Page 29 of The Year of the Witching

The Prophet released him abruptly. He looked startled, almost sick, at the sight of what he’d done—at the dagger and his own hands, both smeared with his son’s blood. “The Father’s mercy is one matter,” he said as he tried to recover his composure. “But mine is another. You’d do well to remember that.”

The Prophet turned to depart then, but Ezra didn’t let go of the dagger. In fact, Immanuelle could see he gripped it even tighter, and she gasped as a fresh stream of blood trickled down his wrist. He watched silently as his father walked to the library doors.

Blood dappled the cobbles at Ezra’s feet, but still he kept his hand clenched around the dagger’s blade. It was only after his father departed the chamber that he answered, his voice soft: “I will remember, Father.”

CHAPTERTHIRTEEN

I tried to love him, and I tried to put you from my mind. But it isn’t an easy thing to turn your back on a home, and that’s what I found in you.

—FROMTHELETTERSOFMIRIAMMOORE

THE CELLARS BENEATHthe Prophet’s Haven reminded Immanuelle strangely of the corridors of the Darkwood. The shadows were thick and wet, and they seemed to cling to her clothes as she made her way through the halls. The air smelled of iron and decay, and by the light of the flickering torches she could see that the stone walls were weeping blood.

She wandered, disoriented and cold, one hand slipping along the gore-slick wall to guide her. Alone, there was nothing to keep her from replaying the scene in the library in her head: the Prophet’s paranoia; his sudden, vicious malice; blood spattering the cobbles; and Ezra’s blank stare. With every step, the corridors closed in around her, and the shadows seemed to fill her lungs so that she had to gasp and struggle for every breath.

By the time she finally reached the first floor, her heart was beating so fast it ached. She stumbled through the doorway, out of the wet shadows and into a narrow hall with arched ceilings.

A door opened and closed, and Immanuelle turned to seeJudith standing a few paces away. She wore a dress of pale blue, and in her hand was a fraying scrap of embroidery that was still far better than anything Immanuelle had ever sewn.

“What are you doing here?” Judith demanded, and her gaze traced over her, taking in every flaw—the patched holes at the tops of her boots, her bloodstained skirts, the unkempt riot of her curls. “Shouldn’t you be in the fields with your flock... or in the Outskirts?”

Immanuelle flinched. She raised a hand to fix her hair, but then thought better of it and stopped. No amount of preening would satisfy Judith’s spite. She would always find some fault to fixate on, or some cruel barb to make Immanuelle feel like less than she was. “Good morrow to you, Judith.”

The girl offered no greeting in return. Her gaze drifted from Immanuelle to the door behind her. “Where did you just come from?”

Immanuelle took a step past her. “I lost my way.”

Judith caught her by the arm, her grasp tight enough to leave bruises behind, but when she spoke her voice was still thin and sweet. “You smell of blood. Were you wandering the catacombs?”

“No. I’m here on business,” said Immanuelle, keeping her voice steady.

“Whose?”

“That’s my concern.”

Judith angled her head to the side. A smile played over her lips, but there was no kindness in it. Her hand slipped away. “I know that you saw us that night.”

That should have been the end of it, but Immanuelle stalled a beat, lingering in the center of the hall.

“You think you’re so clever, don’t you? Holding little threats above my head.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t insult my intelligence. I know you saw us that night. You were snooping around then just like you are now, sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

“I’m not here to snoop.”

Judith scoffed, then laughed outright, and somehow she looked more cruel smiling than she did scowling. “You wear a lie about as well as a toddler does a corset,” said Judith, and she plucked at one of her own bodice strings. “Deception doesn’t become you, and that’s all right if you’re pocketing taffy at the market or fibbing to your father about some boy you kissed behind the schoolhouse. But I don’t think those are the kinds of secrets you’re keeping. I think the sins you’re hiding could send you to the pyre if you’re not careful.”

Judith must not know, Immanuelle realized, of the danger she was in, that the Prophet was aware of her dalliance with Ezra. There was no way Judith would be wasting time in the corridor with her if she knew how much trouble she was in. The spoiled girl was so used to always having her way, she couldn’t imagine a day she might not. The idea that she’d be caught was so minor, so inconceivable, she hadn’t even paused to consider it. “You’re a fool if you think I’m the one in danger.”

For the first time in recent memory—or perhaps in all the sixteen years Immanuelle had known her—Judith looked properly taken aback. A range of emotions passed over her face, like a series of shadows in quick succession, ranging from rage to fear to doubt. She parted her lips to respond to Immanuelle’s warning, or perhaps demand an explanation, when a door opened down the hall. The two girls turned immediately and watched as a tall, pale man stepped past the threshold. He was a servant, if his dirtied boots and smock were any indication. Hanging from the loop of his belt was a holy dagger, as well as a small iron hammer just longer than Immanuelle’s hand. The only mark of his station wasthe symbol of the Prophet’s Guard, which was embroidered into the right-hand corner of his smock.

The man smiled at them, but the gesture lacked any pretense of warmth. “Pardon me, mistress. Your husband wants a word.”

Judith’s eyes went from the man to Immanuelle, then back to the man again.

“This way.” He sounded impatient now.

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