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

grin, remembering the time Paul dared me to tightrope-walk the wall around the McLeods’ pigpen. I fell and sprained my ankle, then swooned from the pain and fright. Paul carried me home, terrified he’d murdered me. Once he was assured I was all right, he teased me mercilessly about being such a girl. He went about for months falling down in a mock faint.
I must have been about ten at the time. Mother was recovering from the third stillbirth—Edward Aaron. Mrs. O’Hare insisted on cleaning me up and bandaging my ankle before I was allowed into Mother’s rooms. I remember her pale, drawn face and the purple shadows under her swollen eyes. She told me I had to start behaving like a lady soon, and I stuck out my tongue at her, and she laughed.
The barouche pulls up before our house, and Paul jumps out. “I’ll be back directly, Mother,” he says, helping me down, tucking my hand into the crook of his elbow.
He stops just outside our front door, fixing me with an earnest expression. “Cate, I was so sorry to hear about your mother. She was a great lady,” he says.
“Thank you.” I stare at the plot of black-eyed Susans beside the porch. “We appreciated your note of condolence.”
“It wasn’t enough. I wanted to come home, but it was the beginning of the term—”
Yes, the timing was inconvenient. My mother’s death wasn’t reason enough to miss a few classes. Never mind that Mother used to sneak him sweets that his mother forbade. When she was well enough to come outside, he used to turn cartwheels through the garden to cheer her, and when she wasn’t, he’d make hideous faces at her through the window. He was my best friend, and he grew up with her, too, and he couldn’t be bothered to come home for even a week.
“You couldn’t have gotten back in time for the service. I know. It’s quite all right.” But I don’t meet his eyes, and my reassurance sounds hollow. Will he notice?
“It’s not. I wanted to be here for your family—for you—but—” I look up as he falters, and he leans in close. He smells spicy, like pine needles. “I couldn’t come home. Financially, I mean. I was too proud to write it at the time, and my mother would murder me for telling you now. Money’s been scarce.”
“Oh,” I say, stupidly. I’ve never had to worry about money, not for a minute. I’ve always taken it for granted that our good name is all the currency I need.
“You must have wondered why I never came home at holidays.” He gives me a funny little smile, as though he hopes I did wonder.
“Your mother told everyone you were with your cousins in Providence.” I’d assumed he’d made fine new friends in the city and forgotten me.
“We couldn’t afford even that. I would have been sunk if Jones hadn’t offered me lodging. I owe him a great debt.”
Oh. I feel guilty now, for all my uncharitable thoughts. “You should have told me. You could have written.”
“I wanted to.” Paul smiles. “I wanted to tell you everything. But to have your father reading it all first—that made it less appealing.”
“As if I couldn’t get around Father,” I huff, affronted.
Paul chuckles and steps closer—far closer than is appropriate. There are only inches separating us; I can feel the warmth of his body almost touching mine. “I’ve missed you.”
I’ve missed him, too. But it was inevitable that our friendship would change as we got older, and perhaps the forcible separation was for the best. After Mother died, when Maura ran wild, keeping the magic a secret was hard. Keeping it from Paul would have been nearly impossible.
“Can you forgive me? I know you must have been angry.”
I duck my head. “No, I—”
“I know you better than that. Come now. Mad as a hornet?”
I grin, sheepish. “A whole nest of them. It—hurt. A bit. That you weren’t here.”
Paul takes my hand. The smile fades from my face. “I’m sorry for it. Truly,” he says.
“Paul!” Mrs. McLeod’s querulous voice calls.