Free Born Wicked: The Cahill Witch Chronicles, Book One: The Cahill Witch Chronicles, Book One by Jessica Spotswood

lucky. Being an only child is lonely.”
I don’t remember a time before Maura was toddling after me, pulling at my hair, stuffing my toys in her mouth. “Is it?”
“At times. Take Father’s debts. If I’d had a brother to share the burden, to confide in—it would have been a relief.”
“You can confide in me,” I suggest. “We were like brother and sister, growing up, weren’t we?”
Paul’s mouth twists into a frown. “Is that how you think of me? As a brother?”
I don’t know what to say. I was still a child when he went away. I’ve thought about us marrying, but as a solution to the problem of my future, not as a romantic daydream. I have fond memories of the boy who chased me through the gardens, but the man who’s standing in front of me now with the beard and mustache is a stranger. We can’t simply pick up where we left off.
“I can assure you, Cate, I don’t think of you as a sister.” Paul stops walking. Runs a hand over his beard. Shuffles his feet. There’s a faint flush on his cheeks when he finally looks at me. “You’ve always known your own mind, and I won’t rush you. We have plenty of time to get reacquainted before December.”
December? That’s when I have to announce my betrothal. Is he implying—?
I stand there staring until Lily dawdles up to us, and then I give her such a glare that she scurries back, mumbling apologies.
“I’m sorry. That was forward of me, wasn’t it?” Paul gives me a rueful smile. “This isn’t—it’s not going according to plan. You said that bit about us being like siblings, and I couldn’t bear thinking—”
“You had a plan?” I give him an impish smile, brushing my hand against the tops of the Autumn Joy sedum. They’ve got rusty red heads like broccoli that stand out well against the backdrop of goldenrod.
“Fool that I am, yes. I planned out what I was going to say on the train.”
“On the train?” I gape at him. “Before you even saw me again? What if I was perfectly hideous? What if I’d got spots and a double chin?”
“You’d still be my Cate. And besides, you’re lovely. You look quite like your mother, you know.”
It’s the nicest compliment anyone could pay me. I suspect he knows it. My resemblance to Mother isn’t obvious, as it is with Maura; my hair has only the slightest hint of red and my eyes are Father’s. But sometimes I catch a hint of her sharp nose or the determined set of her shoulders in the looking glass.
“Thank you. That means a great deal. But what if—what if I’d turned into some mealymouthed miss with nothing to say but ‘Yes, sir’ and ‘How clever you are, sir,’ the kind who laughs at all your jokes?” Paul laughs at this, so long and so loudly that Lily looks over at us with alarm. I elbow him. “Hush!”
“Well, my jokes are good, but not as good as that. You could never be that kind of girl.” Paul tucks my arm into his and continues on through the gardens. For once, I’m immune to the heady scent of the roses, of the plot of blue monkshood overrun with weeds.
All I can think is that this is it: the moment that decides my future. It’s happening sooner than I expected. I’m not ready. I don’t know what Mother would want me to do.
“Don’t look so terrified. I don’t expect an answer now. I haven’t even asked the question yet.” Paul smiles.
“You’re mad.” But I’m relieved.
“And you’re even more fun than I’d remembered.” Am I? I don’t feel like much fun. Perhaps he’s attributed the change to my growing up, becoming a young lady. Perhaps this is how all girls feel, stifled and muted. “A life with you will never be dull, will it, and that’s just what I want. Think about it, Cate. That’s all I ask. Can you do that?”
“I suppose. Only—you didn’t say how long you were staying in Chatham. Will you be going back to New London soon?”
Paul comes to a halt right in front of our little fountain—a statue of Cupid, with water coming out of his