The Year of the Witching Read Free

every loose-tongued telltale in Bethel. They’d all been saying the same thing since the night her mother turned the Prophet’s blade against him, nearly slitting his throat before fleeing to the Darkwood. They held her name in their mouths like a foul thing that was relished nonetheless.
    “That depends,” said Immanuelle, feigning ignorance. “What do they say?”
    Judith shrugged, smirking. “Well, I suppose if you don’t know already, it must not be true.”
    “I suppose not,” she ground out through gritted teeth.
    Judith cocked her head to the side. “So, you don’t have a Gift?”
    Immanuelle shook her head.
    There was a time when Gifts hadn’t been a rarity. Long ago, in the Age of Light, the Father had blessed multitudes with the power to wield wonders and work miracles. But ever since the Holy War, and the dark ages that followed, Gifts had become scarce. With every passing year, there were fewer of them, as the saints of old went to their graves and took their powers with them. Now Martha was one of the few midwives in Bethel with the Gift of Naming, and only prophets possessed the Gift of Sight. Even the apostles were limited to a select few with the power of Discernment—a Gift that allowed one to tell truth from falsehood—or the Healing Touch. In Immanuelle’s generation, Gifts had been bestowed upon only a handful of the Father’s most favored—and as a bastard by birth, she was anything but.
    “Pity,” said Judith, leveling her gaze. “I was hoping there was something remarkable about you. Considering.”
    Immanuelle stiffened. “Considering what?”
    Judith arched a perfect brow and a cruel smile played over her lips. “Well, your mother, of course.”
    Immanuelle had known the mention of her mother was coming. It always did. But something about the way Judith said it now doubled the insult, making it sting more than usual.
    For a long moment there was silence, save for the babbling of the river and the drone of the wasps lurking among the wildflowers. Even the distant chatter of the other churchgoers seemed to quiet, lost to the rush of wind in the woodland. Then . . .
    “You know,” said Immanuelle. “Now that I consider it . . . I do have a knack for dancing naked in the woods—with the beasts anddevils, of course. It’s hard to find the time, what with all the sheep I shepherd, but when the full moon rises, I do what I can.” She smiled brightly at Judith. “Like mother, like daughter, I suppose.”
    There was a pause, the hiss of breath drawn. Leah winced as the group fell once again into complete and utter silence.
    For the first time since he’d sat down the Prophet’s son, Ezra, turned his attention from the horizon. His eyes fixed on Immanuelle.
    She knew then that she’d made a mistake. A sinful, foolish mistake made in the heat of anger. A mistake that she would no doubt pay for with a scolding or lashing, or perhaps even a day in the market stocks.
    But then, to her surprise, Ezra’s lips skewed into a lopsided grin and he began to laugh. It wasn’t a mean laugh, but the boisterous kind that comes deep from the belly. His shoulders shook, and his black hair fell across his eyes. After a moment, Peter joined him, with a barking bellow that carried across the churchyard and drew stares from the kinfolk standing in the shadow of the cathedral. This, in turn, made Ezra laugh even harder. In a matter of seconds, Leah and Hope joined in, and then at last, even Immanuelle cracked a small smile. Before she knew it, all of them were cackling together like a band of old friends.
    All except Judith, who did little more than choke out a scandalized cough as she stood. She tugged Ezra up with her, pulling on his arm, but as he rose to his feet, he offered Immanuelle that crooked smile of his again.
    “Until the next Sabbath,” he called over his shoulder as Judith ushered him back to the cathedral, back to his father, the Prophet, and away from Immanuelle. But as he