The Year of the Witching(70)
Though Glory now limped down the halls and joined the family for supper on her better days, Honor was still confined to her bed. Sometimes she shook; other times she wept openly, as if the sickness had taken something from her and she was grieving it.
That night, Immanuelle ate dinner with the Moores for a final time. She noticed every detail, wanting to remember everything. The way Abram toked on his pipe between bites. The dimples in Anna’s cheeks when she smiled up at Glory. The gray that threaded through Martha’s hair, as pale as spun silver.
After the meal was over and the dishes washed, Immanuelle dismissed herself to her bedroom, where she packed the last of the items she’d need on her journey. She padded the bottom of her knapsack with blankets, grateful for the warmth of the summer that would spare her for a time. In addition to the blankets, she packed a bag of coppers and food—dried fruit, jerky, pale squares of hardtack. Once Immanuelle was finished packing, she threw her cloak over her shoulders and crept downstairs, easing her way through the parlor and into the kitchen.
“You’re up late.”
Immanuelle stopped dead at the sound of Martha’s voice. Her grandmother stood in front of the window, hands buried in the pockets of her skirt, head tipped over her shoulder, cheeks moon bathed. She turned to face Immanuelle, taking in her cloak and boots, the knapsack slung over her shoulder. She nodded toward the clock on the wall above the sink.
“It’s almost the witching hour,” said Martha, and a bitter smile touched her lips. “Perhaps that’s what the Prophet should have named this wretched year. It’s more fitting, don’t you think? The Year of the Witching.”
Immanuelle’s hand tightened around the strap of her knapsack. “I want you to know I’m leaving. Before the next plague comes.”
The elder woman looked less angry than tired. Her gaze shifted to the window again. “Go back to bed, Immanuelle.”
“No.”
At that, Martha turned back to face her. Immanuelle braced for a scolding or even a slap to the cheek, but she simply asked, “What’s in your bag?”
Immanuelle tilted her chin, trying to look firm when all she felt was afraid. “Provisions for the road.”
Her grandmother drifted closer, her bare feet scuffing across the floorboards as she approached. “Let me see.”
Immanuelle took a step back. “No.”
Martha didn’t ask again. She lashed out, snatching the bag off Immanuelle’s shoulder. For a moment they tussled, each of them holding on to a strap, but Martha prevailed, ripping the bag from Immanuelle’s grasp so hard she snapped forward and fell into the cabinets.
She rifled through its contents for a few moments in silence, her gray brows knit into a frown. She removed the book of poetry first, gave the first page a passing glance—spotting the holy seal in the corner—then snapped it shut again. Then she withdrew Miriam’s journal, and Immanuelle saw the recognition flicker through her eyes like a candle lit. As Martha read her daughter’s words—studied her drawings—her eyes narrowed, then filled with tears. “How did you come by these books? Answer me. Now.”
“The books were gifts,” said Immanuelle, picking every word with care. “Both of them belong to me, and I would like them back, if you would be so kind.”
“Kind? You ask me to be kind when you keep secrets like this?” Martha demanded, shaking Miriam’s journal so violently a few pages ripped free of the binding and fluttered to the floor. “This is holy treason. Men have died for less.”
Immanuelle didn’t deny it. It would make no difference anyway. She simply held out her hand. “My bag, please.”
Martha turned, shoved the journal back into the knapsack, and hurled it against the door so hard it was a wonder that every Moore in the house didn’t wake at the sound. Coins and crumbs scattered across the floor. A few papers flew.
When Martha spoke again, it was in a harsh whisper. “I dragged you from my daughter’s womb. I called your name down from the heavens and pinned it to you. I would have nursed you at my own breast if I could have. And this is how you repay me? With lies and deceit? With witch-work and treachery? By abandoning your family in the dead of night, skulking out of the house like a thief, without so much as a farewell? I didn’t raise you to repeat the sins of your mother, or to die on the pyre like your father.”
The words struck Immanuelle like a slap, but she said nothing, did nothing except stoop to collect the strewn coins and papers. After she gathered the last of her belongings, she rose to her feet and faced Martha. “I know that I’m not the granddaughter you wanted or the girl you raised me to be. If I were to list my sins, we’d be up half the night, and I’m sorry for that. If I could have been better for you, I would have. But believe me when I say I can’t be what you want me to be. I am leaving now to keep people safe.”
“There is no safety in sin, Immanuelle. Only despair.”
A tear slipped down Immanuelle’s cheek, then another. She didn’t bother wiping them away. “I know.”
“Your mother once said similar things. The day I found her in the arms of that wretched farm boy in the woods, she said she knew, that she understood. But she didn’t. You see what became of her, because of her sin and selfishness.”
“I’m not my mother. I have never been my mother.”