Page 42 of The Year of the Witching

“Then why does it appear unaltered here?”

Ezra downed the dregs of his wine, pressed to his feet, and set his glass on the mantel. “Normally, the Church uses the Mother’s mark to identify those who were credibly accused of witchcraft. But sometimes, it’s used to identify the direct descendants of witches and trace their bloodlines. Days ago, when my father asked me to go through the census files, that’s what he was looking for.”

“I don’t understand.”

Ezra rubbed the back of his neck like his muscles were paining him. He looked about as haggard and weak as he had at the pond, days ago. “The Mother’s mark appears beside at least one of your ancestors, every other generation, on your father’s side. The last being your grandmother, your father’s mother, Vera Ward.”

“Which means...”

Ezra just nodded, quiet and despondent. Neither of them spoke to the silent accusation that hung on the air between them like a pall of pyre smoke.

“When did you discover this?” Immanuelle whispered.

“The night before we entered the Darkwood. Your census was one of the first ones I read.”

Her hands began to shake. “Have you told anyone?”

“Of course not.”

“Willyou tell anyone?”

Silence, then: “I’m not my father.”

“And yet here I am, under an inquisition.”

“Is that what you think this is?” Ezra demanded, looking almost betrayed.

“What else would you call it? From the moment I entered this room, all you’ve done is question me like I’m some sort of criminal on trial.”

A long silence spanned between them, broken only by the crackling of the hearth fire. Outside, a rogue wind ripped across the plains, and the windowpanes rattled in their casings. A disembodied chorus of laughter and music floated up from downstairs, the sounds so distant they seemed almost spectral.

Ezra turned to Immanuelle, extended his hand. “Give it to me.”

“What?”

“Your census account. Give it to me.”

“Why?” Immanuelle whispered, stricken and perhaps more terrified than she had ever been before. “What are you going to do with it?”

Ezra didn’t ask again. He stepped forward and snatched the papers so quickly Immanuelle didn’t have the chance to grab them back.

“Ezra, please—”

He hurled the papers into the fire, and they both watched in silence as the hungry flames devoured them.

“We’re going to keep this quiet,” said Ezra in a hushed murmur. “I won’t speak of what happened in the Darkwood that dayand neither will you. No one need know the truth of your heritage. When we leave this room it’ll be like it never happened—the woods, the witches, the census, all of it. We’ll never speak of it again.”

“But the plague—”

“Is over, Immanuelle. You ended it at the pond.”

“You don’t know that,” she said, remembering her mother’s journal, the words scrawled across its final pages:Blood. Blight. Darkness. Slaughter.“What if there’s more to come?”

“More of what to come?”

“Plagues,” said Immanuelle, treading carefully now. “What happens if it’s more than just the blood?”

“What do you mean?”

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