The fact they had been in Whitebury the entire time didn’t sit right with her. Even if the Abbey had her icon and was using it, she should haveknown. Had Elden known the Abbey would take her memories of the town? He’d locked her door without her noticing, after all. Perhaps he’d been the one to orchestrate the Abbey taking Jude, too.
The reminder throbbed like a bruise she couldn’t help but prod.
Had Jude realized what was happening in the moments before the hand clapped over his eyes? Maeve pictured him following Elden back to the inn like a lamb to slaughter, thinking only of the safe hand guiding him forward. She rubbed her chest as the ache spread, demanding to be felt.
Her nose dripped. She wiped it with the cuff of her pale greypilgrim’s habit. The cloth smelled of sweat and salt, tinged with the subdued iron of washed-out blood. Bodies pressed in at every side, so tightly they breathed as one as the pilgrims ascended the almost two hundred steps up to the Abbey’s yawning entrance. The chord of longing it once pulled had been replaced with icy dread.
Somehow, her home had shifted from salt-crusted limestone and stained glass to a draughty house shaped by wild winds, woodsmoke on her tongue, andhim.
A pocket of watery blue emerged through the clouds above the tallest spire, visible only for a heartbeat before it was gone. Jude would have liked to see it – that talisman of blue. Rage and grief expanded in her chest like a living thing.
Her toe caught on the final step, forcing her to right herself against the cold iron of the Abbey’s inner gate. The pilgrims joined several queues snaking past the guards and through the main doors. Maeve quickly scanned her options, picking the line watched by the least familiar face. She gathered a handful of coins into her palm and prayed the sweat on her skin didn’t stick to them.
The guard’s eyes narrowed as she approached, focusing on the glint of Maeve’s pale braid under her hood. ‘Name?’ His eyes dropped to the coins nestled in her cupped palm. ‘Ah.’
Pilgrims had two options for Abbey entrance – secure a guided tour months in advance, putting their name on a list the guard held between his gloved hands, or pay off the guard directly. One was Abbey-sanctioned. The other less so but arguably more effective.
He dropped the bribe into his pocket with a lazy, incongruous movement. Clearly, he wasn’t worried about being seen. His gaze continued to rove boldly over her face. Maeve met his eyes evenly, praying to anyone listening for the guard not to spend any longer wondering why she’d chosen to pay him off instead of getting her name on the list of cleared pilgrims.
Finally, he dipped his chin in a slight nod, waving the next pilgrim forward.
For once, she was grateful corruption didn’t stray far from the source.
She moved deeper inside, leaving the vast expanse of the hallway for the cloisters that ran the outer stretch of the Abbey’s western wing. The fetid smell of salt and candles left to burn out lingered at the back of her throat as though she’d bitten into something rotten.
She’d expected to feel worse within the Abbey, something similar to the drugging sluggishness she’d felt in Mr Peters’ church, or worse – lose track of herself entirely, waking to find large swathes of time lost to memory. It was almost concerning that she felt mostly present in her mind. She worried that it meant the Abbey wanted her here. Wanted her cognizant.
Singing from the basilica trickled down the walkway, hitting her like a punch to the chest. Pulling the sides of her hood close to her face, Maeve drew back from the railing and followed the pilgrims down the cloistered hall. They’d been clicking through hymns like hands on a clock. There’d been at least three since the sunrise that morning, right on schedule for the Call of the Sun to commence at daybreak tomorrow.
She was running out of time.
Ahead of her, the group of pilgrims parted as a figure emerged from around the corner. Dark grey habit – an acolyte or artisan.
Maeve froze. There was nowhere to go. She was about to be seen.
Turning, she hurried back down the corridor, scanning the wall as she went. A small doorway was tucked between two archways, perhaps twenty paces away. Just as she was about to make a run, a voice called her name. Soft, almost choked.
Despite everything in her screaming to run, Maeve turned.
Brigid stood halfway down the cloisters. Her eyes were widein her ashen face as she rushed towards Maeve. ‘What are youdoinghere?’ she hissed. ‘Are you stupid? Why would you come back?’
Maeve flinched. ‘The memories… My icons,youricons, Brigid. I couldn’t—’
‘Hush,’ Brigid all but begged. She seemed to have aged a decade in the weeks since Maeve had last seen her. Her normally neat hair hung lank and greasy around her face. ‘I know. I know, Maeve, but not here.Saints—’ she gasped. ‘Anywhere but here.’
‘You knew about the memory magic?’ Maeve asked. Anger pulled at her seams. ‘You knew the Abbey uses our icons to manipulate memories? You know that you’re a—’
‘Maeve,’ Brigid hissed, eyes wide. ‘Yes, I know. I know all of it. But we can’t talk about that now. You need to leave.’
‘I can’t,’ Maeve pleaded, stepping closer. ‘My… Jude. His housekeeper, hisfriend, betrayed him. The elders have him now. He’s here somewhere. I have to find him.’
‘Who?’ Brigid asked, her voice pitching abruptly louder. ‘What housekeeper? What friend? The name.’
Maeve blinked, briefly stunned. ‘Elden. Do you know him?’
The other woman’s eyes slammed shut. She took a deep breath before reopening them. Her gaze pinned Maeve in place. ‘Ezra can’t know you’re here,’ Brigid said, ignoring Maeve’s question. ‘No one can. Actually—’ she cast around wildly, gaze locking on the doorway Maeve had spotted minutes earlier. ‘There. Go there. Servants’ halls. It leads to a storage room. There are icons in there. Burn them. Promise me you’ll burn them.’
Icons?
