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

pleas of wicked girls.
    I do not feel brave. I feel small and frightened and furious. I have enough on my plate without worrying about some damned prophecy made a hundred years ago. I came to this diary looking for help, for guidance, and instead Mother’s heaped more responsibility onto my head. But there was more. Perhaps some of it’s actually useful. Something to tell me what I ought to do, besides cowering here in the corner.
I pick up the diary again.
You will be hunted by those who would use you for their own ends. You must be very, very careful. You cannot trust anyone with your secrets.
    There is more, and it is worse. I have been frightened to write it all here, lest it fall into the wrong hands. You must seek answers. Those who love knowledge for its own sake will help. Until you knowthe whole truth of the prophecy, you must not share it with anyone. I am so sorry I am not there to protect you, but I trust you to take care of Maura and Tess for me.
Love always,
     
Mother
     
I hurl the diary across the room. It hits the wall with a satisfying crack.
    It’s rare that I’ve let myself feel angry with Mother. She’s dead; she can’t defend herself. But now I’m shaking with it. How could she? How could she die and leave me here to deal with all of this alone?
My magic rises, baited by my fury. I haven’t lost control in years, not since the episode with Mrs. Corbett and the sheep, but now I’m tempted to let go.
I could smash everything in this room and take pleasure in the breaking.
But I don’t.
I’d only have to fix it before Father or Mrs. O’Hare saw.
I close my eyes. I take deep breaths, the way Mother taught me.
When I feel convinced of my own calm, I pick up the diary. I go back and reread the last page. It’s mad. Perhaps Mother was delirious when she wrote it. Even if she’s correct—even if there is such a prophecy—there must be other sisters who are witches. Other girls who can do mind-magic besides me. I’m not that powerful.
An uncomfortable voice niggles at me. Howdo you know? You don’t knowwhat other witches are capable of, it points out logically. You don’t even know any other witches. I’ve always known more must exist besides Mother and my sisters and me, but I’ve never met one. At least, I’ve never met one who’s admitted what she was. I went to Sunday school with Brenna Elliott, and Marguerite and Gwen and Betsy. But I never saw any signs of magic in them, and most of the Brothers’ claims seem rather dubious—
Fear prickles my arms with gooseflesh. What if it’s true? What if it is me?
If I’m fated to bring about the resurgence of the witches’ power—if the Brothers found out, they would kill me. Immediately and without trial. They would believe they were doing it for the good of New England. Perhaps they’d make an example of all three of us—burn us at the stake, or hang us in the town square, the way they did in Great-Grandmother’s day. They stopped because normal people began to object to the brutality of it. But they’d bring those methods back to show their strength, to frighten witches and normal girls alike into submission. I have no doubt they’re capable of it.
How can I have that on my head?
I curl into myself, wishing there were someone else who could take this burden for me.
Mother must have written more. She couldn’t leave me like this, without telling me what to do ! I find the magic coiled inside my chest, waiting. “Acclaro,” I whisper. I turn the pages frantically, hoping that more words will appear in the black endpapers.
Nothing happens. I say it again, louder, and push down the tide of rising panic. I scrutinize each page, waiting for a message to leap out at me. But there’s nothing added to the blank pages at the beginning or end—no secret words crisscrossing the other entries, nothing circled or underlined in code. Nothing at all.
I feel for a trace of her magic, but I don’t sense anything. Did her strength fail before