The Year of the Witching(69)

“I’m alone already.”

The hurt in Ezra’s eyes was unmistakable. “That’s not true.”

“Listen to me,” said Immanuelle, dropping her voice. “You’ll be the Prophet soon, and as Prophet you can’t continue defying the Protocol in order to protect me.”

“Why not?”

“The Holy Scriptures won’t allow it. Don’t you understand? By the Church’s laws, I should be burning right now.”

“Damn the Scriptures. I’ll do what I want.”

“That was the path your father followed, and look what came of it.” Immanuelle tossed her hand toward the pyre, to Leah’s burning corpse. “You can’t allow yourself to rule with impunity the way he did.”

“This isn’t about him,” Ezra snapped, truly angry now. “You said it yourself, weeks ago, he’s dying. Soon enough, his bones will be locked in a crypt like the rest of the prophets who came before him. So what difference does it make? The flock, the apostles, the Prophet and his Guard. Let the plagues come and drive them all apart, and then when it’s over—when they’re burning on their own pyres or rotting in the ground—you’ll be safe.”

“You can’t promise my safety. There’s no way for us to redeem ourselves out of reality. Bethel won’t change, Ezra. The pyres will keep burning no matter what we do; I know that now. More girls will die. More apostles will rise. More trials will be held—”

Ezra shook his head. “A prophet can’t be put on trial. And neither could you, if you bear my name.”

It took her a moment to fully comprehend the statement. He’d thrown the offer at her feet so casually, as if he was merely inviting her for an afternoon stroll. “What are you trying to say?”

“You could be First Bride, with all of the allowances that go with the title. You could take up Leah’s daughter, raise her in the Haven the way you want. You’d be safe.”

Any other girl in Bethel would have wept with joy at the offer, would have lunged at the chance to stand by Ezra’s side as his wife and life partner. It was nothing less than a dream. Or at least it should have been. But all Immanuelle could think about was her mother. That life—a life bound to the Prophet, to the Church and the Haven—was what had forced her to flee into the Darkwood in the first place.

“So, you’d have me cut?” Immanuelle asked, barely breathing. “You’d have me stretched across the cathedral altar like a lamb for the gutting? Do you expect me to sit there in that prison of a keep, meek and quiet and minding my tongue? And do what? Pray? Mourn? Pity myself to pass the time, while the plagues rage and ravage everything in their path?”

“We could build another house,” said Ezra. “Someplace safe, away from the Darkwood. We’d have the means.”

“We’ll be lucky if we have ashes and cinders by the end of these plagues. Or have you forgotten what you’ve seen already? The blood? The blight? Each curse is worse than the last. This is no time for dreams.”

“And is that dream such a terrible fate? I’m telling you I can protect you, here in Bethel, if you’ll let me. I swear it, on my life.”

Immanuelle considered it for a moment, imagined the future she’d have if she chose to stand at Ezra’s side. Hers would be a life of finery—filled with good food and smart dresses and the sort of genteel delights she’d dreamed of as a girl. She’d be the wife of a prophet, his first wife. She would never be ridiculed or scorned. Never be made to stand alone.

But the longer she dwelled on the thought, the more she realized the folly of it. If she stayed, there would be no goodness or mercy, no Bethel at all. The plagues would destroy everything.

“I don’t want your protection,” said Immanuelle, and she caught him by the hand. It was then that she realized they had matching scars—his on his right hand, hers on her left—both of the marks cutting through their lifelines. “I want you to help me fix this before the plagues destroy everything. There’s still time if you can just get me through the gate.”

Ezra gazed down at his hand in hers. He fit his fingers into the spaces between her own.

“Please, Ezra, while there’s still time. Forge me a warrant with your seal. Get me through the Hallowed Gate. Bethel’s fate depends on it.”

She waited for him to refuse her, braced herself for the blow. But then, with a grim nod: “For you, and you only, I’ll do it.”





CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT





I am with child. I know they would take her from me, as they did him. But I will not let them. I would die before I’d do that.

—MIRIAM MOORE





IMMANUELLE SAT AT the edge of Honor’s bed, gazing out the window to the black stretch of the Darkwood. Three days had passed since Leah’s body had burned on the purging pyre. Three days since Ezra had agreed to secure the warrant she’d need to get her through the Hallowed Gate.

In that time, Immanuelle had assembled the provisions she’d need for her journey and prepared to say her goodbyes. She’d resolved herself to going and she was ready for it. She didn’t know what the wilds held, or what faced her beyond the gate, but she knew she would find her way.

Immanuelle ran her fingers through Honor’s hair, and her bruised eyes split open. She’d awoken for the first time since the sickness struck just a few days prior, though she hadn’t said more than two words since.