yes,” Maura says emphatically, just as I say, “We manage.”
Moving away from the stairs, we pass Father’s room, the closed door to Mother’s bedroom and sitting room, my bedroom and Tess’s, and finally come to Elena’s. It’s right across the hall from Maura’s. “It’s not very grand,” Maura says apologetically, even though Mrs. O’Hare and Lily spent all day yesterday airing it out and dusting the heavy mahogany furniture until it gleamed.
Elena crosses to the window and pushes back the heavy green draperies. Beyond the garden, the fields stretch out for acres and acres, the ripe golden wheat undulating in the breeze. “It’s a lovely view. What a pretty garden.”
Maura puts Elena’s valise on the bed and jumps up beside it, ducking beneath the rose-colored canopy. “But we’ll have to spruce up the house a bit, won’t we?” she persists, eager for an ally. “If we’re to have callers, I mean. Cate’s got to find a husband soon.”
“Maura!” I hiss, mortified. She can’t wait five minutes to bring that up?
Elena smiles, even white teeth flashing against her dark skin. “When’s your birthday, Cate?”
“March fourteenth,” I murmur. I’m surprised Mrs. Corbett hasn’t told her that, too. It seems the old bat’s been quite chatty.
“She’s got a suitor,” Maura confides, and I fight the urge to throttle her.
“Your intention ceremony’s coming up,” Elena says. “Don’t worry 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 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?”