Page 56 of The Year of the Witching

There were scores of corpses, slumped over the pews and crammed into the adjacent aisles, heaped beneath the stained-glass windows and in the shadow of the altar. All of them were mangled and ravaged, limbs twisted, heads skewed, jaws broken open.

Among the throng of the dead were faces she recognized. Judith lay in the pew at her side, her throat slashed above her collar. A few feet away, Martha lay facedown in a puddle of blood. By her side, Abram, his neck twisted on its axis. Cradled in his broken arms was Anna, her lips smeared ink black with blood. At her feet, Glory and Honor lay motionless, as if asleep, but their eyes were open, their mouths agape, as if they’d been struck down in the middle of a prayer. Leah lay stretched across the altar, her pregnant belly carved open like a gutting lamb’s. High above her, bolted to the wall with the sword of David Ford himself, was Ezra.

Immanuelle’s knees buckled. The floor went soft beneath her feet. She pitched forward, tripping over the cobbles. “What have you done?”

Candlelight played over Miriam’s face. That terrible smile of hers widened, like a wound ripping open. She began to laugh. “You know what this is.”

Overhead, the ceiling bowed, stones grinding like thecathedral was collapsing in on itself. Immanuelle staggered back, but there was nowhere to run. “Why? Why would you do this?”

“Because they took him from me,” Miriam whispered, and at the sound of her voice the candlelight died, plunging the room into darkness. “Blood for blood.”

CHAPTERTWENTY-SIX

A child is a gift greater than any other.

—FROMTHEWRITINGS OF THEPROPHETENECH

GET UP.” IMMANUELLEwoke to the glow of lamplight and the harsh cut of Martha’s silhouette in her doorway.

Immanuelle snapped to attention, the memories of the massacre flooding back to her—the bodies, the blood, the slaughter.

“Ezra’s here from the Haven.”

“Again?” Immanuelle asked, her voice thick and hoarse with sleep. “Whatever for?”

Martha snatched her cloak off its hook on the wall and tossed it to her. “Leah’s in labor and she’s bleeding badly.”

“But she’s not due for weeks—”

Martha wheeled to face her. “You knew?”

Immanuelle fumbled with the buttons of her dress. “Yes, but she only told me a few weeks ago. I wanted to let you know, but she made me swear to keep the secret and—”

Martha raised a hand for silence. “Now is not the time for your confession. We need to go to the Haven. I’ll need your help at the birthing bed and Leah needs you too.”

MARTHA AND IMMANUELLErushed to the Haven by the light of the purging pyres. Ezra rode ahead of them on horseback, galloping across the Glades. By the time they arrived at the Haven’s gate, he was waiting for them. Immanuelle hopped out of the wagon before it slowed to a stop and broke toward him, sprinting through the rolling smoke of the pyres. He ushered them into the foyer and down the hall toward the bridal ward.

Let her live,Immanuelle prayed, to the Father, to the beasts of the Darkwood, to the witches, to whoever was willing to heed her.Please, let Leah live.

After a walk that felt leagues long, they entered into a ward Immanuelle didn’t recognize. Here, the cries of the blight sick faded to silence and only one voice sounded above the rest. A wet, gargling wail that slapped against the walls and echoed.

Immanuelle’s hands began to shake.

“This is as far as I go,” Ezra said, and his gaze fell to Immanuelle. “Be strong.”

She started to respond, but Martha cut her short. “Tell your father I’m here.”

Ezra nodded and, without another parting word, left.

Martha started forward ahead of Immanuelle, murmuring a prayer under her breath as she opened the door. They entered the room together. It was small, all aglow with firelight. The air thick with the scent of sweat and wood smoke. Toward the back of the room, speaking in harsh, urgent tones, were Leah’s mother and a few of her older half sisters. Their eyes were bloodshot and almost all of them were weeping.

At the center of the room—crowded by a throng of theProphet’s wives—was the bed where Leah lay, writhing. She wore nothing but a thin nightdress, its skirts pulled up to her armpits. Between her thighs was a dark puddle of blood. Her belly was swollen and striped with stretch marks that looked like knife wounds, badly scarred. The child turned within her, and each violent contraction elicited a scream from Leah that seemed to tear the air in two.

Martha paled. Her gaze turned to Ezra’s mother, Esther, who stood behind the headboard. She wore a long, bloodstained smock and her hair was pulled back into a fallen bun. It was the first time Immanuelle had seen her looking anything less than pristine.

“How long has she been like this?”

“Two days.”

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