The Year of the Witching

by Alexis Henderson

  Leah rubbed her arm sympathetically. “It’s all right. Patience was only asking if you’d tell us the story again.”

  A slight, pretty girl, who Immanuelle assumed was Patience, smiled coyly from down the table. Immanuelle could tell she was a new bride from the scab-flaked seal between her eyebrows. If her fine dress and poised air were any indication, she’d married well.

  Immanuelle took a sip of mulled wine to buy herself some time, the drink so hot it stung her tongue. In fewer words, she recounted the same lie she’d told the apostles: “I was in the pastures and I found Ezra on the edge of the woods. I tried to wake him, but he didn’t stir, so I called for help . . . and help came.”

  Hope let out a long sigh, her shoulders slumping. “It sounds like the beginning of a love story.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” said Patience, rolling her eyes. “Ezra Chambers has far more important things to do than romp in the Darkwood with”—her eyes traced over Immanuelle, taking in her curls, her dark skin, her full lips—“some girl from the Outskirts.”

  Immanuelle flinched. There was truth in those harsh words. Whatever kinship she and Ezra once shared had likely died the day of his First Vision. There were certain codes of conduct in Bethel that kept those on the Outskirts from venturing inward, and even if they went unwritten and unsaid, she knew she was expected to abide by them.

  “Besides,” Patience rambled on, “between Ezra’s new title and what became of Judith, I daresay our heir will be keeping his distance.”

  At the mention of Judith’s name, the table went quiet. Leah stared into her goblet, seemingly enamored by the depths of her wine, and the younger girls who’d sat giggling at the table’s edge were now still.

  “What happened to Judith?” Immanuelle tried to keep her voice light and even, but her heart beat faster as she thought back to that day at the Haven, when the strange man in the stained smock appeared at the corridor’s end to escort Judith to the Prophet.

  No one answered. Everyone seemed preoccupied with picking at their food or sipping wine.

  At last, Leah said, “The night after Ezra’s vision, Judith was taken from the confinement ward and sent to contrition.”

  Contrition. It was a punishment reserved for the grossest offenders of the Father’s Holy Protocol. No one knew what contrition entailed exactly—apart from immediate excommunication or detainment. Some claimed it consisted of forced fasts to starve out sin and cleanse the soul. Others told tales of long imprisonments in the Haven’s dungeons, where those paying penance were subjected to violent beatings to exorcise demons and sins from the body. But one thing was certain: Everyone who was sent to contrition returned . . . changed. It was the ultimate act of sanctification, if the soul in question was strong enough to see it through.

  Immanuelle felt suddenly sick, as if she was in jeopardy of bringing up every mouthful of roast she’d forced herself to swallow. She could barely get her words out. “What was Judith’s sin?”

  “They won’t say.” Patience raised her goblet to her lips, then added, “But if her whoring had anything to do with it, I assume she’ll be held for some time.”

  Leah’s brows knit together. “You shouldn’t say such terrible things.”

  “Why shouldn’t I? It’s the truth.” The girl’s gaze slid back to Immanuelle. “One I daresay a few of us could learn from.”

  Immanuelle stiffened. With a pang, she stared across the gallery to the Prophet’s table. Next to his father, Ezra sat slumped in his chair, downing the last dregs of his wine. He paused to wipe his mouth on the back of his hand, grabbed for the decanter, filled his goblet to the rim, and drank like he was trying to drown himself.

  Immanuelle wondered if he felt responsible for Judith’s punishment, if it was their tryst that had resulted in her detainment. If so, Immanuelle feared for her. She and Judith were far from friends, but if the horrors of holy contrition were all that Immanuelle believed them to be, then she couldn’t help but pity her. And with that pity came a kind of rage, not at Judith or Ezra, but at the system that held one accountable for her sins while the other was lauded.

  Ezra’s gaze shifted, and he met Immanuelle’s eyes for the first time that day. When she offered him a smile, he cast his gaze away and pushed back from the table so abruptly the cutlery rattled. Without a parting word, he staggered across the gallery to the doors at its opposing end. The gazes of the guests followed him, but no one pursued him. Esther attempted, but the Prophet put a firm hand to her wrist, pinning it to the table. Behind them, the Prophet’s Guard stood taciturn, waiting for an order.

  Never one to miss a beat, the Prophet pushed back from his chair and stood. He ordered the quartet to play a lively hymn, and with a flash of his hand, he summoned a fresh barrel of mead from the Haven’s kitchens. The servants scurried from table to table, filling mugs and goblets to the brim. In a matter of moments, Ezra’s departure was all but forgotten.

  Immanuelle shoved back from the table, the feet of her chair scraping across the floor.

  “Where are you going?” Leah asked. “We haven’t even had dessert yet! I have it on good authority that the chefs are serving an apple tart with clotted cream.”

  “I don’t have the stomach for sweets today,” said Immanuelle, gazing through the crowd to the doors through which Ezra had disappeared. “I think I’ll take some air.”

  Leah gazed at her, eyes narrowed. Then she shoved back from the table and grabbed Immanuelle’s hand, locking their fingers. “I’ll go with you.”

  As soon as they left, cutting down the aisles between tables, and exited into the corridor, Leah turned to her. “You’re going after Ezra, aren’t you?”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “He’s been casting you furtive glances whenever your back is turned, and you’ve been doing the same to him. The two of you can’t keep your eyes off each other.”

  Immanuelle flushed, but she didn’t break pace. “It’s not like that.”

  “Then what are you not telling me? Don’t you trust me?”

  “I do trust you. I just don’t want to drag you into undue trouble.”

  “Trouble?” Leah caught her by the arm as a servant walked past, shouldering a tray of apple tarts. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “What do you mean by trouble? Did something happen in the woods that day? Did Ezra do something to you?”

  “Of course not! Ezra would never.”

  But even as she spoke, Immanuelle knew it didn’t matter whether Ezra had done anything. The real danger was being near him at all, under the watchful eyes of Bethel. Judith was a prime example of this. And Immanuelle was ashamed to admit it, but she was selfishly relieved that it was Judith who was now paying the price in contrition, for it could have just as easily been her.

  “If it’s not Ezra, then what was it? What is all of this?” Leah demanded, motioning to her with a pass of her hand. “You look a fright, Immanuelle—all frail and quiet. It’s not like you. Does this have something to do with those women you saw the night you went into the Darkwood?”

  Immanuelle didn’t want to lie to her, but she knew that in light of things, a lie was better than the truth. “No.”

  Leah studied her for a beat, trying to decide what she wanted to believe. Immanuelle braced herself for more questions, but they didn’t come. With a smile, Leah hooked an arm through hers. “Good. I was a little afraid Ezra had turned you into a simpering harlot.” Immanuelle elbowed her in the ribs and Leah laughed. “Of course, I wouldn’t blame you if he had. For all of his Holy Gifts, he’s got the eyes of a devil—and the tongue of one too. I don’t trust him one bit.”

  “He’s not as bad as he seems,” said Immanuelle. “Now, quiet down. These corridors carry echoes, and he may hear you.”

  “Well, he won’t hear anything he doesn’t know already. I’m certain that boy’s been scheming since the day we met at the rive
rside. I saw the way he looked at you.”

  “Leah!”

  Leah smiled at Immanuelle, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively, and the two dissolved into a fit of giggles. By the time they arrived at the library, they were laughing and staggering, tripping over their own shoes, trading jokes and stories.

  “Prudence tried to dye her hair red with beet juice,” said Leah between giggles. “And her curls went as blue as a cornflower’s petals. All that effort to catch the eye of Joab Sidney? I mean, the man’s ancient. If you ask me, he’s two steps from the grave.”

  “You’re wretched.”

  “We’re wretched. That’s why we’re a perfect fit. Always have been.”

  “And will be,” said Immanuelle, starting down the hall toward the library, but before she could make it more than a few steps, Leah dragged her back.

  “I have something to tell you,” she said, suddenly grave.

  “What is it?”

  Leah hesitated. “Promise me you’ll keep this to yourself. No matter how you feel, no matter how angry it makes you.”

  “I promise I won’t tell a soul,” said Immanuelle. “You have my word.”

  “All right,” said Leah, and her chin trembled a bit. “Give me your hand.”

  Immanuelle obeyed without question, and Leah guided her hand past the layers of her gown, until Immanuelle could feel the shape of her belly, which was swollen into a pronounced bump.

  “Are you . . . you’re not . . . you can’t be . . . ?”

  “Pregnant.”

  Immanuelle’s mouth gaped open. “How many months?”

  Leah’s brows knit together the way they always did when she was deciding whether or not she wanted to lie. At last she whispered, “Six. Give or take a few weeks.”

  Immanuelle went very still and very quiet.

  “Say something,” Leah pleaded, in a voice so soft and so young it didn’t even sound like her own. “Say anything. Yell at me if you have to. I’d prefer that to your silence.”

  “Is it his?”

  “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 after what?”

  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 need you 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 resounding thud. 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.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  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.

  —MIRIAM MOORE

  WE NEED TO talk,” 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.”

  Gathering her skirts in one hand, Immanuelle followed Ezra down the hall and up a winding flight of stairs. At the top was an iron door which Ezra kicked open, nearly dropping his books in the process. He turned to look at her. “Are you coming in or not?”

  Immanuelle had never entered a man’s chambers before and she was certain Martha would skin her to the bone if she ever so much as suspected her of such a grave and salacious transgression. She stalled for a beat, then nodded.

  As soon as she was past the threshold, Ezra dumped his books on a nearby table and drew the door shut. Overhead, the chandelier shivered, crystals rattling together. Immanuelle noticed that the ceiling was painted like the heavens, dotted with planets and stars and etched with the shapes of constellations, some so large they spanned the room from one end to the other. The stone walls were hung with tapestries and portraits of stern-looking saints and apostles of ages long past. On the right half of the room was a large iron bed draped with dark brocade and a few thick sheepskins. Just beyond it, a wooden desk built in the blunt fashion of a butcher’s block, its surface strewn with quills and parchment paper.

  Opposite the door was a hearth that ran the length of the wall. Above it, hand painted across the bricks, was a map of the world beyond the Bethelan territories. Immanuelle saw the names of all the heathen cities: Gall in the barren north, Hebron in the midlands, Sine in the mountains, Judah at the cusp of the desert, Shoan south where the raging sea licked the land, and the black stain of Valta—the Dark Mother’s domain—in the far east.

  All around the room, stacked in piles as tall as Immanuelle, were books. They were shoved into shelves, perched atop the hearth’s mantel, even crammed beneath the bed. But it was only when Immanuelle drew near enough to read their titles that she realized almost all of them related to the history, study, and practice of witchcraft.

  Her heart seized in her chest, as if some hand had closed around it and squeeze
d tight. She could think of only one reason Ezra would have developed a sudden taste for books of witchcraft, and it began with her and ended with what happened in the Darkwood. “What is this, Ezra? You’re scaring me.”

  “Something dragged you under,” said Ezra, and the weight of his gaze made her skin crawl.

  “What?”

  “Back in the woods, at the pond, something dragged you under, and it kept you there for a long time.”

  In spite of the blazing fire, a deep chill racked her. “What do you mean by a long time?”

  “Twenty minutes. Maybe more.”

  “That’s impossible,” Immanuelle whispered, shaking her head. “You must be mistaken, I was barely under for more than a minute. I warned you, the Darkwood has a way of twisting the minds of men—”

  “Don’t patronize me,” he snapped. “I know what I saw. You went into the water, something dragged you under, and it kept you there.” His voice broke on the last word, and he hung his head. “I tried to dive in after you, but the forest caught hold of me, and I couldn’t. I just had to stand there helpless, watching you drown with that damn rope in my hand. Toward the end, I was just hoping to reel your corpse ashore so your kin would have something to bury.”

  “Ezra . . . I’m sorry.”

  Immanuelle wasn’t even sure he’d heard her. He kept his eyes locked on the fire as he spoke. “When I was young, my grandmother used to tell me stories of girls who floated inches above their beds while they slept at night. Girls who could talk a man into taking his own life or the life of someone else. Girls who were executed—tossed into a lake with millstones chained to their ankles—only to be reeled from the water alive an hour later. Girls who laughed when they burned on the pyre. I never used to give those stories credence, but you . . .” He lost his train of thought. Took a moment to collect himself. “What was your obsession with the blood plague? You said you just wanted to end it, but it was more than that, wasn’t it? You know something the rest of us don’t. What is it?”