The Year of the Witching(10)
“Take your time,” said Tobis, strolling closer, the spiced scent of his pipe smoke wafting through the shelves. “Don’t let us trouble you.”
“You’re not troubling me at all,” Immanuelle murmured, stepping toward the street. She motioned toward Judas, who stood beneath the shadow of a lamppost, striking the cobbles with his hooves. “I was just leaving. I’m not here to shop, only to peddle.”
“Nonsense,” the shopkeeper spoke around the stem of his pipe. “There’s a book for everyone. There must be something that catches your eye.”
Immanuelle’s gaze went to Ezra—to his fine wool coat and polished boots, to the leather-bound books tucked beneath his arm, so well made she imagined the price of one would be enough to cover Abram’s medicines for weeks to come. She flushed. “I have no money.”
The shopkeeper smiled, his teeth riddled with steel and copper. “Then how about a bargain? I’ll trade you a book in exchange for the ram.”
For a split moment, she hesitated.
Some foolish part of her was willing to do it, willing to sell Judas for a few scraps of poetry. But then she thought of Honor with wads of cloth packed into the toes of her shoes to fill the holes and stop the wet from seeping through, of Glory in her hand-me-down dress, hanging off her shoulders like an old grain sack. She thought of Abram and his barking cough, thought of all the medicines he’d need to cure it. She swallowed, then shook her head. “I can’t.”
“What about that?” The shopkeeper jabbed his thumb toward her mother’s necklace—the polished river stone strung on a leather cord. It was a crude token, nothing like the pearls and jewels that some of the Bethelan girls wore, but it was one of the only things Immanuelle had inherited from her and she treasured it more than anything. “That stone sits prettily on your chest.”
Immanuelle raised a hand to it on impulse. “I—”
“She said no,” Ezra cut in harshly, surprising her. “She doesn’t want the book. Leave her be.”
The shopkeeper had the good sense to mind him. He bobbed his head like a hen as he backed away. “As you say, sir, as you say.”
Ezra watched the peddler return to his books, mouth set, eyes narrowed. Something in his gaze reminded Immanuelle of the way he’d looked at her on the Sabbath, the way he’d faltered, as if he’d seen something in her he hadn’t meant to. Now he turned back to her. “You read?”
Immanuelle flushed despite herself, more than a little proud he’d taken notice. So many of her peers—Leah and Judith and the others—could scarcely read at all, knowing no more than their own names and a few of the Scripture’s most important verses. If it hadn’t been for Abram’s insistence that Immanuelle learn to read and manage the Moore farm in his stead, she might have ended up like most other girls she knew, barely able to sign her own name, not knowing a book of stories from a collection of poetry. “I read well enough.”
Ezra raised an eyebrow. “And you’re here alone? You don’t have a chaperone?”
“I don’t need a chaperone,” she said, knowing it was a bending of Protocol at best and a breach at worst, but she didn’t take Ezra for a snitch. She freed Judas from the lamppost and led him into the street. “I know the roads well enough to make the trip on my own.”
To her surprise, Ezra followed at her side, the crowds parting as he walked. “That’s a long way to travel alone. The Moore land is what? Nine miles away?”
“Ten.” Immanuelle was surprised he knew their land at all. Most didn’t. “And it’s no trouble at all. I leave after sunup and I’m here before noon.”
“And you don’t mind?” he asked.
Immanuelle shook her head, her grasp tightening on the lead rope as they crossed into the livestock sector. Even if she did, it wouldn’t matter. Her complaints and annoyances wouldn’t put food in her belly; they wouldn’t pay tithes or thatch the roof or cover the debts that were due in the fall. Only the wealthy had the luxury of minding things; the rest simply ducked their heads, bit their tongues, and did what needed to be done. Ezra obviously fell into the former category, and she the latter.
In truth, it was a surprise to find him in the market at all. As the Prophet’s successor, she imagined he’d have more important responsibilities than buying and bartering. Tasks like that were far beneath him. And yet, there he was, walking with her as if he was taking a Sabbath stroll, carrying books like the Prophet had sent him out on a servant’s errand.
Ezra caught her staring and extended one of his books, the bigger of the two, with the words The Holy Scriptures embossed in gold across the cover. “Here. Have a look.”
Immanuelle shook her head, tugging Judas away from a pen of chickens. “We have our own copy of the Scriptures at home.”
Ezra cracked a half smile and glanced over his shoulder, slipping Judas’ lead rope from her hand. “These aren’t scriptures.”
Immanuelle took the book gingerly. On the outside, it looked just like the Scriptures, but when she flipped it open, there were no verses or psalms, but rather pictures, sketches and pressed ink prints of strange animals and looming trees, mountains, birds, and insects the likes of which she had never seen before. A few of the pages were etched with drawings of great kingdoms and temples, heathen cities in realms far beyond Bethel’s gate.