The Year of the Witching(94)

Tonight, in the wake of her cutting, she would act.

When the Prophet’s wives came to collect her, Immanuelle was ready. She walked barefoot through the corridors of the Prophet’s home and out to the wagon that awaited her in front of the Haven. She clambered onto the front bench—the other brides piling in behind her—and together they made the long, silent trip to the cathedral.

All the pyres were burning again. The fires had been fed with fresh timber, so the red flames now climbed high, lighting their way.

When they arrived at the cathedral, there were no crowds to greet them. No glowing lanterns. No music or merriment. No fanfare. In this eerie silence, Immanuelle stepped down from the wagon and onto the cold packed dirt of the front drive. She lingered at the threshold of the cathedral as the rest of the brides milled about behind her. Perhaps she ought to have prayed in that moment—to something, to anyone—but all she thought to do was conjure a curse:

Let those who have raised a hand to me reap the harm they sow. Let the shadows snuff their light. Let their sins defy them.

The cathedral door swung open before she had the chance to finish. She was greeted by dancing torchlight, the blurred faces of the congregation gazing at her, expectant. Among the crowd was the Moore family, Martha and Abram, Glory, and Anna, who held Honor cradled to her chest in a nest of shawls and blankets. There were dozens of Outskirters present also, occupying the pews at the back of the cathedral. Immanuelle could only assume they were there as a matter of diplomacy. This was, after all, the first time in Bethel’s age-old history that a prophet had wed one of their own. The ceremony was nothing short of historic, and it only made sense that they’d be there to witness it.

Immanuelle walked alone down the center aisle. She took the steps two at a time, the train of her gown trailing behind her, then climbed up onto the altar. The stone was cold and sticky, as though some servant had neglected to sop up the mess of the last Sabbath slaughter.

She stretched herself across the altar, arms spread wide. The Prophet loomed over her, dagger in hand. They exchanged their vows woodenly, Immanuelle muttering the words that would bind her to him—flesh and bone, soul and spirit—forever.

A sacrifice as real as any.

When the proceedings were finished, the Prophet took his dagger from around his neck, wrapping his hand around the hilt. As he lowered the blade to her forehead, Immanuelle didn’t flinch.



* * *





LATER, THE OTHER wives bandaged Immanuelle in a dark room at the back of the cathedral, tending her wounds with anointing oil that stung so badly tears sprang to her eyes. Blood slipped down her nose as Esther bound her brow with strips of gauze. Her head throbbed as if the Prophet had carved his mark into her skull, not her flesh.

She belonged to him now. She was his, and he was hers. A creed of flesh and blood, a bond she had never wanted.

When she was sufficiently cleaned up, Esther and Judith materialized by her side. Together they led her through the cathedral, past the threshold, and down the stairs to the feast where the Prophet—draped in all his holy robes and finery—sat waiting for her.

If Leah’s cutting had been a celebration, this seemed little more than a funeral feast. The guests sat stiffly at the tables, as if they’d been forced there at knifepoint. The Outskirters occupied tables of their own, stone-faced and silent, their unease almost palpable. There was no chatter, no laughter or song. In the distance, the pyres burned high, their flames licking the starless sky, keeping the darkness at bay.

Standing in the shadows at the cusp of the feast, flanked by guardsmen, was Vera. Her head had been shaved, as was Protocol for those in contrition, and she wore a pale garment that looked more like a slip than a proper dress, the fabric far too thin, given the night’s cold. She’d lost weight and looked weak, but when Immanuelle locked eyes with her, she squared her shoulders and gave a stern nod as if to say: It’s time.

The Prophet grasped Immanuelle’s knee as she sat beside him, his cold fingers pressing through the folds of her underskirts. “My bride.”

Immanuelle gripped the arm of her chair to keep herself from bolting. She shifted her gaze down to the table. Before her, a porcelain plate heaped with blackened vegetables, graying slabs of meat, and a small mug full of mead beside it. She raised the mug to her mouth. One sip for luck, then another for bravery. She’d need both in the coming hours.

Those who were seated at the table watched the Prophet and Immanuelle with what she could only describe as veiled disgust. Their discontent so palpable it hung on the air like a pall.

It was clear that they had expected an immediate end to the plague upon her cutting. But the dark was as thick as it ever was, and the night was unbroken. The seal carved between her brows had not been enough to draw back the plague, as the Prophet had promised it would be.

Halfway through the abysmal feast, the Prophet rose to speak, as if he knew he needed to seize control of his flock before he lost their trust forever. “Through forgiveness, through atonement, through purging and pain, we make ourselves clean. Today, my bride, my wife, Immanuelle Moore, has bled for her sins. She has suffered, and now she is clean.”

The flock raised their voices on command. “For the glory of the Father.”

The Prophet paused to cough into his sleeve. When he spoke again his voice was gravelly. “But my bride isn’t the only one in need of grace. Before this day is done, another will be atoned for and forgiven. Another sinner will be cleansed by the Father’s mercy.” He paused—eyes closed, mouth open—as if he was trying to gather the strength he needed to continue. “Bring me my son.”