Page 68 of The Year of the Witching

“You look so much like her,” said Sage wistfully. “I just knew you were Vera’s kin the moment I laid eyes on you.”

“Are you a Ward too?”

Sage shook her head. “Gods no. Just a road rat like most of those in Ishmel. I don’t think I would have ever settled down if I hadn’t met Vera.”

“And you’ve been...” Immanuelle searched for the right word. “Together, all this time?”

“Eleven years,” said Sage, with no small amount of pride. “I suppose you could say we’re very well matched.”

In truth, Immanuelle wasn’t entirely sure what Sage was trying to say, but she thought it might have something to do with the way that the Lovers clung to each other in the woods. Then there was the matter of the spare room, sparse and untouched, and the larger bedroom with two night tables instead of one and a mattress too big for a single person. “I’m glad she found you.”

Sage blushed, seeming touched. “Well, that’s very kind of you.”

Immanuelle sopped up a bit of egg yolk with a piece of fried corn cake. “Where is she?”

“Vera went to a council meeting in the village,” said Sage, leaning across the table to refill Immanuelle’s mug of tea. “She’ll be back soon, I’m sure. She won’t want to stay away long. Not while you’re here.”

A small silence. Immanuelle finished the last of the food on her plate. “Have you been touched by the plagues?”

Sage shook her head, then faltered. “Not in the same way you were. Our waters were only laced with blood for a few days. But we heard stories of the taint that afflicted Bethel. Once we founda woman, naked and mad with fever, roaming the mountain wilds just beyond Ishmel’s edge. Her head was cut with that mark your women wear, so we knew she was Bethelan. She died in the village, just a few days after we found her. Nothing the doctors did could ease her suffering. No tincture or herb could touch it.” She paused for a beat, frowning at the memory. “But we have not been made to endure the same horrors your people have. Whatever that evil is, it’s been largely contained in the borders of Bethel. But Vera thinks there’s a chance the contagion could spread to Ishmel, with time.”

“She’s wise to be cautious.”

Sage stood to clear her plates. “Vera is nothing if not that. But I do hope that you haven’t mistaken her wariness for malice. I know she’s... rather harsh at times, but she is happy to see you. I think she’s been waiting for you for so long that she doesn’t know what to do with herself or how to feel now that you’re here. But it’ll pass. You two just need a chance to acclimate to each other, that’s all.”

As if on cue, the front door swung open, and Vera entered. She slipped out of her coat, which, like the rest of her clothes, appeared cut for a man. She took a seat at the table and helped herself to the food Sage prepared. As she ate, she deftly dodged her partner’s questions about her morning, only offering nods and the occasional one-word answer when she was forced to speak.

Sage, perhaps realizing this was some subtle cue of dismissal, announced that she was going outside to feed the chickens and clean their coop. With her gone, a long silence lapsed between Vera and Immanuelle, broken only by the roaring of the hearth.

It was Vera who spoke first. “I can’t tell who you favor more: my boy or your mother.”

It was the first time she’d made mention of Daniel, and the significance of the moment wasn’t lost on either of them.

“I always hoped that I favored him,” said Immanuelle haltingly. “When I was little, I used to look in the mirror and try to imagine myself as a boy, so I’d know what he might’ve looked like.”

Vera’s expression was hard to read. She and Martha were so alike in their stoicism. “I wish I had a portrait to show you, but the Prophet’s Guard burned everything I had left of him.”

“Not everything,” Immanuelle said, and she stood up, walked to the door where she’d dropped her knapsack the night prior, and dug until she found her mother’s journal. She carried it back to the table, opened it to the page that contained the portrait of Daniel, then slid it across the table.

Vera took it, her hand shaking some, and stared down at the sketch for a long, long time in silence. “Your mother always had a good hand. This is him, all right. Just as I...” She shook her head. “Thank you. It’s been a long time since I’ve looked upon his face.”

“What... was he like?” Immanuelle said, unsure if it was a question she was allowed to ask. It seemed like such a grave and sacred thing, to ask a mother to resurrect the memory of her dead son. But Vera didn’t seem fazed.

“He was a quiet boy. Kind, though he didn’t seem like it upon first meeting.” Vera smiled down at the picture of her frowning son, traced the furrows in his brow with the tip of her finger. “I like to think that he saw the world for what it was. Most people can’t do that. Even prophets are blinded by their own vices. But not Daniel. He saw the truth in everything.”

Immanuelle took the book back, pressed a hand to the opposing page, putting pressure on the binding, and painstakingly ripped the portrait out of the journal, then slid it back to Vera. “Here. It ought to be yours.”

The woman shook her head. “He’s your kin too.”

“But I never had the chance to lose him. He was your son. You should have it.”

“I have my memories. Besides, this is your mother’s work.”

“It’s okay. Take it, please. As a gift for your hospitality.”

“Hospitality,” said Vera, and she laughed without a trace of humor. “Hospitality is putting food on the table for a stranger. It’s welcoming an acquaintance over for plum cobbler and tea. But this isn’t that. This is me doing what I should have done, years ago. I should have waited for you. I should have taken you with me—”

“It’s not your fault.”

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