The Year of the Witching(35)
Ezra started to reply, but before he had the chance to speak, there was the jangle of keys and the sharp click of a lock’s bolt slipping out of place. He twisted to face her, his expression panicked. “There’s a door at the back of the library, behind the shelves of the medical section. It leads to a flight of stairs that feeds into the cellars. Go down the hall, through the doors at its end. I’ll meet you by the front gate.” The doors opened with a resounding groan. “Go, now!”
Immanuelle broke for the two nearest shelves, ducking behind them as a lone man crossed into the center aisle. “Back in the library again?”
Although the voice was hoarse, Immanuelle immediately recognized it from past Sabbaths and feasts.
It belonged to the Prophet.
“I thought I might do some research,” said Ezra.
The Prophet nodded, doubling back so he stood by a shelf that was only a few feet from Immanuelle. She retreated, trying her best to step lightly on the cobbles.
The Prophet lingered, nothing but a few books between them. Up close, Immanuelle was certain she didn’t mistake the poorly veiled contempt in his expression when he regarded Ezra. His upper lip curled a bit when he spoke. “Research on what?”
Ezra’s eyes went to Immanuelle. Go, his gaze seemed to say. But she crouched, frozen, behind the shelf, afraid she’d be caught by the Prophet if she moved so much as an inch.
Ezra shifted his attention back to his father, his expression unreadable. “Mother is suffering from her . . . bruising affliction yet again. I was looking for a way to ease her pain, but I’m beginning to think I won’t find a cure behind these walls.”
The Prophet flinched at the veiled threat, his composure failing him for a moment. But he regained himself quickly, slid a book off the shelf nearest to him, a thick tome with no title, and thumbed slowly through the pages. “If your mother is ailing, have her call upon a physician. I have more important work for you.”
Ezra went very still, as if he feared he’d say something he’d regret. When he spoke, his voice was strained. “What would you have me do?”
The Prophet turned to place his book back on the shelf, and Immanuelle ducked down an adjacent aisle to avoid being seen. There, she found the door. It was small, a good half a foot shorter than she, as if it was made for a child. She was reaching for the handle when she heard the Prophet say, “I need the census accounts of all the women in Bethel.”
A chill raked down Immanuelle’s spine. Hastily, she slipped through the door and began to draw it shut behind her. The creaking of the hinges echoed through the library.
“Did you hear that?” The Prophet’s voice was sharp.
Immanuelle froze, her hand still on the latch. She peered through the crack between the door and its frame. She knew she ought to retreat down the corridor as instructed, but she couldn’t pull her eyes from the scene unfolding before her.
The Prophet coughed, harshly, into the crook of his elbow. When he spoke again, his voice was just a thin rasp. “I could have sworn I heard something.”
Ezra pushed off the altar and strode down the center aisle. “Just the stones settling, most likely. The Haven has old bones.”
“That it does.” The Prophet’s voice echoed as he moved down the aisle where Immanuelle had hidden just moments before. She could have sworn he was limping a bit, but perhaps it only looked that way because of her odd vantage point.
She held her breath as the Prophet drew nearer still, and she cowered behind the door now, knowing she ought to leave. But she needed to know about the names of Bethel’s women. What did the Prophet want with them? What if he had seen something in a vision, or he suspected one of them was behind the plague? What if he suspected her?
The Prophet’s heavy footsteps were mere paces from the door now.
“Father, the names,” Ezra called out, drawing his attention away. “If I’m to pull the records of all the women in Bethel, that must be at least eight or nine thousand.”
“Likely more than that.” The Prophet walked on past the door, much to Immanuelle’s relief. She risked another peek through the crack. “Make the selections from the census and send the records to my quarters. I want all of the accounts on my desk by the week’s end. Have the scribes help you, if necessary. I don’t care if they have to work through the night to see it through. I want it done. Am I understood?”
Ezra dipped his head. “Is that all you require of me?”
The Prophet mulled this, gazing at Ezra with something akin to disgust. It was a known fact that the Prophet’s chosen son was not often his favorite. Immanuelle imagined it was not an easy thing for a man to stare into the face of his own undoing. The Holy Scriptures were filled with stories of prophets who had tried to kill their heirs in order to extend their own lives and reigns. In turn, several heirs had tried to kill their predecessors to hasten their rise to power.
Watching the Prophet and Ezra then, Immanuelle was reminded of those horrible histories—of violence against son and father, master and apprentice, schisms that threatened to tear the Church apart. The tension between the two of them was as sinister as it was palpable. In that moment, Ezra and the Prophet were enemies before they were kin. One the ruination of the other. Immanuelle could not help but think it was a horrible thing to behold, regardless of whether the Father had ordained it.