Page 81 of The Year of the Witching

Her words were met with silence. Dead, thick, sickening silence.

“I stand before you as a killer, and a liar, and a sinner through and through. I have dishonored my family name. I have dishonored the Scriptures, the Prophet, and the Good Father.”

Immanuelle paused, meeting Martha’s gaze for the briefest moment.

“I have walked the path of sin,” Immanuelle continued. “I have spoken to the beasts of the Darkwood in their foul tongue. I have defied the Father’s Protocol and lived in reproach of his reign. I have read in secret. I have seduced men of the Good Faith with my wiles and turned their hearts. I have broken the holy conduct of meekness and modesty and spoken out of turn. I have practiced witchcraft in the shadows. I have befriended evil and shunned the good that’s come to me. For these sins, I ask your forgiveness that the Father might—in His mercy—purge my soul of darkness. This is my final confession.”

Again, there was silence, save for the rhythmic echo of the Prophet’s footsteps as he walked alongside the altar and raised a hand to Immanuelle’s head, his fingers tangling through her curls. “Thank you for your witness, child. It is well heard.”

The flock said nothing. They waited, openmouthed, hungry for a sentencing. For news of a proper pyre execution, a live purging as the law of the Scripture would demand.

But if it was blood they wanted, they would not get it that day. For their Prophet had other plans. Plans he had made plain to Immanuelle—plans that would see Bethel laid to ruin if it meant keeping power in the palm of his hand.

“The Father has spoken to me through the Sight.” The Prophet’s hand fell from Immanuelle’s head as he moved to stand before the altar. “I have seen his children walk the plains and the woods beyond them freely. I have seen the sun rise above the land and chase away the shadows. I have seen the Father’s holy eye upon us once more.”

To this, there were shouts of praise and glory.

The Prophet raised his voice above their cries. “But there’s a price for the bounty and blessings I’ve seen.”

Apostle Isaac pushed forward, his eyes bright with frenzy. “Whatever price, we will pay it!” He turned to face the congregation. “For the glory of the Father?”

The flock shouted in answer.“For the glory of the Father!”

The Prophet raised his hands for silence. Sweat dampened his brow, and the muscles in his neck pulled taut, as if he was fighting to drag the words from his throat. “The Father has demanded that we raze the Darkwood and take dominion over it.”

Another cry rose from the flock. There was rapturous applause. A few of the people in the front pews fell to their knees, their hands raised to the heavens.

“To do this,” the Prophet pressed on, “to take dominion of what is ours to claim, we must overcome the darkness that resides in every one of us in different measures. We mustn’t be afraid to purge it, as David Ford did in the height of the Holy War, when he called the Father’s fire from the heavens.” He paused a moment for effect. “That is why on the dawn of the coming Sabbath, I will wed Immanuelle Moore and purge her of evil. I willcarve the holy seal into her brow. Then—and only then—will the curse be broken.”

Immanuelle felt the air shift. There wasn’t a single sound. Not the squall of a baby or the whine of a child. Not a breath, not a heartbeat.

“You would offer her mercy?” Apostle Isaac demanded, his face twisted with revulsion. “You would offer this witch a place at your side as a reward for her sins and crimes?”

“I would offer my own life in exchange for an end to these plagues. Whatever the Father demands of me, I will give it, if it means an end to our suffering.” The Prophet ran a hand over his head, as if buying the time he needed to collect himself. But when he spoke again, his voice blasted between the rafters. “We have purged, and we have burned, and we are all the worse for it. Sending the girl to the pyre will not end our suffering. She is bound to the Darkness of the Mother, in body and soul, so we must find a way to break that unholy tie. Now I have prayed, lain prostrate at the feet of the Father that He might give me an answer... show me a way to dispel this evil that has fallen upon Bethel through her, and He has given me an answer. There is but one way to purge ourselves of the evil this witch has cast: a sacred seal between bride and husband, husband and Holy Father. To atone for her sins, she must be bound to me. It’s the only way.”

The Prophet turned to face Immanuelle again, his chest inches from the altar’s edge. “Do you accept the terms of your sentencing?”

There was silence in the cathedral. The dark pressed in against the windows.

The end was close now.

Immanuelle bowed her head, arms wrapped around her stomach as if to hold her bones together. Raising her gaze to meet the Prophet’s, she sealed her fate. “I do.”

CHAPTERTHIRTY-SEVEN

The last time I saw him he was bound to the pyre’s stake, arms pinned behind his back, head hung. He did not look at me. Even when I called his name above the roar of the flames, he did not look.

—MIRIAMMOORE

IMMANUELLE DIDN’T RETURNto her cell that night. Instead, after her trial had concluded, she was surrendered to the Prophet’s wives, who ferried her off through the black, back to the Haven and the cloistered quarters where she would remain until the day of her cutting.

It was Leah’s room. Immanuelle nearly laughed at the irony of it when she saw her name painted across the rail of the door. The chamber was now sparsely furnished, not a trace of her left. There was a large bed on an iron frame. Beside it was a table that housed a basin, pitcher, and palm-size copy of the Holy Scriptures. Above the bed, a barred window with a padlock on its latch. A candle flickered on a small table by the door, throwing long shadows across the walls.

Immanuelle slipped out of her ragged dress and tossed it into the corner of the bedroom. She retrieved a fresh nightgown from a trunk at the foot of the bed. Exhausted, she climbed under the sheets and drew the blankets up to her chin.

She closed her eyes, trying to block out the howls that echoed through the swirling darkness outside. The plague had a life andmind of its own, and, much like the Darkwood, it spoke to her, whispering against her windowpanes, luring her into the black. She was almost tempted to succumb to it, abandon all the horrors that lay before her—contrition and the cutting knife, the Prophet’s wedding bed. Let the darkness make nothing of it all. When the power of the plagues was hers to wield, perhaps she would do just that. Call forth the night, let it drown everything in its wake. It scared her how much she liked the idea, how tempted she was to make it a reality.

The sound of the door creaking open drew Immanuelle from the maze of her thoughts. Before she had the chance to sit up, Esther Chambers slipped into the room.

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