PROLOGUE
Jude
Two blackbirds streaked across the sky – a bad omen if Jude had ever seen one.
Dappled storm clouds gathered where the moors glittered with hoarfrost, the edges already blurred with rain. He checked over his shoulder to ensure he was alone before re-focusing on the sky. His breath hitched in the back of his throat, fingers trembling deep in his pockets.
Jude would do anything to see a third bird cutting across the tumultuous horizon.
The winged shadows moved with sinuous fluidity, there one moment and gone the next, whipping black feathers through the mist like hounds seeking blood. The scent of the slender firs lingered in the empty spaces between his ribs and stuck beneath his tongue. The air was quiet. Too quiet. He didn’t realize how much he missed birdsong until winter stretched its fingers and silenced the world around him.
He’d started this ritual of the birds as a child, alone on a frigid windowsill, staring out at the sea with a weight in his belly. Back when he was still whole. Before exile, before sainthood. Before he’d been unmade and hastily put back together again. The old, clung-to superstition whispered through his mind like a melody he couldn’t escape.
One for courage. Two for despair. Three for hope.
Fucking birds.
Giving up, he trudged back towards the house. Paint chips clung to his fingers as he shoved open the door to the cellar. He wiped them off on his jacket, ignoring the mud staining the once-fine linen. Like all his clothes, the sleeves were too short, the trousers fitting more tightly around his thighs than he would’ve liked. They’d been made for a fifteen-year-old. It was only natural they no longer fitted at twenty-three.
The door closed with a shuddering groan behind him. He winced. In a half-hearted apology to the rotting wood, he locked the bolt gently. He’d need to spend some time mending the patches of wet rot before the temperature dropped entirely for winter. The house existed in a constant state of decay, but he tried his best to keep it comfortable. He needed it to last, down to each spalling brick and squeaky hinge.
Still, Jude couldn’t help but wonder which of them would crumble first.
A boom of thunder shoved him from his thoughts. He scoured the roll of clouds through the smudged window, weighing up the bruised purple of the sky. It wouldn’t be long until the rain hit. Already, the hills were disappearing into the mist. He could smell it on the air, the dampness of soil and the low hum of lightning.
He turned away just as a black shape left one of the apple trees, stretching out on feathered wings towards the encroaching storm.
A third blackbird.
1
Maeve
The toll of the Abbey’s bells cracked through the silence. Maeve lurched upright.
Fractal sunlight arched across the basilica’s ceiling like the ribcage of a great leviathan. This late in the morning, she was alone in the colossal room, a fact she was secretly thankful for. Praying was a vulnerable practice, with her knees aching and the nape of her neck prickling with cold. She preferred privacy with the icons to the other acolytes’ whispered requests.
Hericons.
Her chosen saint, a middle-aged woman called Siobhan, stared down at her with her usual lack of emotion. The wall before her held the Abbey’s hundreds of icons, each neatly framed and hung from long lengths of silken rope stretching from one end of the room to the other. Despite all the options Maeve could kneel in front of, she returned to Siobhan because she liked the colour of her robes. Cadmium yellow was so hard to get lately.
She studied the stone floor under the kneeler, the spot of red beside her left knee. She scraped it with her nail, examining the flakes stuck to her thumb.Oxide red.
The guard stationed at the door to the basilica tutted at her tardiness as he eased open the double doors for her to leave. Maeve dropped her eyes, ignoring the heat in her cheeks and the weight of the guard’s gaze as she passed. She’d overstayed her allotted time. Acolytes could only enter the basilica alone understrict supervision, but her status as an iconographer granted her some level of leeway. Even so, she shouldn’t make a habit of abusing it.
A briny layer of seawater coated the corridor leading to her studio. The room occupied a lonely corner of the Abbey, far from the other acolytes. Maeve liked the seclusion; painting was an act best done alone, in her opinion, but the walk to and from the basilica often felt never-ending.
Her boots slipped on the wet stone as she quickened her pace. She needed to return to her studio before the oil paint hardened beyond use. Ezra’s temper might burst if she let more paint go to waste. She’d already begged her mentor for coin to buy more onyx and ochre twice this month.
Besides, Felix might be early, and she couldn’t stomach the idea of the saint waiting for her.
Gaining an audience with Felix was a privilege earned through years of devotion, study, and dedication to her craft. Though she was trained to paint an icon with little more than a vague description, the honour of having a saint sit for her was one she didn’t take lightly.
Felix was her first in-person sitting, the first saint of his stature she’d put to oil and canvas.
She couldn’t help the dart of hope shooting through her chest – maybe it was more than an honour. Maybe it was a sign.
Brigid, the lead iconographer, hoped to retire in the next few months. The position would be open.
