Page 82 of The Year of the Witching

Ezra’s mother wore a long, fog-colored nightdress and robe. Her hair was heaped atop her head and pinned in place with two golden combs. As she stepped into the light of the oil lamp, Immanuelle saw that her skin was pale, her lips colorless.

“They’re going to burn my boy,” she said. “They’re going to send him to the pyre.”

Immanuelle opened her mouth to respond, but Esther cut her short.

“They’ve charged him with conspiring against the Church and holy treason.”

“I’m so sorry,” Immanuelle whispered.

“I don’t want your condolences,” she said, the timbre of her voice keen and high like a plucked harp string. “All I want is for you to know that if you let my boy die in the name of your sins, I’ll make sure you follow him.”

Immanuelle’s cheeks burned with shame. “Ezra is not going to die. The Prophet told me that he would be spared. He gave me his word.”

“His words mean nothing,” said Esther bitterly. “Less than nothing. I don’t want to know about false hope and promises. Iwant to know howyouintend to save my son. How will you set him free?”

Immanuelle had been careful, so careful, to keep every detail of her scheme a secret. She’d made no mention of her plans to carve the reversal sigil and dutifully played the part of the meek and broken bride-to-be. But with Esther standing there so desperate and afraid, her conscience provoked her to offer some small assurance, enough to let her know that Ezra wasn’t alone. “After I’m cut, I have plans to free him. But I’ll need your help to do it.”

Esther glanced over her shoulder toward the door. When she spoke again, it was in a whisper. “What do you need me to do?”

“Tell me where he is. I need to see him tonight, before his sentencing, so he’s ready when the time comes.”

“Ezra’s in the library with Leah’s daughter. The doors aren’t locked, but the halls are patrolled by two guards. I can distract them, buy you some time.”

“That’s all I need.”

IMMANUELLE WAITED UNTILthe echo of Esther’s footsteps faded to silence before she crept across her bedroom, drew a shawl around her shoulders, and slipped into the hall. She found it odd that there was no bolt on her door—given that only hours before she’d been chained to a cell wall in the catacombs—but then she remembered, she wasn’t a prisoner anymore. She was a prize lamb, a treasure, the Prophet’s newest bride-to-be.

Besides, he knew she wouldn’t run. She was bound to the Haven, bound to her promise—to the Prophet, to the flock, to Ezra. The time for fleeing was over. What was left to be finished would be finished in Bethel.

Immanuelle padded barefoot down the Haven’s main corridor, careful to keep to the shadows. When she passed the windows,the darkness rushed to meet her, threatening to break the glass and flood the corridors within. She tried to ignore it, but its call rang through her head like a bell’s toll, and she could feel its pull deep in her belly, reeling her into the night.

Halfway down the hall, she paused before a tall stained-glass window, staring into the darkness. “What do you want from me?”

At the sound of her voice, the dark moved like water, rippling and doubling, turning in on itself. Immanuelle raised her fingers to the window, the glass cold beneath her hand. The shadows rose to meet her, and in them she saw a startling reflection. The girl who stared back at her had her features—the same dark eyes and full lips, the firm nose and pinched chin—but every detail was exaggerated, every attribute refined. She was beautiful and keen, and there was a defiant strength in the way she stood, shoulders squared, chin tilted. And there was something in her gaze that made her...more. It was as if the girl in the darkness was everything Immanuelle had ever hoped to be.

She pressed her hand to Immanuelle’s, so there was nothing but glass between them. Immanuelle shifted closer to the window, and the girl in the dark beckoned, almost coyly, to the window’s latch. Immanuelle reached for it, and the girl pressed herself to the pane, drawing so close her lips brushed the glass.

Immanuelle pulled the iron handle and the window swung open. A blast of winter wind rushed into the hallway, snuffing the lamps and candles. Night poured through the open window and the corridor went dark.

There was the distant clamor of footsteps. A voice: “Who goes there?”

Turning her back on the darkness, Immanuelle ran—fleeing the guards and the hallway and the girl who haunted the black.

It didn’t take her long to find the old cathedral, where the library was housed. Padding across the cold stone floors, she duckeddown the hall to make sure the doors were unguarded. The corridor was empty.

Relieved, Immanuelle started forward. She was halfway to the library doors when she heard footsteps. She turned and found a guard standing before her, a long blade hanging on his belt. And he was looking right at her.

“Easy,” he said. As he stepped into the torchlight, Immanuelle realized he was one of the men she’d journeyed back to Bethel with. The only guardsman who’d shown her any kindness. His gaze went back and forth between her and the library doors. Then, in a low, urgent whisper, he said:“Go.”

“Thank you,” she managed to stammer, more grateful for that act of mercy than he could possibly know. She turned to the library doors and slipped through them into the darkness.

“Ezra?” she whispered into the shadows. “Are you there?”

There was the scrape of iron on stone, shackles slithering across tile. “Immanuelle?”

She started toward the sound of his voice, weaving between the bookshelves, tripping over toppled stacks. “It’s me.”

And then he was there, and she was in his arms, and he in hers. They clung to each other in silence, Ezra’s hands shifting down her back, each of their bodies fitting into the contour of the other’s.

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