The Year of the Witching(82)

It was the first Immanuelle had heard of him in what felt like weeks. The sound of his name alone was enough to fill her with a heady mix of dread and fear and hope. She wanted to ask if he was still alive, and if so in what condition, but was too afraid for fear of what the apostle’s answer would be.

“Ezra always heeds your call, doesn’t he?” the apostle asked again, annoyed by her silence. “He had a hand in your schemes?”

Immanuelle didn’t know how to answer. If she said no, she would assume full responsibility for all the accusations the apostle leveled against her. The punishment for her crimes would be death by purging, and if she died on the pyre before she had the chance to reverse the plagues, Bethel was all but doomed. But if she answered yes, Ezra could be deemed an accomplice, or even culpable for her transgressions. What would the charge for such a crime be? Conspiracy against the Church, perhaps? Holy treason? The former was a punishment of fifty lashes, the latter death.

But the future prophet couldn’t be executed, could he? Would they dare lay the lash upon his shoulders? Or worse yet, send him to the pyre?

A sharp burning snapped Immanuelle to attention and she yelped, snatching her hand away.

The apostle loomed above her, his candle tipped to the side so the hot wax had spilled onto her hand. “Answer the question, girl.”

Immanuelle picked her words carefully, scraping wax flakes from the back of her hand. “Ezra is my friend. He heeds me as a friend would.”

“And what is the nature of your friendship?”

“He gave me books to read. We talked about poetry and the Scriptures.”

The apostle leaned forward, sneering. When he spoke, his breath was hot against her cheek. “Did you lie with each other?”

She stiffened. “No.”

Whether the apostle believed her or not, Immanuelle couldn’t tell. He stood and turned his back to her, stalking toward the cell door. “You’re a sick, sinful girl, do you know that?”

Immanuelle almost smiled in spite of it all. “So I’ve been told.”

The apostle suddenly doubled back to her and tipped the candle once more. Burning wax splattered across her cheeks and she winced. It was all she could do to keep from weeping, but she refused to give him the pleasure.

“I have a surprise for you,” said the apostle, stepping aside so Immanuelle had a clear view of the hall. The candlelight’s glow illuminated the corridor, and a familiar face soon appeared behind the bars: Martha.

She wore a black wool cloak that she typically reserved for funerals. The hood hung low, casting a shadow over her eyes. “Hello, Immanuelle.”

At the sight of her grandmother, Immanuelle straightened, pressing herself against the cell wall so the cobbles cut into her back. “What do you want from me?”

“That’s no way to greet the woman who raised you,” the apostle chided.

Immanuelle kept her eyes on Martha. Her chains rattled across the floor as she drew back. “She’s no kin to me.”

A damp wind licked down the hallway. The torch flared and Martha’s candle sputtered out. “I was only trying to help you, Immanuelle.”

“Help me? You betrayed me.”

“I tried to save you, as best I was able to.”

“You said you’d let me go.”

“I did,” said Martha, drawing closer. “And I have. That’s why you’re here in contrition, to be let go. To be released from your sins and forgiven.”

Apostle Isaac’s lips peeled back into a sneer. He moved toward the door, put a hand on Martha’s shoulder. “And so she will be, upon her confession. The Prophet will make sure of it.”

Martha trembled so violently her candle rattled on its pricket. In a rare moment of weakness, her eyes filled with tears. When she finally spoke it was not to the apostle, but to Immanuelle. “Honor and Glory weep for you in the night. Anna is broken. Abram is so sick with grief he can barely eat.”

Immanuelle squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself not to cry. Her family and her tenderness for them had always been her greatest weakness. Martha knew that, perhaps better than anyone else.

“Tomorrow, at your trial, you must confess to your sins. Admit your guilt so that you can be forgiven and allowed to return home to those that love you. To me. Hope is not yet lost, if you’re willing to do that.”

Immanuelle laughed at the proposition. If only Martha knew what she was plotting. The sigil she was planning to carve. In the wake of what she was preparing to do, there would be no seat for her at Abram’s table. No place for her in Bethel, except bound to the stake of a purging pyre. Once she had a consecrated blade in her hand—whether it be the Prophet’s dagger or the sacred gutting knife—she would act. It was only a matter of biding her time. “What if I refuse to repent?”

A tear slipped down Martha’s cheek. “Then may the Father have mercy on your soul.”





CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE





I have confessed my sins and made peace with my fate. If the pyre awaits, then let the flames rise. I’m ready.

—FROM THE TRIAL OF DANIEL WARD





IMMANUELLE WOKE ON the floor of her cell to the echo of approaching footsteps. Pushing herself off the bricks, she stumbled to her feet. The cell door ground open, and red torchlight spilled over the walls as Apostle Isaac stepped onto the threshold. “You’re to be tried today,” he said by way of greeting.