Steeling herself, Maeve launched off the far wall, leaping towards the altar’s edge with her arms outstretched. Her fingers skimmed the edge, nails catching painfully on the wood before she tumbled back towards the ground. Her head cracked on the stone, shooting tremors through her skull. She pushed to her knees and tried again. Her fingers hooked on the edge this time before they gave out, sending her back to her knees.
Her panting breaths echoed the pulse in her fingertips, the pounding of her heart. She backed up against the wall and studied the altar. Could she lever herself up the side with her foot braced against the wall? No, the limestone was as smooth as the wooden back of the altar.
Just as she moved closer to look for a foothold, a soft scraping layered itself beneath the singing.
The middle of the smooth expanse of the back of the altar split suddenly open, a door appearing on an invisible seam at around waist height. A small opening, barely large enough for a person to fit through.
A wild rush of hope filled her chest as she crouched to peer in. A rush of musty air washed across her face, smelling of earth and salt. It took a second for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. The interior of the altar was entirely hollow. A set of stairs descended sharply downwards from a hole cut into the ground at the centre of the space. It looked almost like the altar had been placed atop the stairs to conceal its existence.
From the depths, something moved.
Maeve shuffled backwards, fear rising sharply before a familiar face emerged—‘Felix?’
The saint pressed a finger to his lips before gesturing her to come closer. He was halfway up the stairs, kneeling on the steps to keep his tall frame from hitting the low ceiling. He wore a simple black habit, the sleeves pushed up his forearms. Dirt streaked across his forehead, and cobwebs stuck to his short, tightly coiled hair. ‘I can help you,’ he said in his low, scratchy voice. ‘I can help you save Jude. But you have to come now.’
Maeve didn’t pause to think, to question, she just followed him down the steps into the waiting dark. The door shut behind them, casting them into sudden blackness. Maeve breathed through her nose, fighting back a wave of claustrophobia as Felix opened another door and ushered her into a low-ceilinged tunnel. Slashes of light from the pinhole windows above were the only illumination.
‘Felix,’ she whispered urgently as she followed him. ‘Where are we going?’
He didn’t reply until they reached a small rotunda, lit by a round grate above. They must have been directly under thebasilica. The ceiling echoed with the pounding of feet above their head, the faint sound of singing. Felix looked younger than she’d ever seen him as he turned to face her. Not much older than her.
Asaint. The word no longer scared her.
His chest rose and fell with laboured breaths. ‘Too long I have sat idly by. I’ve watched acolytes become saints, become exiles. That ends today. We’re going to save Jude, then burn it all. Is that not what you’re here to do too, Maeve? You read my letter. My warning. And still… you came back.’
‘Yes.’ She cleared her throat as one of the tight knots around her chest loosened. Something close to hope lit a flame she wasn’t ready to tamp out. ‘We came back to destroy it all. To save us from the Abbey. From sainthood.’
Whatever he saw in her face must have settled him, for Felix turned, pulling a heavy tarp off a barrel Maeve hadn’t noticed at first glance. She took a startled step back. ‘What is it?’
‘Kerosene,’ he replied. ‘I found it a few days ago when I discovered this tunnel. There’s a separate door that opens up just behind the confessional booths we can sneak the barrel up through. We’re going to soak the lower icons on the wall and hope all of them catch when they go up. It’ll be faster than trying to light each icon individually.’
Maeve swallowed, head spinning. Clearly, this was something Felix had been planning for a long time. ‘What about all the people in the basilica? There are hundreds of acolytes and pilgrims in there.’
He was quiet for a long moment. His hand came up to rub absently at the burn on the side of his face. ‘We’ll do our best to warn them. To get them out if it’s possible. But I have to advise you they won’t be… themselves, exactly. Something about the ritual, the singing, the prayers, it erases rationality. Creates a sort of group psychosis. It may prove difficult to get them to leave before the smoke becomes too much to ignore.’
Her own memories of the ritual stretched its legs, reminding her of the haze such a fevered event could bring.
Felix knelt, fiddling with something on the side of the barrel, his familiarity with the object pulling at something in her. Jude had told her he tried to burn the Abbey, that he had help. He’d spoken of a fellow acolyte handing over money in a dank cellar, of his hands damp with kerosene.
Her gaze fell on Felix’s scarred throat.
‘Felix?’ she asked, throwing inhibition to the wind. He glanced up, distracted, wary. ‘Did you help Jude start the Abbey fire years ago?’
He flinched. ‘I… how did you know? Did Jude tell you?’
‘No…’ Maeve shook her head. ‘He doesn’t remember. At least not fully. I just… something he said reminded me, and I thought –maybe.’
Felix sighed. ‘We used to be friends, he and I. Back when friendships were still somewhat… tolerated, not like it is now. I tried to look after him. I didn’t realize what was happening with Ezra until it was too late. Jude came to me—’ his jaw flexed. ‘He wanted out. We both had started showing signs of magic and heard the rumours of what happened to acolytes who became saints. He was… scared. More so for Ezra’s son than for himself.’
‘Ezra’sson?’ Maeve questioned, aghast. She knelt down beside him.
‘Yes. I think so. My recollections are… not clear.’ A slight tremor passed through his body. ‘At least where he’s involved.’
‘Who is he?’ she whispered. ‘I had no idea Ezra had a son.’
‘No one did. He kept it secret. I think Ezra was disappointed when he didn’t show signs of memory magic.’ Felix picked at one of the knots around the barrel, his voice dropping. ‘I wish I remembered his name, his face, anything about him. Gone.’ He shook his head. ‘Gone. Just like he is.’
‘What happened after the fire?’ Maeve asked.
