Page 75 of The Year of the Witching

“Move along,” the guard ordered.

Immanuelle staggered up the stone steps to the altar, her muddy feet slipping beneath her. Someone laughed when she fell and bruised her knees on the stairs. The guard shoved the torch closer, mere inches above her shoulder blades, and the flames seared the back of her neck. “Hurry up. You’re making a spectacle of yourself.”

Pushing to her feet, Immanuelle limped the rest of the way up to the altar, the apostles splitting apart to make room for her. There, she stood before the congregation, head lowered, hands clasped in front of her. She was reminded of how, just a few months prior, on a very different day, Leah had stood in the same spot, back when life still had a little joy.

The doors of the cathedral slammed shut, and it was all Immanuelle could do to choke back her tears. The congregation blurred and doubled before her eyes. They all stared up at her with the same dead gaze, the same scowls and sneers. She knew then that they would vote to send her to the purging pyre, no matter what she said. Their minds were already made up. The trial was just a formality. She’d fought so hard to save them all from Lilith’s plagues, and now they would watch her burn. Vera was right—there was nothing she could do to earn their favor. But she had to save them just the same. And to do that, she would have to prove her innocence. Because if they deemed her guilty and damned her to the purging pyre as punishment for her sins, she would never get the chance to cast the reversal sigil.

For Bethel’s survival, and her own, she would have to fight for her innocence.

The Prophet emerged from the back of the cathedral and staggered down the center aisle, pausing every few steps to bracehimself on the back of a pew and catch his breath. After a long, grueling walk to the altar, he turned to address his flock. “We are gathered here for the trial of Immanuelle Moore, who has been accused of witchcraft, murder, sorcery, thieving, whoring, and holy treason against the Good Father’s Church.”

The congregation jeered.

“Today, we will hear her confession. We will judge her not according to the passions of our hearts, but by the laws of our Father and Holy Scriptures. Only then may she find true forgiveness. Let the trial commence.”

CHAPTERTHIRTY-FOUR

If you have any honor, any semblance of kindness or decency, then spare her. Spare her, please.

—THEFINALCONFESSIONOFDANIELWARD

THE FIRST WITNESSto testify was Abram Moore. He staggered forward, leaning heavily on his cane, his face a picture of pain as he hobbled into the shadow of the altar.

Immanuelle didn’t expect him to meet her eyes, but he did. “I’m here to testify... on behalf of myself and... my wife Martha Moore. Immanuelle is my granddaughter... the child of Miriam Moore who died the... day Immanuelle was born. She had no living father so... I raised her... as my own. She bears... my name.”

“Did you raise her to be what she is?” Apostle Isaac asked, moving toward the altar. He was the apostle who had replaced Abram in the wake of Miriam’s disgrace, and Immanuelle could not help but wonder if he relished the opportunity to best his rival once again.

“I raised her to... fear the Father,” said Abram. “And... I believe she does.”

There was a collective gasp, but Abram pressed on. “She’s just... a child.”

Apostle Isaac moved to the edge of the altar. He stared downat Abram with a look of such naked contempt, it made Immanuelle cringe.

But Abram didn’t waver.

“I would remind you of the words of our Holy Scriptures,” said the apostle, speaking slowly, as if he thought Abram simple. “Blood begets blood. That’s the price of sin.”

“I know the Father’s... Scriptures. And I know that... clemency is extended to those who are not of sound mind... or heart.”

“She is sound,” the apostle snapped. “We spoke at length.”

“The girl has... her mother’s sickness.”

“Her mother’s only sickness was witchery.”

This was met with applause. Men at the back of the crowd raised their fists to the rafters, yelling for blood and burning.

“Sin can be an affliction... real as any,” said Abram. He turned to appeal directly to the flock. “Sin has come upon us in the form... of these plagues, and yet... we don’t punish ourselves. We don’t lay... the whip... against our own backs.”

Apostle Isaac interrupted, “That’s because we aren’t to blame. We are victims of this evil. But that girl”—he pointed toward Immanuelle with a shaking finger—“is the source of it. She’s a witch. She conjured the curses that have ravaged these lands, and yet you would see her walk among us? You would set her free?”

“I would not free her... here,” said Abram. “I would release her... to the wilds. Banish her from Bethel. Let her... make a life for herself beyond the wall.”

Apostle Isaac opened his mouth to refute him, but the Prophet raised a hand for silence. He brushed past the apostle as if he was little more than a hanging curtain. “Thank you for your witness, brother Abram. We accept your truth with gratitude.”

As Abram shuffled back to his seat, the Prophet cast his gazeback to the people, scanning the pews. “Are there others who wish to offer witness?”

A small, thin voice sounded at the back of the cathedral. “There are.”

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