The Year of the Witching(37)

Immanuelle took a step past her. “I lost my way.”

Judith caught her by the arm, her grasp tight enough to leave bruises behind, but when she spoke her voice was still thin and sweet. “You smell of blood. Were you wandering the catacombs?”

“No. I’m here on business,” said Immanuelle, keeping her voice steady.

“Whose?”

“That’s my concern.”

Judith angled her head to the side. A smile played over her lips, but there was no kindness in it. Her hand slipped away. “I know that you saw us that night.”

That should have been the end of it, but Immanuelle stalled a beat, lingering in the center of the hall.

“You think you’re so clever, don’t you? Holding little threats above my head.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t insult my intelligence. I know you saw us that night. You were snooping around then just like you are now, sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

“I’m not here to snoop.”

Judith scoffed, then laughed outright, and somehow she looked more cruel smiling than she did scowling. “You wear a lie about as well as a toddler does a corset,” said Judith, and she plucked at one of her own bodice strings. “Deception doesn’t become you, and that’s all right if you’re pocketing taffy at the market or fibbing to your father about some boy you kissed behind the schoolhouse. But I don’t think those are the kinds of secrets you’re keeping. I think the sins you’re hiding could send you to the pyre if you’re not careful.”

Judith must not know, Immanuelle realized, of the danger she was in, that the Prophet was aware of her dalliance with Ezra. There was no way Judith would be wasting time in the corridor with her if she knew how much trouble she was in. The spoiled girl was so used to always having her way, she couldn’t imagine a day she might not. The idea that she’d be caught was so minor, so inconceivable, she hadn’t even paused to consider it. “You’re a fool if you think I’m the one in danger.”

For the first time in recent memory—or perhaps in all the sixteen years Immanuelle had known her—Judith looked properly taken aback. A range of emotions passed over her face, like a series of shadows in quick succession, ranging from rage to fear to doubt. She parted her lips to respond to Immanuelle’s warning, or perhaps demand an explanation, when a door opened down the hall. The two girls turned immediately and watched as a tall, pale man stepped past the threshold. He was a servant, if his dirtied boots and smock were any indication. Hanging from the loop of his belt was a holy dagger, as well as a small iron hammer just longer than Immanuelle’s hand. The only mark of his station was the symbol of the Prophet’s Guard, which was embroidered into the right-hand corner of his smock.

The man smiled at them, but the gesture lacked any pretense of warmth. “Pardon me, mistress. Your husband wants a word.”

Judith’s eyes went from the man to Immanuelle, then back to the man again.

“This way.” He sounded impatient now.

Judith’s eyes filled suddenly with tears, and she began to tremble. For one absurd moment, Immanuelle thought to reach for her, as if there was something she could do to stay whatever fate awaited her in the form of that strange, sneering man at the hall’s end.

But then Judith started forward, each step slow and heavy, her velvet skirts trailing behind her as she went. Immanuelle saw the terror in her eyes as she brushed past the threshold to the man who stood waiting for her, rounded a corner, and disappeared.





CHAPTER FOURTEEN





We have broken ourselves to be together. The fragments of me fit with the fragments of you, and our remnants have become greater than the sum of who we used to be.

—FROM THE LETTERS OF DANIEL WARD





IMMANUELLE FOUND EZRA just outside the front gate in the eastern pastures, standing beside the same cottonwood he’d been reading under when she first arrived. In his good hand, the reins of a tall black steed. In his bad one, a stained rag he gripped to staunch the bleeding. “What took you so long?” he demanded.

Immanuelle forced herself not to stare at his hand. “Your lovely mistress caught me in the halls. She wanted to chat.”

“Judith?”

“Yes, Judith,” Immanuelle snapped, suddenly furious. “What, do you have trouble remembering them all?”

Ezra frowned. He forced his good hand toward her and nodded to the cart. “Climb up. I’m taking you home.”

Immanuelle didn’t move. “What’s between you two?”

“What?”

“You and Judith. What’s between you?”

“There’s nothing between us.”

Immanuelle fought the urge to fold her arms over her chest. “I saw her kiss you, and it didn’t seem like it was your first time.”

Ezra’s hand tightened around the rag, and he worked his jaw. “No, it wasn’t. But it was the last.”

Immanuelle knew then that she ought to bite her tongue, leave Ezra to his sins. But then she thought of that strange, sneering man in the hall and the look of terror that had passed over Judith’s face when she walked to meet him. Her rage bubbled over, and the words tumbled out before she had the chance to bite them back. “Why did you start in the first place? Girls have burned on the pyre for less than the sins you committed together. My own father burned for lesser crimes.”