‘My help?’ Her voice was meeker than she would’ve liked. She glanced at Jude’s icon. He’d be close to her age now based on the date under the indiscernible scratch of a signature. The painting was almost entirely done in greyscale except for the corona haloing his face. Despite its age, it remained as brilliantly gold as though it was painted yesterday.
‘We’d like you to go to him and paint an updated icon,’ Ezra said, drawing her attention back. ‘We’d like you to report any findings you may encounter in his home.’
‘You want me to spy?’ Maeve asked before she could stop herself.
Ezra winced slightly. ‘Not spy. More like carefully observe. And let us know what you find.’
So, spy.
Questions bubbled up thick and fast. She desperately wanted to put voice to them but wondered how much prodding Ezra would allow. Would she even be permitted to say no? Even if she wanted nothing to do with thisJudeand his corruption of what she held most dear, most sacred?
She wet her lips. She had to ask. She had to be certain.
‘Why an icon?’ she asked. ‘If he’s been… exiled, why do you need a new painting of him?’
Ezra moved closer until they were mere feet apart. The sun had left the rose window. Inky shadows stretched across the space between them. ‘Icons bridge the gap between saints and petitioners. We pray to their image, and itworks.’ He let out a slow sigh. ‘A holy mystery.’
Her jaw clenched. Did elders like Ezra not know exactly how the saints’ magic worked? Did that mean she wouldn’t, either?
Piety. Belief. Devotion.
Maeve swallowed the words like a stone, felt the weight keenly in her stomach.
‘I’ve spent years studying your art,’ Ezra continued. ‘Learning how the saints’ power works. Some days, I feel closer than ever. Others… it’s as though I’m standing on a cliff, straining to see past the horizon. Whatever exists beyond my eyesight is unreachable, no matter how far I swim. Do you ever feel the same?’
‘I do,’ she breathed, soothed by Ezra’s unexpected candour, despite how it surprised her. She often had the same wonderings around prayer. She’d experienced small moments of the saints’ magic in her own life. A lost hair ribbon found the next day. A day out in Whitebury. Burns on her arm, healed far faster than was natural. ‘I do feel the same.’
Ezra smiled softly. ‘The man Jude is today is unknown to us. A new icon will help us assess the damage he has wrought to his sacred ability and place measures to prohibit he doesn’t… harm any petitioners.’
‘I understand,’ she replied.
She’d always felt a connection to the saint she was painting, like she was creating a bond between her brush and her heart that existed long after the icon was finished. It felt similar to praying, in a way. Like something lasting was being built, even if she couldn’t see it at the time – a connection both invisible yetsolid as stone. It was heartening to learn her abilities could be used to protect the Abbey, even if the prospect of going to Jude’s, ofspying, was one she found uniquely frightening.
At first glance, Ezra’s mission looked like exactly what she had been praying for – freedom. Fresh air on her skin. A glimpse of the world despite how she’d been taught to see life outside the Abbey as one fraught with turmoil and darkness.
Freedom as a concept was intriguing, but as a reality…
Maeve swallowed. Perhaps the illusion of choice was a shallow one.
‘I’ll go to Jude’s if that’s what you’d like of me,’ she replied, exactly as Ezra expected to hear.
He reached out, laying his hand on her shoulder. ‘I would trust no one else but you. You know that, Maeve, don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ she murmured, trying to convince herself that it was true.
‘Even more than our lives, our verysafety, the saints’ abilities must be protected. The sanctity of their magic must be upheld. Perhaps you can be the one to provide the information needed to stop what dirty thing he’s made of it. You can do that, can’t you?’
‘Yes,’ she repeated, louder, more sure. ‘Of course.’
‘He knows you’re coming to paint an icon, but that’s it. You’ll leave tomorrow and travel across the moors. Shouldn’t take more than a day by horse. His housekeeper will be there to greet you. You won’t be alone.’ Ezra paused and considered his words. ‘It’s near the Goddenwood.’
The smallest seed of excitement grew in her chest, and she fought to keep it from showing on her face. ‘How close is it?’ she asked. She wouldn’t be allowed to visit, but even aglimpseof its existence would settle her immensely, the promise of its nearness like sunlight on her skin.
‘A few hours away,’ Ezra replied. ‘Let its proximity be a reminder that the Abbey rewards loyalty. A paradise Jude could avail of if he repents and turns back from his corrupted ways.’
She drew his words tight to her chest, revelling in them. Why would Jude want to risk his future at the Goddenwood? Why would he reject a life of peace, of community with his fellow saints? Somehow, the idea that he’d willingly turn his back on it was more jarring than anything Ezra had told her yet.
She clenched her hands into fists at her sides. Maybe she could convince him differently. The Abbey would certainly see fit to reward her if she brought him back like a lamb to the fold.
