Free The Year of the Witching by Alexis Henderson Page A

herself from bolting as the cutting ritual dragged on.
    What felt like hours later, the Prophet placed a hand to the top of Leah’s head and stroked her, gently, his fingers lingering in the locks of her hair, mussing her curls.
    At his touch, Leah sat up slowly, a trickle of blood skimming down the slope of her nose and slicking her lips. With a wavering smile and tear-filled eyes, she turned to face the congregation and licked the blood away.

C HAPTER S EVEN
Lilith with her crown of bone
    Is mother of the beasts
    Delilah with her tender smile
    Swims in waters deep
    Jael and Mercy sing their songs
    to moon and stars above
    Telling tales of mortal sin
    And their unholy love
    But those that venture to the wood
    after the sun sinks low
    Will never see the morning’s light
    Or live to learn and grow
    —B ETHELAN N URSER Y R HYME
    A FEAST FOLLOWED the cutting, one of the biggest since the autumn harvest. There were nine tables to accommodate the guests of Leah and the Prophet, each so long they stretched from one end of the churchyard to the other. Every one was crowded with an assortment of platters and dishes. There was braised beef and potatoes, roasted corn, and an assortment of breads and cheeses. To drink, apple cider and barley wine, which the men guzzled from big, wooden mugs, their beards rimmed with lather. For dessert, poached plums with cream and sugar.
    Overhead, the moon hung round and full and the sky was spangled with stars. The guests partook in abundance, dining and chatting and laughing, drunk off the power of the cutting. Families gathered in fellowship and the Prophet’s wives movedbetween tables, tending to the guests and taking the time to greet each person in turn.
    At the head of all of this—at a small table set for two—sat Leah and her husband, the Prophet. She was smiling despite the pain of her new wound, which had since been cleaned and bandaged. When she saw Immanuelle, sitting with the Moores in the back of the churchyard, Leah’s smile grew wider still. Her eyes were ablaze with the light of the bonfires, her cheeks flushed from the heat and perhaps a few too many sips of barley wine. At her side sat the Prophet, his elbows propped up on the table, fingers laced. He followed his new wife’s gaze to Immanuelle, and she got the distinct impression that he was studying her.
    A chill cut down Immanuelle’s spine at the thought, but before she had the chance to look away, the Prophet stood up, and at once, his flock fell silent. His gaze shifted away from her as he rounded the table to address the congregation. “Tonight is a joyous occasion,” he said, his voice a little hoarse. “I have joined myself in holy union with a true daughter of the Father, and for that, I am grateful.”
    The flock applauded.
    “The Father, in His divine providence, has seen fit to offer me many wives who embody the virtues of our faith. Because of that, I would like to honor our Father in celebration for His infinite grace and generosity.” He paused to cough into the crook of his shirtsleeve, then recovered himself with a smile. “Call forth the witches.”
    The congregation cheered. Men raised their cups and wives clattered their plates against the tabletop; children slapped their knees and bellies. At the sound of the fanfare, the apostles emerged from the cathedral, bearing scarecrows fashioned into the shape of women. Each of the figures was mounted on an iron cross so that her wooden arms were outstretched, her neck and body bound.
    Upon their arrival, the congregation erupted into applause. Men raised their fists, shouting curses to the wind.
    The first apostle stepped forward with the first witch, a small wicker figure barely bigger than Honor.
    “That’s Mercy,” said Anna, taking time to school her daughters in the particulars of the faith.
    The next apostle held his witch high above his head, so her nightgown lashed and fluttered on the wind. When her skirt flapped up, exposing what would be