The Year of the Witching(49)

So Ezra did know the truth, or at least enough of it to send her to the pyre. It was futile to lie, in light of that. “I went into the Darkwood, just before the blood plague began, and while I was there I had . . . an encounter.”

“An encounter with what?”

“The witches of the woods. They’re real. I was with them the night before the blood plague struck. I think that my presence in the woods unleashed something terrible. When I went back I was trying to undo it. And I would have told you sooner, I wanted to, but—”

“You couldn’t trust me.”

“You’re the Prophet’s son and heir. A word from you could’ve sent me to the pyre. I didn’t know if I could trust you with my secrets. I still don’t.”

Ezra sidestepped past her, crossed the room to his desk, unlocked its top drawer with the blade of his holy dagger, withdrew a sheaf of papers, and extended them to her.

Immanuelle took them. “What is this?”

“Your entry in the census. I was supposed to surrender it to my father days ago.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Read it yourself and find out.” When she hesitated, Ezra nodded toward the chairs that stood by the hearth. Between them was a table that housed a glass decanter and goblet. “Go on.”

Immanuelle took a seat on one of the chairs and Ezra settled himself opposite her. He poured himself some wine, watching her over the rim as he drank. The first page recounted the particulars of Immanuelle’s personal history—her full name and the names of her parents, her date of birth. At the end of the account, a strange, muddled mark that Immanuelle initially mistook for an ink spot. But upon closer examination, she saw that it was some sort of strange symbol: a bride’s seal, only the points of the star were longer, and there were seven of them instead of eight. The longer she studied that strange mark, the more certain she was that she’d seen it before.

Then the realization struck her.

That mark was the same one carved into the foreheads of Delilah and the Lovers.

Immanuelle’s hand began to shake. She leaned out of her seat, pointed to the mark at the end of her census, and extended the page to Ezra for clarification. “Is this—”

He merely nodded, his gaze on the fire. “The Mother’s mark. It’s the symbol the cutting seal was derived from, years ago. David Ford sought a way to reclaim it, so he altered the mark and called it his.”

“Then why does it appear unaltered here?”

Ezra downed the dregs of his wine, pressed to his feet, and set his glass on the mantel. “Normally, the Church uses the Mother’s mark to identify those who were credibly accused of witchcraft. But sometimes, it’s used to identify the direct descendants of witches and trace their bloodlines. Days ago, when my father asked me to go through the census files, that’s what he was looking for.”

“I don’t understand.”

Ezra rubbed the back of his neck like his muscles were paining him. He looked about as haggard and weak as he had at the pond, days ago. “The Mother’s mark appears beside at least one of your ancestors, every other generation, on your father’s side. The last being your grandmother, your father’s mother, Vera Ward.”

“Which means . . .”

Ezra just nodded, quiet and despondent. Neither of them spoke to the silent accusation that hung on the air between them like a pall of pyre smoke.

“When did you discover this?” Immanuelle whispered.

“The night before we entered the Darkwood. Your census was one of the first ones I read.”

Her hands began to shake. “Have you told anyone?”

“Of course not.”

“Will you tell anyone?”

Silence, then: “I’m not my father.”

“And yet here I am, under an inquisition.”

“Is that what you think this is?” Ezra demanded, looking almost betrayed.

“What else would you call it? From the moment I entered this room, all you’ve done is question me like I’m some sort of criminal on trial.”

A long silence spanned between them, broken only by the crackling of the hearth fire. Outside, a rogue wind ripped across the plains, and the windowpanes rattled in their casings. A disembodied chorus of laughter and music floated up from downstairs, the sounds so distant they seemed almost spectral.

Ezra turned to Immanuelle, extended his hand. “Give it to me.”

“What?”

“Your census account. Give it to me.”

“Why?” Immanuelle whispered, stricken and perhaps more terrified than she had ever been before. “What are you going to do with it?”

Ezra didn’t ask again. He stepped forward and snatched the papers so quickly Immanuelle didn’t have the chance to grab them back.

“Ezra, please—”

He hurled the papers into the fire, and they both watched in silence as the hungry flames devoured them.

“We’re going to keep this quiet,” said Ezra in a hushed murmur. “I won’t speak of what happened in the Darkwood that day and neither will you. No one need know the truth of your heritage. When we leave this room it’ll be like it never happened—the woods, the witches, the census, all of it. We’ll never speak of it again.”

“But the plague—”