Born Wicked
Page 38

“Cate,” Paul says, his voice low. “You’re blushing.”
His green eyes are fastened on me, intense with—lust? Love?
“I—I have to go,” I murmur. What’s wrong with me, thinking about kissing two different men in the space of two days?
“Can I walk you to the Elliotts’?” he asks.
“No, thank you. It’s not far.” I gather my blue skirts and make my way through the crowd quickly. Just as I’m about to turn onto Oxford Street, the hair on the nape of my neck prickles. I hesitate, scanning the lawn behind me.
Finn’s eyes meet mine, just for a minute. He’s standing beneath a red maple, talking with Matthew Collier. His hair is sticking up impossibly.
He doesn’t smile or acknowledge me in any way.
My heart sinks. Did I erase our kiss?
Or does he remember, and regret it now that he’s seen me flirting with Paul?
Four blocks away, on a little side street filled with ramshackle row houses, Sachi Ishida is standing in the Elliotts’ front yard. She’s twirling a red rose between her thumb and forefinger. Rory is sitting on top of the wrought-iron gate, swinging back and forth and giggling. “Cate Cahill!” Sachi pronounces. “Just who we’ve been waiting for.”
“We were afraid you’d back out.” Rory hops down off the gate. “We hear you’re a troublemaker.”
I freeze on the empty sidewalk. I’ve done magic and told lies. I’ve read forbidden books; I’ve kissed a man and liked it. But Sachi Ishida can’t know any of that, can she?
The shrewd look in her eyes alarms me more than all the Brothers put together. It was easy enough to trick her father, but Sachi looks at me as though she’s ferreted out the inner workings of my mind and uncovered all the secrets of my imperfect heart.
Rory opens the gate for me. I hesitate and she laughs—all sharp notes and broken edges. I can’t help noticing that her eyes are like her cousin Brenna’s. They’re not quite so empty—but they’re not altogetherright, either.
I step into the yard, overgrown with weeds and dandelions.
“We need to talk, Miss Cahill,” Sachi says. “Oh, ouch!” She makes a little face, throwing the rose to the ground. A bead of blood wells up on her index finger.
Rory leans away, scrunching up her nose. “Ugh!”
“Don’t be such a baby,” Sachi snaps. I expect her to pull out a handkerchief, but instead she closes her fist and squeezes it. A moment later, she holds her finger up for inspection.
No blood. No puncture. Not even a mark to suggest it was ever there.
Sachi Ishida just did magic.
Right here in the yard. Right in front of Rory and me.
Did shehealherself? I’ve never even heard of that sort of magic.
Sachi smiles. She’s pretty as a picture in her pink dress, every flounce edged in lace. “As I said, Miss Cahill, I think it’s time for us to have a talk. I suspect we have more in common than either of us thought.”
I go very still. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
Sachi Ishida, a witch? With her father the head of the council? It’s not possible.
But there’s no other explanation for what I just saw.
“Rory’s mother is indisposed. We’ll be left alone here,” Sachi explains, walking up to the front porch. I can’t help but follow.
Up close, the Elliott place is even more ramshackle than it looks from the street. The blue trim around the windows is cracked and peeling. There’s a broken board on the front porch, and others feel ready to give way beneath my feet. I feel a pang of sympathy for Rory.
And yet the most popular girl in town strolls in without knocking and hangs up her cloak as though she’s perfectly at home. The Elliotts’ sitting room isn’t grand and fashionable like Mrs. Ishida’s. It’s clean but shabby; the rugs are worn clean through in places, and the striped wallpaper is faded and out of fashion. Still, it seems cozier.
Sachi sits in a bulky chair of brown leather. I take the seat opposite her. She rings for the maid, then sends her off for tea and scones while Rory flits around the room, tidying things up, moving like a bright, restless yellow butterfly.
My mind is still reeling. Sachi’s always seemed so proper, and Brother Ishida is the very definition of strict. It’s hard to imagine magic taking place right under his nose.
“We’ve been watching you,” Sachi says finally.
I leap up, expecting men in dark cloaks to explode into the room.
“Rory and me,” she clarifies. “Lord, but you’re jumpy. Sit down.”
The cracked leather armchair behind me shoots forward, knocking into the back of my knees.
She moved the chair. It was a foot behind me. Shemovedit.
I do not sit. I stride forward until I’m looming over her. “How did you do that?”
She doesn’t look intimidated. “How do you think? Magic.”
Mother never taught me how to move objects. How to heal myself from a cut or scrape. Or, for that matter, how to magic things out of thin air, the way I did by accident with the sheep and the feathers.
I’m starting to think there were quite a lot of things Mother didn’t teach me.
And now I’m here in this room with another witch, a witch who happens to be the daughter of the most important man in town, and I’m at a distinct disadvantage.
“Cate. Don’t waste my time.” Sachi tosses her dark, shining hair. “I’m not an informant for my father, if that’s what frightens you.”
I flush. “I’m hardly frightened. What do you imagine you could tell him?”
“Come now. It’s to our mutual advantage to be honest with each other. I am a witch. I strongly suspect that you are one as well.”
I steeple my fingers together, trying to look careless. “What on earth gave you that idea?”
“Rory stepped on your sister Maura’s skirt a few weeks ago at church. I was right next to her and heard it rip, and I saw the tear across the bodice, and then a moment later it was gone. As if bymagic. And the way she whipped around and looked at you—” Sachi laughs. Maura did look at me—probably because she was afraid I’d murder Tess for doing magic in church. “She knows what you are, doesn’t she? Besides, your godmother was a witch; I heard Mama tell you. It wasn’t much to put two and two together. Who’d give a baby a witch for a godmother unless the baby was likely to be a witch, too?” Sachi smiles triumphantly while Rory looks back and forth between us as though we’re playing at lawn tennis.
I lift my chin. “What if you’re wrong?”
“It would be my word against yours, and my father’s head of the council.” Sachi smirks. “But if I were wrong, you’d have swooned or called me names or run out the door twice over, wouldn’t you? Any good girl would.”
She’s right.
Sachi Ishida isn’t a cabbagehead at all. She’s much cannier than I’ve ever given her credit for.
I’m impressed.
The maid brings a pot of tea on a silver tray with a plate of blueberry scones. “Thank you, Elizabeth. I’ll pour,” Sachi says.
I wait until the maid leaves before speaking, and even then I keep my voice to a whisper. “Fine. What if you’re right? What if I am—what you say?”