Page 67 of The Year of the Witching

“They’re still in Bethel.”

It was Vera who spoke next. “Do they know that you’re here?”

“No.”

Vera leaned forward—legs parted, forearms braced on her kneecaps the way a man might sit. “And do they knowwhyyou left?”

Immanuelle shook her head, rushing to explain herself. “I didn’t tell them where I was going or that you’re here. I wouldn’t have betrayed your privacy that way.”

Vera appraised her by the wan candlelight as if trying to determine whether or not she was telling the truth. “Were you followed?”

Immanuelle started to shake her head, then faltered.

Vera’s eyes sparked with frustration. “It’s a simple question: Were you followed? Yes or no?”

“I was... but only at first. The Prophet’s Guard stopped pursuing me as soon as I got beyond the gate. I didn’t see another soul on the road until I came upon Ishmel.”

To this, Vera said nothing. She stood and took a pipe from its box on the mantel, filled the bowl with snuff from a pretty tin, and lit up. She fixed her eyes on Immanuelle. Exhaled a mouthful of smoke. “Why did you come?”

“Vera,”said Sage, a rebuke cut through gritted teeth. “Maybe you ought to let the girl rest before the interrogation begins?”

“We need to know why she’s here.”

“Look at her, V. She’s yours. She’s here for you. Or are you so jaded that you can’t see your own kin when they’re sitting right in front of you?”

Vera’s eyes narrowed behind a veil of pipe smoke.

“Please,” said Immanuelle, weary and weak. The quilt around her shoulders felt as heavy as a stone-filled knapsack. “I have no one else. Just let me explain myself, and if you want no part of me after that, I promise I’ll leave.”

Vera studied her for a long beat. A muscle in her jaw flexed and spasmed. “It’s late. Whatever you’ve come to say will have to wait until the morning. Sage.” She turned to her companion. “Prepare the room.”

CHAPTERTHIRTY-ONE

To be a woman is to be a sacrifice.

—FROMTHEWRITINGS OFTEMAN, THEFIRSTWIFE OF THETHIRDPROPHET,OMAAR

TUCKED INTO BED,under a thick covering of quilts and bearskins, Immanuelle lay awake listening to the hushed tones of chatter on the other side of the wall. The conversation between Vera and her companion sounded like the rapid-fire beginnings of an argument, but their hissing whispers made it difficult to distinguish anything more than a few words.

“Dangerous” was one that came up often. “Obligation” was another.

Immanuelle closed her eyes, trying not to cry. She wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting to find upon arriving in Ishmel, but it wasn’t this. Perhaps she had been naive to expect a warmer welcome. After all, shared blood didn’t negate the fact that she and Vera were strangers. Still, Immanuelle had hoped that her arrival would be met with something more than outright coldness. Her disappointment, when coupled with the sting of Martha’s betrayal, was almost too much to bear. To be shunned by one grandmother—the woman who had raised her like a daughter—was bad enough. But to be cast aside by another, mere days later, seemed like a particularly cruel punishment.

The night wore on, but she didn’t feel tired, due perhaps to the disorientation caused by the never-ending night. Without the rise and fall of the sun, she found that she was often caught in the limbo between waking and sleeping.

To pass the time, Immanuelle let her gaze roam around the bedroom. It was a well-kept place, tastefully decorated, with mirrors and little paintings hanging on the walls. The dozen candles that cluttered the top of the dresser were unlit, but the cast-iron stove in the corner glowed softly, limning the room with a haze of firelight. If the dust on the nightstand was any indication at all, the bedroom was rarely used. This struck Immanuelle as odd, given that it was the second of two in the house.

Eventually, she fell into a fitful slumber—filled with the sort of thin dreams that are prone to fading the moment one becomes conscious again. She didn’t know how long she slept, but when she woke, it was to darkness and the smell of fresh-fried bacon.

Immanuelle sat up and slipped out of bed, surprised to see that she was dressed in a thick nightgown, though she had no memory of changing out of her damp travel clothes. There was a knit shawl draped over the headboard, and she wrapped it around her shoulders before leaving the bedroom. The parlor was candlelit, aglow with kerosene lamps and a wrought iron chandelier that dangled from the ceiling by a thick chain. In the far corner of the room, a cast-iron stove, which Sage stood in front of, humming a trilling song that sounded far livelier than any hymn Immanuelle knew.

Sage turned to set a platter on the table and startled at the sight of her. “You’re just as soft-footed as Vera. I can never hear when she’s approaching.”

“Forgive me,” said Immanuelle, stalling in the space between the parlor and the kitchen, unsure of where to go or what to do.

Sage waved her off with a smile. “Please, eat.”

Immanuelle obeyed, settling herself in front of a large plate of eggs and thick-cut bacon, roast potato, and fat-fried corn cake. She was famished, and she ate like it, but Sage seemed delighted by her ravenous appetite.

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