It was the first Immanuelle had seen of her friend since the night of her cutting. The seal between her brows was healing well, though the bruise-dark bags beneath her eyes had deepened, if only slightly.
“You look well.” Immanuelle allowed herself this small fib as they embraced. “Are the others kind to you?”
“They treat me as they will,” Leah said, then glanced over her shoulder. A few yards off, the Prophet’s other wives clustered together, their mouths pressed into thin lines as they studied the crowd. She took Immanuelle by the elbow and guided her a few paces away, where listening ears wouldn’t hear them. “Most of them aren’t cruel, but they’re not kind either. Esther—Ezra’s mother—is the only one who’s truly good to me.”
“And what of your husband? Is he good to you?”
Leah blushed, but her eyes didn’t warm. “He summons me often.”
He beds her often. Immanuelle cringed at the thought. “And . . . does that please you?”
Leah stared down at her hands, and Immanuelle saw that they were shaking, ever so slightly. She grasped her fingers in an attempt to still them, squeezing so hard they went bloodless. “It pleases me to do the Father’s will.”
“I’m not asking about the Father’s will. I’m asking about yours.” She angled a little closer to her friend, lowered her voice. “Does he please you? Are you happy?”
“What pleases me is being here with you.”
“Leah—”
“Don’t,” she said, a firm rebuke. “Please, Immanuelle. Can we just talk of something, anything, else? It’s been weeks since I last saw you. How have you fared?”
“Well enough,” said Immanuelle, reluctant to change the subject but knowing she didn’t have a choice. “The flock is doing well, considering, though I’ve lost a few lambs and one of my best breeding ewes to the plague—”
“But what of you, Immanuelle? How are you?”
“I . . . well. I bled.” Something locked into place when Immanuelle said those words.
She bled.
Somehow she’d almost forgotten. That night in the Darkwood, as Lilith stood over her and Delilah moved through the shadows of the deep, her first blood began. Her flow was steady by the time she woke the following morning, on the floor of the kitchen, but she’d first begun bleeding that night in the pond with the witches.
Immanuelle’s hands began to shake. Her heartbeat quickened to a fast and brutal rhythm.
What if her monthly bleed was the blood sacrifice Apostle Isaac spoke of? What if she had spawned all this evil? Was it possible that she’d been some unknowing accomplice in Lilith’s plot? The very idea made her want to vomit, but she couldn’t deny the growing suspicion that whatever had occurred in the Darkwood that night was far greater than a chance encounter.
A horrible thought occurred to her then, the answer to a question she’d been asking herself ever since she first entered the forest. What if the journal was bait? All those weeks ago, when the witches first gave her the gift of her mother’s words, she’d assumed their motive had been some sort of kinship or affinity toward Miriam. But what if that wasn’t it? What if the real reason they gave her the journal was to ensure that she’d come back to bleed there? What if the journal was just a lure, a tie to the woods?
Immanuelle’s legs went weak with dread as the full truth dawned on her. That night in the Darkwood, she’d been baited and manipulated into making the blood sacrifice the witches needed to spawn the plague. She’d set something in motion. Opened a door that she didn’t know how to close, and now all of Bethel was suffering for her sin and naivete.
She had done this.
Leah reached for her hand. “Immanuelle? What’s wrong?”
Immanuelle didn’t answer. Her thoughts were reeling so quickly it was impossible to form words. If she were a better person, she would have confessed to everything then and there. She would have gone to Apostle Isaac, told him what she knew about the plague—how it started, where, and the fact that she suspected there were more to come. She would have turned in her mother’s journal. But Immanuelle knew that if she did that, there was a strong chance she’d be sent to the pyre on charges of witchcraft. To inform the Church was to damn herself—she was certain of it. And the thought of rendering Miriam’s journal to the Church was unbearable. It might have been used to bait her, but it was still a piece of her mother, and more than that, it was the locus of her knowledge about the witches and the woods they roamed. Perhaps it could still be of some use to her.
Something dawned on her then, a dangerous idea . . . What if there was another way? A way to stop the blood plague without involving the Church, without incriminating herself. What if she could end the plague the same way she started it: with her blood?
It wasn’t such a strange idea. It stood to reason that if a sacrifice unleashed all this evil upon Bethel, another sacrifice could draw it back. Perhaps if she returned to the forest, she could undo what was done. After all, it was her blood that spawned this plague; maybe her blood could end it too.
But if she entered the woods again—no, when she entered the woods again, she would need to be prepared. This was no time for instincts and deductions; she needed facts. She knew that breaking the plague couldn’t be as simple as going to the Darkwood and bleeding. There had to be something more, some ritual to how an offering was made. But there was no way for her to access that information on her own. Immanuelle was going to need an accomplice—someone with the keys to the Prophet’s library—and she knew exactly whom to turn to.
“I need to speak with Ezra,” said Immanuelle, craning to peer through the thinning crowds. “Do you know where he is?”
Leah frowned, clearly confused. “Why do you need to speak to him?”
“He owes me a favor,” she said, thinking back to their conversation in the pasture. Ezra had told her that the Prophet’s library was an extensive collection. If there was any information on the practices of witches and how they cast and broke their plagues, it would have to be there.
“Perhaps we should just go outside,” said Leah, in the gentle way you’d talk down a spooked horse. “Take some air. You look like you’re about to faint.”
Immanuelle spotted Ezra then, standing at the foot of the altar where Apostle Isaac had delivered his speech just a few minutes before. He was chatting with a group of friends, but to Immanuelle’s surprise it wasn’t a challenge to catch his eye. When she gestured toward a dark corridor on the eastern wing of the cathedral, he was quick to dismiss himself, shouldering through his friends with barely a parting word.
“Wait—” said Leah, almost frantic in her concern.
Immanuelle waved her off. “I’ll only be a moment.”
And with that, she started after Ezra, wading through the crowd until she reached the empty pew where he stood waiting.
“I thought your grandmother was going to slit my throat. Is she always that intimidating or . . . ?” He faltered, reading her expression. “What’s wrong? I didn’t get you into any trouble, did I?”
“Not at all. I just need a moment of your time, if you have it to spare.”
Ezra’s eyes narrowed but he nodded and led her to a small apse off the main cathedral. Here, there were two prayer benches standing side by side before a stone effigy of the Holy Father. On a low altar were dozens of candles, most of them lit and flickering. In a ceramic platter, incense burned and the fragrant smoke hung on the air like threads of spider silk.
Ezra and Immanuelle knelt on the bench, shoulder to shoulder, and lit candles, as was custom, one for each of them. Immanuelle clasped her hands and bowed her head. “The last time we talked, you mentioned the Prophet’s library. You said there were all sorts of books there. Even books of knowledge, like the one you showed me in the market that day.”
He nodded. “If there’s a book you want, give me the title and I’ll fetch it for
you.”
“That’s just it, I don’t know exactly what I’m looking for. I’d have to be there, in the flesh, sort through the books myself in order to find what I want, what I need.”
“And what is that, exactly?”
“A way to stop the blood plague.”
Ezra blinked at her, and with no small measure of satisfaction, she realized she’d caught him off guard. His expression went from contemplative to troubled. “Shouldn’t you leave the business of breaking plagues to the Church?”
“Why should I when the men of the Church are clearly no more informed than I am?” Of course it wasn’t just that; she’d hidden the truth about her own role in the blood plague, and the way the witches had used her to spawn it. But she couldn’t trust Ezra with such things. He might be a rebel in his own way, skeptical of the very Church he served, but he was still the Prophet’s heir. “I want to help, and I don’t see why I shouldn’t be able to.”
Ezra watched the candles in silence for a long time, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s forbidden for women to walk the halls of the library.”
“I know. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important, but—”
“I’ve made you stomach my sin, so now you want me to shoulder yours?”
Immanuelle hadn’t wanted it to come to that, but she nodded. “I’d have something on you, and you’d have something on me. We’d be even. A secret for a secret.”
Ezra considered this for a moment. Then: “When do you need access?”
“Tomorrow afternoon, preferably, while our farmhand can tend to the flock.” When she’d have the time to slip away unnoticed.
He pushed to his feet. “Tomorrow, then. I’ll meet you by the gates of the Haven at noon.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
We are the consecrated, the Father’s chosen. And what belongs to Him is His, forevermore.
—THE HOLY SCRIPTURES
THE PROPHET’S HAVEN was the oldest building in all of Bethel, built in the Dark Days before their faith had scriptures or a proper doctrine. It stood on a lone hill that overlooked a stretch of rolling cattle fields. It was a tall, looming structure, comprised of the main quarters—a collapsing stone cathedral where the first of the faith had once worshipped—and a series of expansions, some of them constructed as recently as a month prior.
The entire estate was ringed by a wrought iron wall that stood some nine feet tall. It was said that during the Holy War, the severed heads of the four witches and their allies had been mounted upon its spikes. According to those same legends, Lilith’s headless corpse had also been strung from the wall’s gate and, on the orders of David Ford, crowned with a deer skull diadem to make a mockery of her reign and slaughter. Walking toward the gate, Immanuelle could almost picture it: the severed heads of the sinners gawking down at her, their jaws nailed shut by the wall’s iron spires; beside them, the witch queen’s skull-crowned corpse strung from the archway, swaying with the wind. Immanuelle shook her head to clear it of the ghastly image and continued on through the entryway.
She found Ezra waiting for her just behind the Haven’s entrance. He sat beneath the branches of a tall cottonwood, back pressed to its trunk and legs crossed at the ankles, reading a palm-size book.
There were a great many people wandering the yard—mainly servants and the farmhands who tended the Prophet’s sprawling ranges—but Ezra still raised his head at her approach, as if he knew her from the sound of her footsteps. He slipped his book into the back pocket of his trousers as he stood, nodding toward the doors of the Haven. “Right this way.”
* * *
IF THE PROPHET’S Haven appeared grand on the outside, its interior was nothing short of immaculate. The entry hall was almost as big as the cathedral itself, with ceilings arching high overhead. Each of the hall’s windows was ten feet tall, and every casing was fitted with panes of stained glass so the sunlight shafting through them tinted the walls and floor with the colors of the rainbow. The air smelled of spices, a good, heady stink that brought to mind harvest feasts and meat roasting on bonfires in the wintertime.
Ezra led her down a series of long corridors, their footsteps echoing as they went. He distanced himself by a few paces whenever others passed them, but when they were alone, he took the time to point out little details about the house. Among these were the paintings that hung from the walls (mostly portraits of the first prophets who’d reigned in the days after the Holy War), and the corridors that led to places like the Haven’s kitchen or the confinement wards, where new brides were housed.
Immanuelle wondered, in passing, which hall led to the room where her mother had stabbed the Prophet, but she didn’t dare ask.
They rounded another corner, entering into a small, bright hallway. Here, a series of thin windows lined the walls, each less than a half a pace apart from the next. Opposite the windows was a row of doors, each with a name painted on the cross rails in golden ink: Hannah, Charlotte, Sarah, Charity, Naomi, Esther, Judith, Bethany, Justice, Dinah, Ruth, Tilda. These were the wives’ chambers. Immanuelle read each name in turn, looking for Leah’s.
“Ezra, is that you?” A voice seeped out from an open door down the corridor. It was thin and graced by a faint accent Immanuelle had never heard on the tongue of any Bethelan native.
Ezra stopped short, breathing a low curse. Then he composed himself and strode to the doorway. “Yes, Mother?”
Immanuelle slowed to a stop at his heels, gazed into the room just behind her. There, standing at its center, was Ezra’s mother, Esther Chambers. Immanuelle had only ever caught passing glimpses of her—from across the cathedral or on the other side of the churchyard—but those brief encounters were enough to distinguish her as one of the most beautiful women she had ever seen. Esther was tall like Ezra, if a little slight. Pale veins threaded along her neck and skimmed up to her temples. Her hair, which was the raven-black color of her son’s, was heaped atop her head and held by a single golden pin. As she neared, Immanuelle caught a whiff of jasmine on the air.
The woman surveyed her, and a thin smile crossed her lips and disappeared within the span of an instant. “Who is your friend, my son?” she asked, her gaze returning to Ezra.
“This is Miss Immanuelle Moore.” He sidestepped to give his mother a better view of her. “Miss Moore, may I present my mother, Esther Chambers.”
“Ah,” said the woman, and that smile crossed her mouth again, a subtle twin to Ezra’s. “Miriam’s daughter.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Immanuelle murmured, staring at her boots. The woman who stood before her now was widely known to be the Prophet’s favorite wife.
“Please, call me Esther.” She slid her cold hand into Immanuelle’s. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
Immanuelle managed a nod and a smile. She expected the woman to slip her hand away as Protocol would dictate, but she didn’t. She held on to Immanuelle’s fingers, her verdant green eyes skimming over her in cold appraisal. “And what brings you to the Haven?”
Ezra stepped in. “She’s here to see Leah.”
“I believe Leah’s in the west wing,” said Esther, speaking softly now. Up close, Immanuelle noticed something she’d missed before. At the edge of Esther’s mouth was a bruise made faint by what appeared to be an application of pale face powder. “She’s at the Prophet’s side. He’s been . . . rather troubled today. It would probably be best to call on her at a later date.”
Ezra went quiet for a beat too long as he searched his mother’s face. “I’ll have a word with him.”
“You will do no such thing,” said Esther with sudden sharpness, but she recovered herself before she spoke again, forcing that gentle smile. “Don’t forget you have a guest. It would be rude of you to abandon her. Please, be on your way and may the Father bless your steps.”
Ezra fell quiet after his mother retired to her parlor, closing and locking the d
oor behind her. He walked away in silence, hands in his pockets, gaze on his boots, lost to a kind of brooding that Immanuelle didn’t know how to breach, though she felt she should.
She didn’t fully understand what had occurred with Esther in the hall—but she suspected it had something to do with the Prophet and the bruise at the corner of Esther’s mouth. The thought of Leah being with the Prophet in the midst of his dark mood turned Immanuelle’s stomach. Prophets were merely men and men were fallible creatures, prone to the passions of the flesh, tempted to violence, even, when their anger spilled over.
After all, a prophet was nothing more than a vessel of the Father, and the Father was not always the benevolent god of light. He was also wrath and fire, brimstone and storm, and He often used His almighty power to smite the witch and the heathen alike. Immanuelle could only imagine how dangerous a man might become when filled with a holy wrath like that.
After a short walk through a series of dim, lamplit halls, they came upon a wide gallery. At its end was a pair of black double doors almost twice as tall as Immanuelle. This had to be part of the Haven’s original structure, she realized, where the first of the faith had worshipped.
Ezra slipped a key from his back pocket and fit it into the door’s lock. There was a soft click as the bolt slipped out of place. Both doors swung open and they entered the library within.
Immanuelle had never seen so many books in one place at one time, and she was sure she never would again. This was not some one-room study tucked into the back of a schoolhouse. It was a full cathedral, but in place of the pews, there were bookshelves, rows and rows of them, from the altar to the threshold where she stood. On the right wall was a spiral staircase that twisted up to what ought to have been the organ deck, but instead of an organ, there were just a few rusted pipes with crooked shelves wedged between them. The front half of the deck was caged off by a wrought iron gate, a twin to the one that fenced the Haven itself.
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