The Year of the Witching(46)
Immanuelle flinched. There was truth in those harsh words. Whatever kinship she and Ezra once shared had likely died the day of his First Vision. There were certain codes of conduct in Bethel that kept those on the Outskirts from venturing inward, and even if they went unwritten and unsaid, she knew she was expected to abide by them.
“Besides,” Patience rambled on, “between Ezra’s new title and what became of Judith, I daresay our heir will be keeping his distance.”
At the mention of Judith’s name, the table went quiet. Leah stared into her goblet, seemingly enamored by the depths of her wine, and the younger girls who’d sat giggling at the table’s edge were now still.
“What happened to Judith?” Immanuelle tried to keep her voice light and even, but her heart beat faster as she thought back to that day at the Haven, when the strange man in the stained smock appeared at the corridor’s end to escort Judith to the Prophet.
No one answered. Everyone seemed preoccupied with picking at their food or sipping wine.
At last, Leah said, “The night after Ezra’s vision, Judith was taken from the confinement ward and sent to contrition.”
Contrition. It was a punishment reserved for the grossest offenders of the Father’s Holy Protocol. No one knew what contrition entailed exactly—apart from immediate excommunication or detainment. Some claimed it consisted of forced fasts to starve out sin and cleanse the soul. Others told tales of long imprisonments in the Haven’s dungeons, where those paying penance were subjected to violent beatings to exorcise demons and sins from the body. But one thing was certain: Everyone who was sent to contrition returned . . . changed. It was the ultimate act of sanctification, if the soul in question was strong enough to see it through.
Immanuelle felt suddenly sick, as if she was in jeopardy of bringing up every mouthful of roast she’d forced herself to swallow. She could barely get her words out. “What was Judith’s sin?”
“They won’t say.” Patience raised her goblet to her lips, then added, “But if her whoring had anything to do with it, I assume she’ll be held for some time.”
Leah’s brows knit together. “You shouldn’t say such terrible things.”
“Why shouldn’t I? It’s the truth.” The girl’s gaze slid back to Immanuelle. “One I daresay a few of us could learn from.”
Immanuelle stiffened. With a pang, she stared across the gallery to the Prophet’s table. Next to his father, Ezra sat slumped in his chair, downing the last dregs of his wine. He paused to wipe his mouth on the back of his hand, grabbed for the decanter, filled his goblet to the rim, and drank like he was trying to drown himself.
Immanuelle wondered if he felt responsible for Judith’s punishment, if it was their tryst that had resulted in her detainment. If so, Immanuelle feared for her. She and Judith were far from friends, but if the horrors of holy contrition were all that Immanuelle believed them to be, then she couldn’t help but pity her. And with that pity came a kind of rage, not at Judith or Ezra, but at the system that held one accountable for her sins while the other was lauded.
Ezra’s gaze shifted, and he met Immanuelle’s eyes for the first time that day. When she offered him a smile, he cast his gaze away and pushed back from the table so abruptly the cutlery rattled. Without a parting word, he staggered across the gallery to the doors at its opposing end. The gazes of the guests followed him, but no one pursued him. Esther attempted, but the Prophet put a firm hand to her wrist, pinning it to the table. Behind them, the Prophet’s Guard stood taciturn, waiting for an order.
Never one to miss a beat, the Prophet pushed back from his chair and stood. He ordered the quartet to play a lively hymn, and with a flash of his hand, he summoned a fresh barrel of mead from the Haven’s kitchens. The servants scurried from table to table, filling mugs and goblets to the brim. In a matter of moments, Ezra’s departure was all but forgotten.
Immanuelle shoved back from the table, the feet of her chair scraping across the floor.
“Where are you going?” Leah asked. “We haven’t even had dessert yet! I have it on good authority that the chefs are serving an apple tart with clotted cream.”
“I don’t have the stomach for sweets today,” said Immanuelle, gazing through the crowd to the doors through which Ezra had disappeared. “I think I’ll take some air.”
Leah gazed at her, eyes narrowed. Then she shoved back from the table and grabbed Immanuelle’s hand, locking their fingers. “I’ll go with you.”
As soon as they left, cutting down the aisles between tables, and exited into the corridor, Leah turned to her. “You’re going after Ezra, aren’t you?”
“What makes you think that?”
“He’s been casting you furtive glances whenever your back is turned, and you’ve been doing the same to him. The two of you can’t keep your eyes off each other.”
Immanuelle flushed, but she didn’t break pace. “It’s not like that.”
“Then what are you not telling me? Don’t you trust me?”
“I do trust you. I just don’t want to drag you into undue trouble.”
“Trouble?” Leah caught her by the arm as a servant walked past, shouldering a tray of apple tarts. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “What do you mean by trouble? Did something happen in the woods that day? Did Ezra do something to you?”