The Year of the Witching(45)
The cathedral doors swung open again. The sound of hooves on stone echoed through the cathedral as Apostle Isaac brought forth the sacrifice. It was a small calf, the buds of its horns piercing through its hide, its wide eyes brown and doe-like.
Honor grabbed a fistful of Immanuelle’s skirts. She had never taken to the slaughters well.
“It’s all right,” Immanuelle whispered, running her fingers through her hair.
Apostle Isaac hauled the calf up onto the altar. It slipped a little on the stained stone stairs, hooves sliding out from underneath it, legs skewing as it found its footing. Isaac eased a hand down its side, collecting its legs so that it was forced to lie with its stomach pressed to the cold slate of the altar. The calf obeyed without a struggle, too young and too dense to catch the scent of death on the air.
The Prophet moved forward with Ezra at his side, his bare feet rasping across the floor. He raised the blade high above his head. “To Ezra.”
The flock answered as one. “Long may he reign!”
* * *
A FEW HOURS after the Sabbath service and slaughter, Immanuelle left her family and took the bride’s carriage back to the Haven with Leah. All eyes were on Immanuelle as she entered the gallery. Despite her initial fears, Ezra, Father bless him, had not betrayed her to the Church. Quite the opposite, in fact. Whatever lie he’d constructed to explain their presence in the Darkwood that day had cast her as the hero. And now it seemed that everyone wanted to know the story of the hapless shepherd girl who saved the Prophet’s successor from the clutches of the Darkwood. But Immanuelle was tired of stories and lies. And she did all that she could to avoid wandering gazes as she settled into her place at the feasting table and picked through her food. She tried to keep up with the conversation at hand, but when the discussion turned to the laborious endeavors of childbirth, her attention waned and her gaze roamed about the room.
The gallery was immaculate. The tables were decorated with wreaths of roses, freshly cut and harvested from the Prophet’s own conservatory. Candlesticks as tall as Abram stood at intervals along the walls, their light warming the faces of the guests, who sat chatting over heaping plates of roast and potato. With the blood plague now ended and the rations order revoked, wine and water flowed in abundance.
At the front of the gallery stood a long oak table where the Prophet was seated. To his left sat Esther in a gown of pale lilac, and to his right, Ezra, his eyes glazed and bloodshot.
The Prophet leaned forward in his seat, carving a bit of meat from the roasted goat on the platter in front of him. As he worked his blade between the bones, his gaze moved across the congregation and found its way to Immanuelle. Their eyes locked, and the Prophet set his knife down and, with some effort, raised his goblet to toast her, a motion that a few of his guests mirrored.
All Immanuelle managed in response to the gesture was a curt nod. She fixed her eyes on her plate, trying to swallow down the sickness that boiled at the back of her throat whenever the Prophet’s gaze landed upon her.
And lately, that had been often.
Leah put a hand to her shoulder. “Are you all right?”
“Fine,” said Immanuelle, tracing her fork through a puddle of gravy. “Why do you ask?”
“Because you look pale and frightened, as though you’ve seen the face of the Dark Mother herself. Are you sick?” Leah demanded.
“No.”
“Tired, then?”
Immanuelle nodded. Of course she was. She was exhausted and annoyed, tired of telling the same stories again and again, answering the same questions, and entertaining the same people who, under typical circumstances, wouldn’t want anything to do with her. She wanted nothing more than to go home and retreat to her bed. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so terribly out of place.
Typically, Immanuelle would have never attended such an esteemed celebration in the first place, but on account of the fact that it was she who had “rescued” Ezra, the Prophet had offered her a formal invitation to the celebratory feast. She should have been excited, but all she could summon in response to the invitation was a deep and ugly dread. She’d never been good with social events, and they were always harder to endure without her family by her side. She’d tried every excuse she could think of to avoid the occasion, but Martha had held firm, forcing her to accept the invitation lest she insult the Church. So, there she sat. “I’m sorry. I’m not myself today.”
Leah rubbed her arm sympathetically. “It’s all right. Patience was only asking if you’d tell us the story again.”
A slight, pretty girl, who Immanuelle assumed was Patience, smiled coyly from down the table. Immanuelle could tell she was a new bride from the scab-flaked seal between her eyebrows. If her fine dress and poised air were any indication, she’d married well.
Immanuelle took a sip of mulled wine to buy herself some time, the drink so hot it stung her tongue. In fewer words, she recounted the same lie she’d told the apostles: “I was in the pastures and I found Ezra on the edge of the woods. I tried to wake him, but he didn’t stir, so I called for help . . . and help came.”
Hope let out a long sigh, her shoulders slumping. “It sounds like the beginning of a love story.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Patience, rolling her eyes. “Ezra Chambers has far more important things to do than romp in the Darkwood with”—her eyes traced over Immanuelle, taking in her curls, her dark skin, her full lips—“some girl from the Outskirts.”