The Year of the Witching(64)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX





A child is a gift greater than any other.

—FROM THE WRITINGS OF THE PROPHET ENECH





GET UP.” IMMANUELLE woke to the glow of lamplight and the harsh cut of Martha’s silhouette in her doorway.

Immanuelle snapped to attention, the memories of the massacre flooding back to her—the bodies, the blood, the slaughter.

“Ezra’s here from the Haven.”

“Again?” Immanuelle asked, her voice thick and hoarse with sleep. “Whatever for?”

Martha snatched her cloak off its hook on the wall and tossed it to her. “Leah’s in labor and she’s bleeding badly.”

“But she’s not due for weeks—”

Martha wheeled to face her. “You knew?”

Immanuelle fumbled with the buttons of her dress. “Yes, but she only told me a few weeks ago. I wanted to let you know, but she made me swear to keep the secret and—”

Martha raised a hand for silence. “Now is not the time for your confession. We need to go to the Haven. I’ll need your help at the birthing bed and Leah needs you too.”



* * *





    MARTHA AND IMMANUELLE rushed to the Haven by the light of the purging pyres. Ezra rode ahead of them on horseback, galloping across the Glades. By the time they arrived at the Haven’s gate, he was waiting for them. Immanuelle hopped out of the wagon before it slowed to a stop and broke toward him, sprinting through the rolling smoke of the pyres. He ushered them into the foyer and down the hall toward the bridal ward.

Let her live, Immanuelle prayed, to the Father, to the beasts of the Darkwood, to the witches, to whoever was willing to heed her. Please, let Leah live.

After a walk that felt leagues long, they entered into a ward Immanuelle didn’t recognize. Here, the cries of the blight sick faded to silence and only one voice sounded above the rest. A wet, gargling wail that slapped against the walls and echoed.

Immanuelle’s hands began to shake.

“This is as far as I go,” Ezra said, and his gaze fell to Immanuelle. “Be strong.”

She started to respond, but Martha cut her short. “Tell your father I’m here.”

Ezra nodded and, without another parting word, left.

Martha started forward ahead of Immanuelle, murmuring a prayer under her breath as she opened the door. They entered the room together. It was small, all aglow with firelight. The air thick with the scent of sweat and wood smoke. Toward the back of the room, speaking in harsh, urgent tones, were Leah’s mother and a few of her older half sisters. Their eyes were bloodshot and almost all of them were weeping.

At the center of the room—crowded by a throng of the Prophet’s wives—was the bed where Leah lay, writhing. She wore nothing but a thin nightdress, its skirts pulled up to her armpits. Between her thighs was a dark puddle of blood. Her belly was swollen and striped with stretch marks that looked like knife wounds, badly scarred. The child turned within her, and each violent contraction elicited a scream from Leah that seemed to tear the air in two.

Martha paled. Her gaze turned to Ezra’s mother, Esther, who stood behind the headboard. She wore a long, bloodstained smock and her hair was pulled back into a fallen bun. It was the first time Immanuelle had seen her looking anything less than pristine.

“How long has she been like this?”

“Two days.”

Immanuelle stared at her, stunned. “You let her labor for two days without calling for aid?”

“Physicians in the Haven were by her side—”

“You should have sent for me sooner,” said Martha, a harsh rebuke.

“I know, but we were only acting on the Prophet’s orders,” said Esther, rushing to explain. “He asked if we might . . . withhold information about the circumstances of Leah’s condition for a little while longer.”

At once, Immanuelle realized why. He was trying to keep the birth a secret. Let Leah labor silently, in the confines of the Haven, attended only by personal physicians of the Prophet who were sworn by holy oath—on penalty of purging—to serve him and keep his secrets. By withholding that information, he could expunge the details of the child’s illegitimacy and, more importantly, his sin. In a few months’ time, he would announce the child’s birth, and no one would question the circumstances surrounding its conception. All would be deemed right and well.

Martha stepped around the birthing table and began her examination. As she worked, Esther moved a damp cloth across Leah’s brow. She paused to whisper something in her ear, and whatever she said was enough to make the girl smile through her tears, if only for a moment. The woman turned back to Martha, lowering her voice to a whisper so quiet Immanuelle had to read her lips in order to understand her. “Were we too late?”

The midwife didn’t answer.

“Immanuelle.” Leah’s swollen eyes split open, and she threw out her hand. “Please, come.”

“I’m here,” said Immanuelle, breaking forward to take her friend by the hand. “I’m right here.”

Leah smiled and a few tears slipped down her cheeks. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for what I said last time I saw you. Forgive me. Please. I’m so sorry.”