Page 7 of The Year of the Witching

Ezra raised an eyebrow. “And you’re here alone? You don’t have a chaperone?”

“I don’t need a chaperone,” she said, knowing it was a bending ofProtocol at best and a breach at worst, but she didn’t take Ezra for a snitch. She freed Judas from the lamppost and led him into the street. “I know the roads well enough to make the trip on my own.”

To her surprise, Ezra followed at her side, the crowds parting as he walked. “That’s a long way to travel alone. The Moore land is what? Nine miles away?”

“Ten.” Immanuelle was surprised he knew their land at all. Most didn’t. “And it’s no trouble at all. I leave after sunup and I’m here before noon.”

“And you don’t mind?” he asked.

Immanuelle shook her head, her grasp tightening on the lead rope as they crossed into the livestock sector. Even if she did, it wouldn’t matter. Her complaints and annoyances wouldn’t put food in her belly; they wouldn’t pay tithes or thatch the roof or cover the debts that were due in the fall. Only the wealthy had the luxury of minding things; the rest simply ducked their heads, bit their tongues, and did what needed to be done. Ezra obviously fell into the former category, and she the latter.

In truth, it was a surprise to find him in the market at all. As the Prophet’s successor, she imagined he’d have more important responsibilities than buying and bartering. Tasks like that were far beneath him. And yet, there he was, walking with her as if he was taking a Sabbath stroll, carrying books like the Prophet had sent him out on a servant’s errand.

Ezra caught her staring and extended one of his books, the bigger of the two, with the wordsThe Holy Scripturesembossed in gold across the cover. “Here. Have a look.”

Immanuelle shook her head, tugging Judas away from a pen of chickens. “We have our own copy of the Scriptures at home.”

Ezra cracked a half smile and glanced over his shoulder, slipping Judas’ lead rope from her hand. “These aren’t scriptures.”

Immanuelle took the book gingerly. On the outside, it looked just like the Scriptures, but when she flipped it open, there were no verses or psalms, but rather pictures, sketches and pressed ink prints of strange animals and looming trees, mountains, birds, and insects the likes of which she had never seen before. A few of the pages were etched with drawings of great kingdoms and temples, heathen cities in realms far beyond Bethel’s gate.

Just then, a loud jeering sounded above the din of the marketplace. Immanuelle raised her eyes to a break in the crowds and caught a glimpse of the lashing stocks. There, bound and muzzled and swaying on her feet, was a young blond woman, the same one whom Judith and her friend had gossiped about on the Sabbath—the poor girl who’d lured a local farmer into sin with seduction and harlotry.

At the sight of her, Immanuelle snapped Ezra’s book shut so fast and so hard, she almost dropped it in the muck of the street. She shoved it to his chest. “Take it back. Please.”

Ezra rolled his eyes, handing her Judas’ lead rope. “And here I thought a girl with the gall to dance with devils wouldn’t be frightened by such things.”

“I’m not frightened,” she lied, ears ringing with the shouts of the crowd. “But that book, it’s—”

“An encyclopedia,” he said. “A book of knowledge.”

Immanuelle knew full well there was only one book of knowledge, and it had no pictures. “It’s forbidden. A sin.”

Ezra studied her silently for a moment; then his gaze tracked across the market to the girl in the stocks, weeping and struggling against her chains. “Isn’t it strange how reading a book is a sin, but locking a girl in the stocks and leaving her to the dogs is another day of the Good Father’s work?”

Immanuelle stared at him, startled. “What?” She would havenever thought the Prophet’s own son—and the heir to the Church, no less—would say such a thing, even if it was true.

Ezra flashed that lopsided grin of his, but his gaze was dark. “I’ll see you on the Sabbath,” he said, and then, without so much as a nod, he took his leave.

CHAPTERTHREE

The dead walk among the living. This is the first truth, and the most important.

—THEHOLYSCRIPTURES

IMMANUELLE DID NOTsell the yearling that day. She bargained, she haggled, she called to the passing townsfolk and did all she could to be rid of the ram, but no one wanted him. There would be no new dress for Glory, no shoes for Honor or tithes to pay the Prophet.

She’d failed.

The main road was almost empty when Immanuelle abandoned her market post and began the long journey back to the Glades. As she walked, her thoughts went to that harlot in the stocks. The memory of the girl—shackled and weak-kneed and so young, mumbling pleas through her muzzle—haunted her, even as she tried to force it from her mind and focus on her journey home.

She walked on. The sun sank low to the horizon and a black storm swept across the plains. Rain slashed down from the clouds, and the wind howled about her like something alive.

Immanuelle picked up her pace, pulling the strap of her knapsack higher and tugging Judas along. He fought her at every step, black hooves tripping over the cobblestones, eyes rolling. She tried to talk him down above the thunder, but he wouldn’t heed her.

As they crossed from the main road to the dirt path that cut across the Glades, a bolt of lightning cleaved the clouds. Judas reared with such force that Immanuelle lost her footing and slipped on the rain-slick cobbles. A bone-bruising bolt of pain split between her ribs and kicked the air from her lungs. She gasped, squatting in the muck as Judas shook his head about wildly.

“Easy,” she wheezed, struggling to get back on her feet. “Easy there.”

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