Page 31 of The Year of the Witching

She shouldered past him. “I’d prefer to walk.”

“Goddamn it, Immanuelle.”

She turned on him then, so fast her heel dug deep into the dirt. “Such a filthy tongue for a prophet’s son.”

“It’s a filthy world,” he snapped. “Which is exactly why I’d prefer it if you’d let me escort you home.”

A low wind seethed through the high grass.

Immanuelle peered down again at Ezra’s hand. The rag he was clutching was all but soaked through, and though he kept his expression stoic, she could tell he was in pain. He had to be, with a wound like that. And then there was the matter of deeper pains—the invisible ones that couldn’t be nursed with bandages or salves.

“Is this about your father?” she asked quietly.

Ezra didn’t look at her, but his grip on the rag tightened. “Climb up. The sun’s setting fast.”

“You didn’t answer my question about you and Judith.”

“And I don’t intend to.” He patted the cart bench. “Up. Now.”

“Give me an answer and I’ll consider it.”

Ezra set his jaw again, and for a moment Immanuelle was quite certain they’d both stay there, rooted in place, until the night melted into dawn and their legs went weak beneath them. But to her surprise, Ezra broke first.

“People do foolish, reckless things when they’re desperate tofind ways to escape themselves.” He sighed and hung his head. “As ugly as it is, sometimes the truth is nothing more than that.”

Immanuelle studied him for a moment. Then she climbed onto the cart.

For a while, the two of them rode in silence, the sunset dying into darkness, shadows stretching between the trees as they crossed through the Holy Grounds. As they neared the Glades, Immanuelle took a roll of bandages from the pocket of her knapsack. With some coaxing, Ezra let her take his hand and peel the rag away from his wound. It was an ugly gash, deep enough to need stitching, but Immanuelle did the best she could to wrap the bandages tight and staunch the bleeding. As she tended him, she thought of the irony of it all. Just a few weeks ago, she had nursed a similar wound. Perhaps she and Ezra had more in common than she thought. Was that the source of the budding kinship she sensed between them? Shared pain?

A cold, bitter wind swept down from the north and blasted through the treetops. The steed spooked, sidestepping so Ezra had to drag on the reins and raise his voice above the roar to talk him down.

Immanuelle shivered and gripped her seat. Ezra, eyes still fixed on the distant darkness, took one hand off the reins and reached into the back of the cart, producing a blanket. “Here.”

“Thank you,” she said, drawing the quilt around her shoulders.

“It’s nothing.”

“Even still.”

The path twisted east toward the Glades, cutting through Bethel’s heartland. But as they neared the Darkwood’s edge once again, its thrall grew stronger. Immanuelle wondered then if the Father’s power called to Ezra in the same way that the forest did her. If he was as drawn to the light as she was to shadow.

Ezra glanced at her out of his periphery. “What is it?”

She blushed, embarrassed to be caught staring. “It’s just that... well, I wondered if—”

He smirked, clearly amused by her stammering. “Out with it.”

“Have you always felt called to the Prophethood?”

Ezra shook his head. “I never wanted to be heir. I wanted to travel, go beyond the wall.”

“Why would you ever want to do that?”

“Because there’s more to the world than Bethel. The wilds don’t go on forever. There is life beyond them. There has to be.”

“You mean the heathen cities?”

“That’s one name for them. But before Ford built the wall, those heathen cities were Bethel’s allies.”

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