Read Born Wicked: The Cahill Witch Chronicles, Book One: The Cahill Witch Chronicles, Book One for Free Online Page B

places, like Dubai, women live openly with other women—and men with men. It’s not common, but it’s not illegal.
“I loathe him,” Maura hisses, her pretty face distorted with anger.
“Maura,” I say warningly, putting a hand on her yellow sleeve. I turn to see if anyone is within hearing distance. Thankfully there’s no one’s left in the pew behind us.
But Sachiko Ishida is just passing our row, arm in arm with Rose Collier. “You should see some of the new hats from Mexico City, they’re so dear! All decorated with feathers and flowers,” Sachi says loudly. “But Father says they’re far too gaudy. Only meant to draw attention, you know. Just like rouging your face. Only ladies of loose morals do that .”
“I hear girls in Dubai are wearing blouses separate from their skirts,” Rose adds in a scandalized whisper. “And sometimes trousers, just like men!”
Sachi gasps. “How positively indecent! I’d never go that far. Father says it’s only my womanly frailty that makes me wish for pretty things.” She catches me looking and winks a dark eye. “I shall have to pray harder to rid myself of sin.”
Is she joking? I’ve never seen the slightest indication that Sachi has a sense of humor. She is her father’s pet, a model of good behavior, and the most popular of the town girls. Her sixteenth birthday was a few weeks ago, and he threw her a grand garden party with croquet and chocolate cake. We were not invited.
I hold back a sigh. What I wouldn’t give to share in the freedoms of Arab girls. They’re allowed to inherit property and go to university; they’ve even been given the right to vote. But we never hear about witches living there. We never hear about witches anywhere . It seems like most of the world’s witches were drawn to New England by the promise of freedom—and within a few generations, they were all slaughtered.
Even if witches were allowed to live openly elsewhere, there’s no way for us to leave New England. Girls have more freedoms in the Spanish colonies to the south, but the borders are closed. All the borders are closed, except for official Brotherhood business and trade. Stowaways are punished as harshly as witches themselves.
Running away is impossible. We have to stay here and solve our problems. I reach into my pocket, where my fingers brush against the crumpled note from Z. R. It’s been nearly a week since I received the letter, but I’m no closer to figuring out her identity. I haven’t been able to find Mother’s diary, and there’s no mention in her correspondence of anyone whose name starts with a Z.
Who is Z. R.? And what sort of danger is she warning me about?
    Everyone from Chatham and the surrounding farms is here, stuffed into the wooden church; services are mandatory except for the very ill. Even when it became obvious that Mother was dying—and after, when the house was in deepest mourning—we weren’t granted a reprieve. Brother Ishida urged us to offer up our grief to the Lord. He promised it would prove our greatest consolation. I did not find much truth in that, myself.
    My eyes roam over my neighbors. The Brothers sit together in the first two pews. Their families sit behind them in places of honor. We are meant to shun worldly vices like pride and envy, but being married to one of the Brothers carries with it a certain cachet. Their wives are meek women with downcast eyes, but they dress well. Their wide bell skirts fan out around them, and their taffeta petticoats rustle when they shift. Puffed sleeves stand up on each shoulder—sentinels guarding their thoughts, lest anything shameful sneak in. And their daughters! They are pictures of garish girlishness in bright yellows and purples, pinks and emeralds, their hair in the new pompadour style instead of the simple chignons my sisters and I favor.
    A half-swallowed giggle catches my attention. Brother Malcolm pauses in his sermon on charity, frowning at proof that not everyone is wholly