The Year of the Witching(32)

“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 door 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.

“This is it,” said Ezra with a wave of his hand. “The Prophet’s library.”

“It’s huge.”

“I suppose it is,” said Ezra, as though he hadn’t considered it that way before. And perhaps he hadn’t. After all, the grandeur of the Haven was all he had ever known. He motioned for Immanuelle to follow him through the shelves to the stairway that twisted down from the organ deck. Gathering her skirts, Immanuelle climbed after him, and Ezra, ever the gentleman, offered her his hand.

“This is the restricted section,” he said as they ascended. “All texts relating to the dark craft are kept here. If you’re seeking information about the plagues, this is where you’ll find it.”

Immanuelle risked a glance down to the ground floor, far below. The drop was so far it was almost dizzying. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this high up.”

“One day I’ll have to take you up to the cathedral’s bell tower. That view is far better than this one.” Ezra scaled the last of the stairs, stopped in front of the gate, and unlocked it with a small rusty key he produced from his pocket. He held it open for her and ushered her through with a pass of his hand.

Immanuelle stepped past him onto the overhang. It was larger than she’d expected, but most of the floor space was taken up by a series of nine tall shelves that stretched from the stairs to the far wall. Almost all the books housed there were chained to the shelves they sat on.

Ezra immediately began to comb through the collection. Clouds of dust, as thick as smoke, bloomed in the air as he slid books off the shelves, their rusty chains rattling.

“Do you often come up here to read?” Immanuelle asked, trailing after him down the aisles.

“No,” said Ezra. “The last time I was up here, I was nine years old. I didn’t have my dagger then, so I scaled the gate to get in. Broke my elbow when I landed on the other side, but I still managed to flip through a few books before I was found.”