Page 53 of The Year of the Witching

The Prophet raised the cup of sheep’s milk—eyeing her above the rim as he drank—then he set it down and licked the froth off his upper lip. “You and I are alike in that. Both of us have our flocks to tend.”

“I daresay your calling is greater than mine.”

“I wouldn’t.” The Prophet’s gaze hung on her for a moment; then he coughed violently into the crook of his arm. It took him some time to catch his breath. “Do you know why I’ve come here today?”

“To hear my confession and tell me how to absolve my sins.”

“And do you think it’s that simple? Do you think sin can simply be wiped away with a few minutes’ penance and a sorry heart?”

“Not all sins, no.”

“What about the sin of witchcraft?” The Prophet’s voice was measured, but his eyes held a malice that almost made her shudder.

Immanuelle fought to keep her face expressionless. “The sin of witchcraft is punishable by pyre purging.”

“And have you ever engaged in such a sin?” the Prophet asked, gently, like he was trying to coax the truth from her. “Have you ever conjured spells or curses?”

Immanuelle stiffened. The image of the seals and sigils carved into the cabin walls flashed through her mind. If casting a curse was punishable by death, what was the punishment for being the curse’s harbinger? “Of course not.”

“Have you kept company with the denizens of the Darkwood, as your mother once did?”

Rage burned through her, but she pushed it down. “I’m not my mother. Sir.”

The Prophet stared down at his hands, and there was something odd in his eyes. Bitterness? Regret? She couldn’t parse it. “That’s not an answer, Ms. Moore.”

Immanuelle was terrified to lie, but she knew the truth would damn her. Besides, what were her deceptions compared to those of the Prophet and the Church? If she must lie, it would be for the sake of her life, and the same couldn’t be said for them. “I know nothing of the woods or the sins of my mother. I was raised to keep the faith.”

The Prophet started to respond, but another fit of coughing cut him short. He hacked into his sleeve for a long while, wheezing and gasping for air. When his fit finally ended, he lowered hisarm, and Immanuelle saw a small red stain in the crook of his elbow. “What of lechery?”

Immanuelle stiffened. “What?”

“Whoring, fornication, adultery, lust.” He counted the crimes on his fingers. “Surely you know your sins and Scriptures if you keep the faith, like you claim to.”

Immanuelle’s cheeks warmed. “I know those sins.”

“And do you partake in them?”

She should have been afraid, but what welled up within her now was contempt—for him, for the Church, for anyone who would cast stones at others while hiding sins of their own. “No.”

The Prophet leaned forward in his chair, elbows on the table, fingers steepled. “So you mean to say you’ve never been in love?”

“Never.”

“Then you are pure, of heart and flesh?”

She began to tremble in her seat. “I am.”

There was a long beat of silence.

“Do you say your prayers at night?”

“Yes,” she lied.

“Do you mind your tongue and keep vile words off your lips?”

“I do.”

“Do you honor your elders?”

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