Page 76 of The Year of the Witching

It took Immanuelle a moment to recognize the girl limping toward her, chained and flanked by two of the Prophet’s guardsmen.

Contrition had not been kind to Judith. She looked like a corpse.

Her auburn curls, which had once been so long they hung to her waist, had been cut into a scum-matted crop as short as a boy’s. She was deathly thin, and dirty, dressed in a torn bodice and bloodstained skirts. Despite the cold, she wore no shoes or shawl about her shoulders. Both of her lips were badly split, and when she spoke they began to bleed. “I have a confession to make.”

The Prophet nodded. “Speak your truth, child.”

Judith stopped at the altar’s edge, her gaze pinned to the floor even as she turned to face the flock. She wrung her hands, shackles rattling, and peered up at the Prophet, as if waiting for some kind of cue. When she finally spoke, it was in a lifeless drone, as though she was reciting a catechism or Holy Scriptures. “Immanuelle Moore has defied Holy Protocol. She has cast her charms and worked her evils against the men and women of this Church.”

The Prophet appraised her, his expression blank. “And what evidence do you have to charge the accused with these crimes?”

“Her own words,” said Judith, her voice wavering. She struggled for a moment, as if trying to remember what she was told to say. “On a Sabbath, weeks ago, Immanuelle said that she liked to walk the woods with the devils, and to dance with the witches naked in the moon’s light.”

There was a chorus of gasps. People grasped their holy daggers and muttered prayers.

Judith looked to the Prophet again, and Immanuelle saw himoffer her the smallest nod. She turned her attention back to the congregation, spoke in a rush. “When Immanuelle said those words, Ezra Chambers laughed like he couldn’t stop. His whole body seized up, the way the sick do when they catch the fever she cast upon us. She seduced Ezra,” Judith said, raising her eyes to the Prophet. “She put a hex on your son, using the magic of the Dark Mother to do it. So you see, it wasn’t his fault. She forced him to sin.”

“I didn’t,” said Immanuelle, speaking for the first time since her trial began. “I would never hurt Ezra. I’ll put my hand on the Scripture and say it. I’ll swear it on my mother’s bones.”

“Your mother has no bones to swear on,” Apostle Isaac said, his voice low and lethal. “Your mother’s corpse burned on the pyre. Only the ashes of that witch remain.”

“Praise be.”The flock spoke as one.

Once again, the Prophet raised his hand for silence. “Thank you for your confession.”

Judith parted her lips, as if she wanted to say more, but one glance from her husband was enough to quiet her. Head bowed, she returned to her guards, who seized her by the arms. She began to softly weep as they dragged her from the church.

The Prophet paused, his face grave in the flickering torchlight. At last, he spoke. “I would like to call upon my son, Ezra Chambers, to testify to the remarks of our last witness.”

Immanuelle’s heart froze in her chest.

“Bring my son to the altar.”

On his order, the cathedral doors groaned open and two guardsmen emerged from the darkness, Ezra between them. He looked like he’d been beaten. There was a crust of dried blood beneath his nose and bags beneath his eyes as dark as bruises. Through the thin fabric of his shirt, Immanuelle could see dirty bandages wrapped around his chest, badly in need of a changing.

Ezra limped down the aisle and braced both hands against the altar, his breathing ragged. His knuckles were just a few inches from Immanuelle’s fingertips, and she wanted nothing more than to take him by the hand. But she didn’t dare move.

This was an unexpected turn of events, one with the potential to completely upend her plan. If Ezra was pitted against her—if his innocence was used as evidence of her own guilt—then how could she clear her name without damning him?

The Prophet strode to the front of the altar and stared down at his son. “Is it true that you were in the company of the accused on the fifteenth Sabbath in the Year of the Reaping?”

Ezra shifted his weight. As he did so, his sleeve fell away, exposing the black band of a bruise around his forearm—a twin to the ones around Immanuelle’s wrists and ankles. The marks of chains and shackles. “Yes, I was there.”

“And is it true that Immanuelle spoke to her doings with the devils that day?”

Ezra’s hands trembled slightly. He clutched them into fists. “Many people spoke to many things that day.”

“But do you remember her words?”

“I do not.”

The Prophet slipped his hands into the folds of his robe. “Our accused has called you her friend. Is that true?”

Ezra hesitated. Immanuelle wouldn’t have blamed him if he denied her. Any smart man with the will to live would do so. He could still save himself. “That is true. Immanuelle is my friend, and a loyal one.”

At those words, Immanuelle choked back a sob, and Ezra must have heard it because he shifted his hand toward her by a half inch, his knuckles warm against her fingertips. He peered up at her for the first time.

It’s all right,his eyes seemed to say, the same words he’dwhispered in her ear the night of Leah’s death.You’re going to be all right.

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