The Year of the Witching(61)

Anna stopped in the middle of peeling a carrot. Strips of orange rind drifted to the floor as she turned to face them. Martha put a hand on her shoulder, and the two of them curtsied and scurried from the room.

The Prophet tipped his head to his son. “You too.”

Ezra tensed, then nodded, stepping from behind his father’s chair. He brushed past Immanuelle without a glance in her direction and started for the stairs.

As Ezra’s footsteps faded to silence, the Prophet’s gaze returned to her. He studied her with sharp intent, as if he was trying to commit the details of her face to memory. His gaze was so keen she could almost feel it, like a cold finger tracing along her brow, the seam between her lips, then down her neck to the crook of her collarbones. She froze, afraid that the slightest flinch could betray her for what she was: the plague’s harbinger, heretic to the Church, a pawn to witches.

“You’re a shepherdess, are you not?”

She nodded. “I tend to my grandfather’s flock.”

The Prophet raised the cup of sheep’s milk—eyeing her above the rim as he drank—then he set it down and licked the froth off his upper lip. “You and I are alike in that. Both of us have our flocks to tend.”

“I daresay your calling is greater than mine.”

“I wouldn’t.” The Prophet’s gaze hung on her for a moment; then he coughed violently into the crook of his arm. It took him some time to catch his breath. “Do you know why I’ve come here today?”

“To hear my confession and tell me how to absolve my sins.”

“And do you think it’s that simple? Do you think sin can simply be wiped away with a few minutes’ penance and a sorry heart?”

“Not all sins, no.”

“What about the sin of witchcraft?” The Prophet’s voice was measured, but his eyes held a malice that almost made her shudder.

Immanuelle fought to keep her face expressionless. “The sin of witchcraft is punishable by pyre purging.”

“And have you ever engaged in such a sin?” the Prophet asked, gently, like he was trying to coax the truth from her. “Have you ever conjured spells or curses?”

Immanuelle stiffened. The image of the seals and sigils carved into the cabin walls flashed through her mind. If casting a curse was punishable by death, what was the punishment for being the curse’s harbinger? “Of course not.”

“Have you kept company with the denizens of the Darkwood, as your mother once did?”

Rage burned through her, but she pushed it down. “I’m not my mother. Sir.”

The Prophet stared down at his hands, and there was something odd in his eyes. Bitterness? Regret? She couldn’t parse it. “That’s not an answer, Ms. Moore.”

Immanuelle was terrified to lie, but she knew the truth would damn her. Besides, what were her deceptions compared to those of the Prophet and the Church? If she must lie, it would be for the sake of her life, and the same couldn’t be said for them. “I know nothing of the woods or the sins of my mother. I was raised to keep the faith.”

The Prophet started to respond, but another fit of coughing cut him short. He hacked into his sleeve for a long while, wheezing and gasping for air. When his fit finally ended, he lowered his arm, and Immanuelle saw a small red stain in the crook of his elbow. “What of lechery?”

Immanuelle stiffened. “What?”

“Whoring, fornication, adultery, lust.” He counted the crimes on his fingers. “Surely you know your sins and Scriptures if you keep the faith, like you claim to.”

Immanuelle’s cheeks warmed. “I know those sins.”

“And do you partake in them?”

She should have been afraid, but what welled up within her now was contempt—for him, for the Church, for anyone who would cast stones at others while hiding sins of their own. “No.”

The Prophet leaned forward in his chair, elbows on the table, fingers steepled. “So you mean to say you’ve never been in love?”

“Never.”

“Then you are pure, of heart and flesh?”

She began to tremble in her seat. “I am.”

There was a long beat of silence.

“Do you say your prayers at night?”

“Yes,” she lied.

“Do you mind your tongue and keep vile words off your lips?”

“I do.”

“Do you honor your elders?”

“As best I’m able.”

“And do you read your Scriptures?”

She nodded. Another honest answer. She read her Scriptures, certainly—just not the ones he was referring to.

The Prophet leaned into the table. “Do you love the Father with all your heart and soul?”

“Yes.”

“Then, say it.” This was a demand, not a question. “Say you love Him.”

“I love Him,” she said, a split second too late.

The Prophet pushed back from his seat at the head of the table and stood. He walked down the table’s length, stopped beside her chair, and put a hand to her head. His thumb traced the bare spot between her brows where wives wore their seals.

It was all she could do not to bolt from her chair and flee.

“Immanuelle.” He turned her name over on his tongue like it was a sugar cube, something to be savored. His holy dagger slipped from the collar of his shirt as he leaned closer, the sheathed blade skimming her cheek as it swung back and forth. “You’d do well to remember what you believe in. I’ve often found that the soul is apt to wander toward the dark.”