The Year of the Witching(75)

She knocked. Waited.

There was a soft disturbance, shadows moving behind curtained windows, the sound of bare feet on wood floors, the click of a latch slipping out of place.

The door swung open.

A woman stood in the threshold. She was fair-skinned for an Outskirter, with a dark mane of corkscrew curls and eyes that were the verdant green of seedlings. She appeared to be Anna’s age, maybe a little older, and she held a basket of laundry perched on the curve of her hip. But at the sight of Immanuelle, her arms went slack and the basket hit the porch with a dull thud.

“Vera.” She said the name with a thick accent. “We have a visitor.”

A figure appeared behind the woman. She was taller, broad-shouldered, and dressed in a pair of dark men’s breeches. She wore her silvered dreadlocks pinned back out of her face. The buttons of her work shirt were loose, so that Immanuelle could see the leather cord around her neck, strung with two holy daggers carved from birch. Her eyebrows were dark and thick—between them, the Mother’s mark.



* * *





THE TWO WOMEN ushered Immanuelle inside, settled her in front of a roaring hearth before she had the chance to say more than two words to them. The woman who answered the door, who was called Sage, wrapped a thick quilt around her shoulders and prepared her a cup of tea with cream and several spoonfuls of honey. Vera went to tend to her horse and returned a few minutes later, sitting opposite Immanuelle in a large chair. She was an imposing woman—almost as tall as Lilith, dark-skinned and striking in a way that most people weren’t. In fact, she reminded Immanuelle of the depictions of the Dark Mother—with her ebony skin and fine-cut features. Her beauty made it hard to look away.

To avoid gawking, Immanuelle turned her gaze to the room. The cottage was larger on the inside than it appeared on the outside. The parlor was tastefully decorated, the floors laid with bearskins, the tables adorned with little trinkets like doilies and candles and books of poetry. The air smelled of yeast and spice, and the remnants of their dinner were still on the table. In an armchair by the hearth, two kittens, one gray, one black, slept blissfully.

Not knowing what to say or what to do, Immanuelle sipped on the honeyed tea in silence.

Vera watched her drink, impassive, near sullen, despite Sage’s failed attempts at rousing a conversation. It was only when Immanuelle had finished her tea that Vera finally spoke. “How did you find me?”

“I went to the Outskirts,” said Immanuelle, setting her cup down on a delicate pedestal of a side table. “There was a priest there who knew you. He said I might find you here.”

“And you traveled alone?” Sage asked, settling herself on a low stool by the hearth. Immanuelle realized, self-consciously, that she was occupying what must have been her seat, and she started to get up, but the woman waved her away.

“I wasn’t entirely alone. I had a friend who rode with me through Bethel. He got me through the gate, but . . .” The image of Ezra standing in the middle of the road, rifle raised, swarmed by the Prophet’s guards, surfaced in her reverie. She closed her eyes against the memory, shook her head. “He didn’t make it through.”

“And what of your family?” Sage asked gently.

“They’re still in Bethel.”

It was Vera who spoke next. “Do they know that you’re here?”

“No.”

Vera leaned forward—legs parted, forearms braced on her kneecaps the way a man might sit. “And do they know why you left?”

Immanuelle shook her head, rushing to explain herself. “I didn’t tell them where I was going or that you’re here. I wouldn’t have betrayed your privacy that way.”

Vera appraised her by the wan candlelight as if trying to determine whether or not she was telling the truth. “Were you followed?”

Immanuelle started to shake her head, then faltered.

Vera’s eyes sparked with frustration. “It’s a simple question: Were you followed? Yes or no?”

“I was . . . but only at first. The Prophet’s Guard stopped pursuing me as soon as I got beyond the gate. I didn’t see another soul on the road until I came upon Ishmel.”

To this, Vera said nothing. She stood and took a pipe from its box on the mantel, filled the bowl with snuff from a pretty tin, and lit up. She fixed her eyes on Immanuelle. Exhaled a mouthful of smoke. “Why did you come?”

“Vera,” said Sage, a rebuke cut through gritted teeth. “Maybe you ought to let the girl rest before the interrogation begins?”

“We need to know why she’s here.”

“Look at her, V. She’s yours. She’s here for you. Or are you so jaded that you can’t see your own kin when they’re sitting right in front of you?”

Vera’s eyes narrowed behind a veil of pipe smoke.

“Please,” said Immanuelle, weary and weak. The quilt around her shoulders felt as heavy as a stone-filled knapsack. “I have no one else. Just let me explain myself, and if you want no part of me after that, I promise I’ll leave.”

Vera studied her for a long beat. A muscle in her jaw flexed and spasmed. “It’s late. Whatever you’ve come to say will have to wait until the morning. Sage.” She turned to her companion. “Prepare the room.”