The Year of the Witching(36)

“There is one more thing.” The Prophet moved to stand before his son. He drew something from the back pocket of his trousers. Squinting, Immanuelle could see that it was a dagger.

Ezra’s dagger.

The chain was broken, the latch badly bent, as if it’d been ripped from around Ezra’s neck—and Immanuelle realized, with a start, that it had. It was the same blade that Judith had snatched in the midst of her fight with Ezra, the night of Leah’s cutting.

The Prophet let it dangle now between him and his son, the blade catching the sunlight as it swung back and forth. “I found this in Judith’s quarters. Tell me, how did it come into her possession?”

By some miracle, Ezra maintained his composure. “I lost my dagger the night of Leah’s cutting.”

“You lost it?”

“I was distracted.”

“By my wife?”

“No,” said Ezra, and Immanuelle marveled at the way he could make a lie sound just like the truth. “Not Judith. By something . . . someone else. When I returned to the place I thought I dropped my dagger, it was gone. Judith must have found it. I’m sure she intended to return it to me.”

“But it was under her pillows,” said the Prophet in a hoarse whisper. “Why would my wife keep my son’s holy dagger beneath her pillows while she slept at night?”

Immanuelle wanted more than anything now to run—to flee and leave the Haven far behind her—but she found herself unable to move; her feet stayed pinned to the floor.

The Prophet took Ezra by the wrist and pressed the dagger deep into the center of his palm, folding Ezra’s fingers over the blade so he was forced to grip it barehanded. The older man paused, his hand resting lightly over his son’s, and he peered into his eyes. Then he squeezed, so suddenly and so hard that his knuckles popped.

Immanuelle watched in breathless horror as blood streamed through the cracks between Ezra’s fingers. He worked his jaw, but he didn’t flinch, didn’t break his father’s gaze, even as the blood trickled down his wrist and the blade bit deeper.

“What you do in the shadows comes out in the light.” The Prophet leaned closer to his son. “I thought I raised you to understand that. Perhaps I was mistaken.”

“You weren’t.” Ezra’s expression remained unchanged, but there was something cold and defiant in his eyes, as though his father was the one who had amends to make, not he.

The Prophet released him abruptly. He looked startled, almost sick, at the sight of what he’d done—at the dagger and his own hands, both smeared with his son’s blood. “The Father’s mercy is one matter,” he said as he tried to recover his composure. “But mine is another. You’d do well to remember that.”

The Prophet turned to depart then, but Ezra didn’t let go of the dagger. In fact, Immanuelle could see he gripped it even tighter, and she gasped as a fresh stream of blood trickled down his wrist. He watched silently as his father walked to the library doors.

Blood dappled the cobbles at Ezra’s feet, but still he kept his hand clenched around the dagger’s blade. It was only after his father departed the chamber that he answered, his voice soft: “I will remember, Father.”





CHAPTER THIRTEEN





I tried to love him, and I tried to put you from my mind. But it isn’t an easy thing to turn your back on a home, and that’s what I found in you.

—FROM THE LETTERS OF MIRIAM MOORE





THE CELLARS BENEATH the Prophet’s Haven reminded Immanuelle strangely of the corridors of the Darkwood. The shadows were thick and wet, and they seemed to cling to her clothes as she made her way through the halls. The air smelled of iron and decay, and by the light of the flickering torches she could see that the stone walls were weeping blood.

She wandered, disoriented and cold, one hand slipping along the gore-slick wall to guide her. Alone, there was nothing to keep her from replaying the scene in the library in her head: the Prophet’s paranoia; his sudden, vicious malice; blood spattering the cobbles; and Ezra’s blank stare. With every step, the corridors closed in around her, and the shadows seemed to fill her lungs so that she had to gasp and struggle for every breath.

By the time she finally reached the first floor, her heart was beating so fast it ached. She stumbled through the doorway, out of the wet shadows and into a narrow hall with arched ceilings.

A door opened and closed, and Immanuelle turned to see Judith standing a few paces away. She wore a dress of pale blue, and in her hand was a fraying scrap of embroidery that was still far better than anything Immanuelle had ever sewn.

“What are you doing here?” Judith demanded, and her gaze traced over her, taking in every flaw—the patched holes at the tops of her boots, her bloodstained skirts, the unkempt riot of her curls. “Shouldn’t you be in the fields with your flock . . . or in the Outskirts?”

Immanuelle flinched. She raised a hand to fix her hair, but then thought better of it and stopped. No amount of preening would satisfy Judith’s spite. She would always find some fault to fixate on, or some cruel barb to make Immanuelle feel like less than she was. “Good morrow to you, Judith.”

The girl offered no greeting in return. Her gaze drifted from Immanuelle to the door behind her. “Where did you just come from?”