Page 37 of The Year of the Witching

The rest happened very quickly. At least, it seemed that way to Immanuelle.

One moment, Ezra’s head was cradled in her lap, his hand grasping hers as he struggled through his second seizure. The next, he was gone, snatched away by some faceless members of the Prophet’s Guard. A few of the guardsmen had stayed back to interrogate Immanuelle, there in the pasture. In turn, she’d supplied them with a few lies and half-truths. Just enough to lay their suspicions to rest without incriminating herself or revealing the true horror of what had really happened in the Darkwood that day.

Immanuelle could only hope that if Ezra woke—no,whenEzra woke, he wouldn’t expose her lies. But she wouldn’t have blamed him if he did. Not after all that he’d endured in the Darkwood.

When news of Ezra’s condition finally arrived, it came in the form of a holy edict hand delivered by one of the Prophet’s personal couriers. While the letter was addressed to Abram, he gave Immanuelle the honor of breaking the seal and reading the edict within. Her hands shook violently as she tore the wax seal in two. The letter read as follows:

With the utmost joy,we share the newsthat Ezra Chambers received his First Vision. After eight days of dwelling with the Father through the Gift of Sight, he has regained consciousness and is now recovering in the Haven, in preparation for the coming Sabbath. Long live Ezra Chambers, heir to the Holy Prophethood, and may the Father bless his predecessor, Grant Chambers, in his final days.

In light alone,

The Holy Assembly of the Prophet’s Apostles

THERE WAS Agutting on the following Sabbath to commemorate Ezra’s First Vision. The Moores woke early, dressing in their best, taking care to iron the creases out of their skirts and polish their shoes in honor of the special occasion. They left at daybreak and arrived before the sun cleared the treetops.

The cathedral was as crowded as Immanuelle had ever seen it. A few paces from the churchyard, the river ran freely. Most of the gore on the rocks had been washed away and the water had cleared to a rusty hue. The taint of the blood plague was finally over. Many declared it a miracle—Ezra’s first.

Immanuelle scanned the crowds in the churchyard, searching for Leah. But she noted her friend was not among the Prophet’s brides who stood grimly at the cathedral’s threshold, all of them dressed in identical gowns of black. A few held damp handkerchiefs to their swollen eyes, openly grieving what they stood to lose—a husband, a father, a leader. The Prophet wouldn’t be long for this world now that Ezra had risen to power. If the rumors of his sickness were to be believed, he wouldn’t live to see the New Year.

At the sound of the bell’s toll, Immanuelle crossed the churchyard and trudged up the cathedral stairs. She shuffled into a pew that stood just a few feet from the altar.

It was hot with everyone crowded into the benches, standing shoulder to shoulder. The air was thick with the smell of sweat and burning incense.

The doors of the cathedral slammed shut. The apostles moved along the walls, shuttering the windows as they went. The Prophet came after them, dressed in formal robes, his bare feet shuffling across the floor. He had a pronounced limp and it seemed like he struggled more and more with each step. Several times he had to catch himself on the back of a pew to keep from falling. As he staggered closer, Immanuelle could hear his labored breathing, a deep wheeze that rattled in the pits of his lungs. It was clear that whatever illness plagued him—be it gout or fever or some unnamed affliction—was rapidly getting worse.

Ezra entered after his father, slowing his steps to keep from passing him by. They stepped up to the altar together and stood, shoulder to shoulder, facing the flock. There was a smattering of applause, but the Prophet ordered silence with a raised hand.

The cathedral doors swung open again. The sound of hooves on stone echoed through the cathedral as Apostle Isaac brought forth the sacrifice. It was a small calf, the buds of its horns piercing through its hide, its wide eyes brown and doe-like.

Honor grabbed a fistful of Immanuelle’s skirts. She had never taken to the slaughters well.

“It’s all right,” Immanuelle whispered, running her fingers through her hair.

Apostle Isaac hauled the calf up onto the altar. It slipped a little on the stained stone stairs, hooves sliding out from underneath it, legs skewing as it found its footing. Isaac eased a hand down its side, collecting its legs so that it was forced to lie with its stomach pressed to the cold slate of the altar. The calf obeyed without a struggle, too young and too dense to catch the scent of death on the air.

The Prophet moved forward with Ezra at his side, his bare feet rasping across the floor. He raised the blade high above his head. “To Ezra.”

The flock answered as one.“Long may he reign!”

A FEW HOURSafter the Sabbath service and slaughter, Immanuelle left her family and took the bride’s carriage back to the Haven with Leah. All eyes were on Immanuelle as she entered the gallery. Despite her initial fears, Ezra, Father bless him, had not betrayed her to the Church. Quite the opposite, in fact. Whatever lie he’d constructed to explain their presence in the Darkwood that day had cast her as the hero. And now it seemed that everyone wanted to know the story of the hapless shepherd girl who saved the Prophet’s successor from the clutches of the Darkwood. But Immanuelle was tired of stories and lies. And she did all that she could to avoid wandering gazes as she settled into her place at the feasting table and picked through her food. She tried to keep up with the conversation at hand, but when the discussion turned to the laborious endeavors of childbirth, her attention waned and her gaze roamed about the room.

The gallery was immaculate. The tables were decorated with wreaths of roses, freshly cut and harvested from the Prophet’s own conservatory. Candlesticks as tall as Abram stood at intervals along the walls, their light warming the faces of the guests, who sat chatting over heaping plates of roast and potato. With the blood plague now ended and the rations order revoked, wine and water flowed in abundance.

At the front of the gallery stood a long oak table where the Prophet was seated. To his left sat Esther in a gown of pale lilac, and to his right, Ezra, his eyes glazed and bloodshot.

The Prophet leaned forward in his seat, carving a bit of meat from the roasted goat on the platter in front of him. As he worked his blade between the bones, his gaze moved across the congregation and found its way to Immanuelle. Their eyes locked, and the Prophet set his knife down and, with some effort, raised his goblet to toast her, a motion that a few of his guests mirrored.

All Immanuelle managed in response to the gesture was a curt nod. She fixed her eyes on her plate, trying to swallow down the sickness that boiled at the back of her throat whenever the Prophet’s gaze landed upon her.

And lately, that had been often.

Leah put a hand to her shoulder. “Are you all right?”

“Fine,” said Immanuelle, tracing her fork through a puddle of gravy. “Why do you ask?”

“Because you look pale and frightened, as though you’ve seen the face of the Dark Mother herself. Are you sick?” Leah demanded.

“No.”

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