The Year of the Witching(91)
“You would offer her mercy?” Apostle Isaac demanded, his face twisted with revulsion. “You would offer this witch a place at your side as a reward for her sins and crimes?”
“I would offer my own life in exchange for an end to these plagues. Whatever the Father demands of me, I will give it, if it means an end to our suffering.” The Prophet ran a hand over his head, as if buying the time he needed to collect himself. But when he spoke again, his voice blasted between the rafters. “We have purged, and we have burned, and we are all the worse for it. Sending the girl to the pyre will not end our suffering. She is bound to the Darkness of the Mother, in body and soul, so we must find a way to break that unholy tie. Now I have prayed, lain prostrate at the feet of the Father that He might give me an answer . . . show me a way to dispel this evil that has fallen upon Bethel through her, and He has given me an answer. There is but one way to purge ourselves of the evil this witch has cast: a sacred seal between bride and husband, husband and Holy Father. To atone for her sins, she must be bound to me. It’s the only way.”
The Prophet turned to face Immanuelle again, his chest inches from the altar’s edge. “Do you accept the terms of your sentencing?”
There was silence in the cathedral. The dark pressed in against the windows.
The end was close now.
Immanuelle bowed her head, arms wrapped around her stomach as if to hold her bones together. Raising her gaze to meet the Prophet’s, she sealed her fate. “I do.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
The last time I saw him he was bound to the pyre’s stake, arms pinned behind his back, head hung. He did not look at me. Even when I called his name above the roar of the flames, he did not look.
—MIRIAM MOORE
IMMANUELLE DIDN’T RETURN to her cell that night. Instead, after her trial had concluded, she was surrendered to the Prophet’s wives, who ferried her off through the black, back to the Haven and the cloistered quarters where she would remain until the day of her cutting.
It was Leah’s room. Immanuelle nearly laughed at the irony of it when she saw her name painted across the rail of the door. The chamber was now sparsely furnished, not a trace of her left. There was a large bed on an iron frame. Beside it was a table that housed a basin, pitcher, and palm-size copy of the Holy Scriptures. Above the bed, a barred window with a padlock on its latch. A candle flickered on a small table by the door, throwing long shadows across the walls.
Immanuelle slipped out of her ragged dress and tossed it into the corner of the bedroom. She retrieved a fresh nightgown from a trunk at the foot of the bed. Exhausted, she climbed under the sheets and drew the blankets up to her chin.
She closed her eyes, trying to block out the howls that echoed through the swirling darkness outside. The plague had a life and mind of its own, and, much like the Darkwood, it spoke to her, whispering against her windowpanes, luring her into the black. She was almost tempted to succumb to it, abandon all the horrors that lay before her—contrition and the cutting knife, the Prophet’s wedding bed. Let the darkness make nothing of it all. When the power of the plagues was hers to wield, perhaps she would do just that. Call forth the night, let it drown everything in its wake. It scared her how much she liked the idea, how tempted she was to make it a reality.
The sound of the door creaking open drew Immanuelle from the maze of her thoughts. Before she had the chance to sit up, Esther Chambers slipped into the room.
Ezra’s mother wore a long, fog-colored nightdress and robe. Her hair was heaped atop her head and pinned in place with two golden combs. As she stepped into the light of the oil lamp, Immanuelle saw that her skin was pale, her lips colorless.
“They’re going to burn my boy,” she said. “They’re going to send him to the pyre.”
Immanuelle opened her mouth to respond, but Esther cut her short.
“They’ve charged him with conspiring against the Church and holy treason.”
“I’m so sorry,” Immanuelle whispered.
“I don’t want your condolences,” she said, the timbre of her voice keen and high like a plucked harp string. “All I want is for you to know that if you let my boy die in the name of your sins, I’ll make sure you follow him.”
Immanuelle’s cheeks burned with shame. “Ezra is not going to die. The Prophet told me that he would be spared. He gave me his word.”
“His words mean nothing,” said Esther bitterly. “Less than nothing. I don’t want to know about false hope and promises. I want to know how you intend to save my son. How will you set him free?”
Immanuelle had been careful, so careful, to keep every detail of her scheme a secret. She’d made no mention of her plans to carve the reversal sigil and dutifully played the part of the meek and broken bride-to-be. But with Esther standing there so desperate and afraid, her conscience provoked her to offer some small assurance, enough to let her know that Ezra wasn’t alone. “After I’m cut, I have plans to free him. But I’ll need your help to do it.”
Esther glanced over her shoulder toward the door. When she spoke again, it was in a whisper. “What do you need me to do?”
“Tell me where he is. I need to see him tonight, before his sentencing, so he’s ready when the time comes.”
“Ezra’s in the library with Leah’s daughter. The doors aren’t locked, but the halls are patrolled by two guards. I can distract them, buy you some time.”