Page 40 of The Year of the Witching

“Of course it’s his,” she snapped, with a harshness that didn’t become her.

“But how is this possible? You’ve barely been married a month.”

Leah stared down at her feet, ashamed. “We were betrothed soon after.”

“Soon afterwhat?”

Leah frowned, and she couldn’t tell if it was anger she read in her eyes or hurt. “He came to me one night, before my cutting, while I was doing penance.”

Penance. Of course.

Many girls in Bethel were invited to serve the Church as maidservants to the Prophet’s wives or other inhabitants of the Haven. As a bastard by birth, Immanuelle was never enlisted, but Leah served often in the years before her engagement. Toward the end of her service, it seemed like she spent more nights at the Haven than she did in her own home. Now Immanuelle knew why. “When did it start?”

Leah looked sick with shame. “A few weeks before my first blood.”

“So you were barely thirteen?” Immanuelle whispered, and it was so horrible that even as she said it, she could barely believe it was true. “Leah, you were... he was...”

Leah’s chin trembled. “We all sin.”

“But he’s the Prophet—”

“He’s just a man, Immanuelle. Men make mistakes.”

“But you were a child. You were just a little girl.”

Leah hung her head, trying to choke back tears.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because you would have done what you’re doing now.”

“And what am I doing, Leah?”

“Baring your broken heart. Sharing in the shame of my sin like it’s your burden too.” Leah reached out to her then, took her by the hand, and pulled her close. “This pain is mine. I don’t needyou to carry it for me. One day you’re going to have to learn that we can’t share in everything. Sometimes we’ll have to walk alone.”

The words landed like a slap. Immanuelle opened her mouth to say something, anything, to fill the ugly silence that formed between them, fearing that it would lag on forever if she didn’t, but Leah beat her to it.

“I’ll leave you two to talk.”

“What—”

A door slammed shut down the hall, and Immanuelle turned to see Ezra emerging from the library with an armful of books piled so high he had to balance the top of the stack with his chin. As he started toward them, a few of the larger tomes tumbled from his arms and struck the floor with a resoundingthud. Immanuelle stepped forward to help him pick them up.

Ezra muttered something that sounded like a thank-you and snatched the book from her hand. Up close, he reeked of alcohol—something much, much stronger than the mulled wine that was served at the feast. Immanuelle turned back to Leah, torn between staying and going. But when Ezra staggered down the hall, she fell into step behind him. Just before she rounded the corner, she turned back to look at her friend. Leah stood motionless in the middle of the hall as if pinned in place. Immanuelle watched as she hung her head, wrapped both arms around her belly, and slowly turned away.

CHAPTEREIGHTEEN

Sometimes I wonder if my secrets are better swallowed than spoken. Perhaps my truths have done enough harm. Perhaps I should take my memories to the grave and let the dead judge my sins.

—MIRIAMMOORE

WE NEED TOtalk,” said Immanuelle, struggling to keep pace with Ezra’s long strides.

“If you’re worried I told someone what happened in the woods, don’t be,” he said gruffly, looking straight ahead. He spoke like he knew something more than what she’d told him, which begged the question... what? What did he think happened in the woods?

“I know you didn’t tell anyone,” said Immanuelle, double-stepping to keep up with him. “If you had, I’d likely be in contrition right now—”

“Or on a pyre.” He paused, then said, “Come with me.”

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