Page 1 of The Year of the Witching

PARTI

Blood

CHAPTERONE

From the light came the Father. From the darkness, the Mother. That is both the beginning and the end.

—THEHOLYSCRIPTURES

IMMANUELLE MOORE KNELTat the foot of the altar, palms pressed together in prayer, mouth open. Above her, the Prophet loomed in robes of black velvet, his head shaved bristly, his bloodied hands outstretched.

She peered up at him—tracing the path of the long, jagged scar that carved down the side of his neck—and thought of her mother.

In a fluid motion, the Prophet turned from her, robes rustling as he faced the altar, where a lamb lay gutted. He put a hand to its head, then slipped his fingers deep into the wound. As he turned to face Immanuelle again, blood trickled down his wrist and disappeared into the shadows of his sleeve, a few of the droplets falling to the stained floorboards at his feet. He painted her with the blood, his fingers warm and firm as they trailed from the dip of her upper lip down to her chin. He lingered for a moment, as if to catch his breath, and when he spoke his voice was ragged. “Blood of the flock.”

Immanuelle licked it away, tasting brine and iron as she pressed to her feet. “For the glory of the Father.”

On her way back to her pew, she was careful not to spare aglance at the lamb. An offering from her grandfather’s flock, she’d brought it as a tribute the night before, when the cathedral was empty and dark. She had not witnessed the slaughter; she’d excused herself and retreated outside long before the apostles raised their blades. But she’d heard it, the prayers and murmurs drowned out by the cries of the lamb, like those of a newborn baby.

Immanuelle watched as the rest of her family moved through the procession, each of them receiving the blood in turn. Her sister Glory went first, dipping to her knees and obliging the Prophet with a smile. Glory’s mother Anna, the younger of the two Moore wives, took the blessing in a hurry, herding her other daughter, Honor, who licked the blood off her lips like it was honey. Lastly, Martha, the first wife and Immanuelle’s grandmother, accepted the Prophet’s blessing with her arms raised, fingers shaking, her body seized by the power of the Father’s light.

Immanuelle wished she could feel the way her grandmother did, but sitting there in the pew, all she felt was the residual warmth of the lamb’s blood on her lips and the incessant drone of her heartbeat. No angels roosted at her shoulders. No spirit or god stirred in her.

When the last of the congregation was seated, the Prophet raised his arms to the rafters and began to pray. “Father, we come to Thee as servants and followers eager to do Thy work.”

Immanuelle quickly bowed her head and squeezed her eyes shut.

“There may be those among us who are distant from the faith of our ancestors, numb to the Father’s touch and deaf to His voice. On their behalves, I pray for His mercy. I ask that they find solace not in the Mother’s darkness but in the light of the Father.”

At that, Immanuelle cracked one eye open, and for a moment, she could have sworn the Prophet’s gaze was on her. His eyes were wide open at the height of his prayer, staring at her in thegaps between bowed heads and shaking shoulders. Their eyes met, and his flicked away. “May the Father’s kingdom reign.”

The Prophet’s flock spoke as one:“Now and forevermore.”

IMMANUELLE LAY BYthe river’s edge with her friend, Leah, shoulder to shoulder, both of them drunk off the warmth of the midday sun. Yards away, the rest of the congregation gathered in fellowship. For most, the shadow of the Sabbath slaughter had already faded to a distant memory. All was peaceful and the congregation was content to abide in that.

At Immanuelle’s side, Leah shifted onto her back, peering into the thick banks of the clouds that loomed overhead. She was a vision, dressed in sky-blue chiffon, her skirts billowing gently with the breeze. “It’s a good day,” she said, smiling as the wind snatched her hair.

In the Scriptures and the stories, in the stained-glass windows of the cathedral or the paintings that hung from its stone walls, the angels always looked like Leah: golden-haired and blue-eyed, dressed in fine silks and satins, with full cheeks and skin as pale as river pearls.

As for the girls like Immanuelle—the ones from the Outskirts, with dark skin and raven-black curls, cheekbones as keen as cut stone—well, the Scriptures never mentioned them at all. There were no statues or paintings rendered in their likeness, no poems or stories penned in their honor. They went unmentioned, unseen.

Immanuelle tried to push these thoughts from her mind. She didn’t want to be jealous of her friend. If there was anyone in the world who deserved to be loved and admired, it was Leah. Leah with her patience and virtue. Leah, who, when all the other children at school had scorned Immanuelle as a child of sin, marchedacross the courtyard, took her firmly by the hand, and wiped her tears away with her sleeve.

Leah, her friend. The only one she had.

And Leah was right: Itwasa good day. It would have been nearly a perfect day, if not for the fact that it was one of the last of its kind, one of the last Sabbaths they would have together.

For years, every Sabbath, the two of them had met after the service ended. In the winter months, they’d huddle together in an empty pew at the back of the cathedral and gossip to pass the time. But in the warm seasons, Leah would bring a big picnic basket stuffed with pastries from her family’s bakery in the village. On good days, there’d be an assortment of biscuits and sweet breads, scones and cookies, and on the very best days, a bit of honeycomb or jam to go with them. Together, they’d find a spot by the stream and eat and gossip and giggle until their families called them home. Such had been their custom, as though on those long afternoons in the meadow, the world began and ended there at the riverside. But, like most good things Immanuelle knew, their custom was not made to last. In two weeks’ time, Leah was to marry the Prophet. On that day, once she was cut, she would no longer be Immanuelle’s companion, but his.

“I’ll miss days like this,” said Leah, breaking the silence. “I’ll miss the sweets and the Sabbath and being here with you.”

Immanuelle shrugged, plucking at blades of grass. Her gaze followed the path of the river down the sloping plains and through the reeds, until it spilled into the distant forest and disappeared, devoured by the shadows. There was something about the way the water trickled through the trees that made her want to get up and follow it. “Good things end.”

“Nothing’s ending,” Leah corrected her. “Everything’s just beginning. We’re growing up.”

“Growing up?” Immanuelle scoffed. “I haven’t even bled yet.”

It was true. She was nearly seventeen years old and she’d never once had her flow. All of the other girls her age had bled years ago, but not Immanuelle. Never Immanuelle. Martha had all but declared her barren months ago. She was not to bleed or be a wife or bear children. She would remain as she was now, and everyone else would grow up, pass her by, and leave her behind, as Leah would in a few short weeks. It was only a matter of time.

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