Page 52 of The Year of the Witching

“Are fine,” said Martha, wiping a spatter of chicken blood off her cheek.

“Then what is the occasion?”

“We have company.” Martha lifted the feathered corpse from the dirt. “The Prophet’s here, and he’s asked to speak to you.”

Immanuelle’s heart seized. “Did he say why?”

Martha wiped her hands and the axe blade clean on the edge of her apron. “He says he’s come for confession. I hear they’ve been in the Outskirts since dawn—him and his heir—going house to house, letting the sick have their say in case the end comes. So they’re here for Honor and Glory.” She looked up at Immanuelle. “But I suppose, in his kindness, he wants to hear your confession too.”

Her heart began to race, her knees went soft, and she fought with everything she had to temper her mounting panic. Her fear wouldn’t save her now. Whatever the Prophet wanted, he’d come to collect. There was no running away, and she refused to cower in the face of what couldn’t be changed. Squaring her shoulders, she started toward the farmhouse.

“Wait,” said Martha.

Immanuelle paused, one hand on the door’s knob. “Yes?”

“Weeks ago, the night you came back from the forest, I was harsh with you. I hope you can forgive me.”

Immanuelle swallowed. Her palms were slick with sweat. “Of course.”

Martha offered her something almost like a smile. “You scared me when you went into the Darkwood that night. I thought we’d lost you—the way we did Miriam.”

“But she came back.”

“No, she didn’t. When she returned she brought the Darkwood back with her. That’s why I was so afraid when you returned... but I shouldn’t have allowed my fear to make me cruel. That was a sin, and I’m sorry.”

“You were only doing what you thought was right.”

“Which doesn’t mean much if I was wrong,” said Martha, andshe nodded toward the farmhouse. “Go now, confess your sins, as I have mine. The Prophet’s waiting.”

THE PROPHET SATat the head of the family table, filling Abram’s place. He had his hands clasped like he planned to pray, but when Immanuelle entered the room he smiled and gestured to Martha’s chair at the opposite end of the table. “I’m glad you’re home safely.”

Immanuelle sat down. “By His grace.”

Across the room, Ezra stood behind his father, shoulders squared, hands clasped at his back. Even though Immanuelle sat in his line of view, he barely registered her presence. And while she knew this was part of their oath—to put the past behind them for his sake and hers—it still hurt to see Ezra look at her like she was little more than a stranger.

The Prophet leaned back into his seat, and its spokes groaned as he shifted. Immanuelle could have sworn he looked a little anxious. His gaze flickered over her, searching as ever, but more tentative than it had been in weeks past, when he’d made no attempt to curb his stare. He nodded toward her knapsack. “What do you have in there?”

“Herbs,” she said, hoping the waver in her voice wouldn’t betray her. “For my sisters.”

“Your grandmother tells me you’re quite the nurse.”

“I do what I can.”

“As we all must,” he said.

Upstairs, Glory unleashed a shriek that echoed through the house. The Prophet’s smile dimmed at the sound. He turned to Immanuelle and started to speak again, when the back door creaked open and Martha entered with two bloodied chickens, Anna at her heels. They started on dinner, plucking the birds,cutting the vegetables, trying to pretend they weren’t listening as they went about their work. A look of irritation flickered over the Prophet’s face. He cast his gaze toward the kitchen, raising his voice above the din of clattering pots and pans. “Might we have a moment alone?”

Anna stopped in the middle of peeling a carrot. Strips of orange rind drifted to the floor as she turned to face them. Martha put a hand on her shoulder, and the two of them curtsied and scurried from the room.

The Prophet tipped his head to his son. “You too.”

Ezra tensed, then nodded, stepping from behind his father’s chair. He brushed past Immanuelle without a glance in her direction and started for the stairs.

As Ezra’s footsteps faded to silence, the Prophet’s gaze returned to her. He studied her with sharp intent, as if he was trying to commit the details of her face to memory. His gaze was so keen she could almost feel it, like a cold finger tracing along her brow, the seam between her lips, then down her neck to the crook of her collarbones. She froze, afraid that the slightest flinch could betray her for what she was: the plague’s harbinger, heretic to the Church, a pawn to witches.

“You’re a shepherdess, are you not?”

She nodded. “I tend to my grandfather’s flock.”

---