‘There are parts of it that are mostly lost to me,’ Felix said. ‘The planning that went into it,howwe actually started the blaze—’ he patted the kerosene barrel. ‘I think this is left over from that attempt. Like I said, I found it a few days ago. We must have brought it in all those years ago and didn’t use it.’ He shrugged. ‘I remember the fire being put out fairly swiftly. I don’t know what happened to Ezra’s son. They’d told us he’d died… but I’m not sure. It doesn’t add up.’
Above them, the singing grew louder. Maeve glanced up before returning her gaze to Felix. His eyes were unfocused, locked somewhere just behind her as he fought to remember.
‘The elders caught Jude. He covered for me. Took the full blame for the incident.’ Despair lay heavy in his voice. ‘He was exiled, as you know. But me… I was offered a deal. Blackmailed into it, really. I’m meant to be a figurehead; an example of the Abbey’s power. To encourage devotion to the thing I tried to burn down. And—’ he took a deep breath.
Maeve studied him as he spoke. The familiarity in his features was from more than just painting him, more than seeing him stand on the altar, his hands lifted in prayer.
‘I was threatened,’ Felix continued. ‘My mother is still alive. She’s in the Goddenwood, but it was made clear to me that could be changed very quickly, should I step out of line. They have ahold of my magic and my memories, as you well know. Everything I do is under their control. Even this—’ he swept his hand across the room, the barrel of kerosene ‘—was only possible because they’re distracted by the intercession and by your and Jude’s arrival.’
Maeve had viewed Felix almost like an icon himself for much of her upbringing. As a saint, he rarely interacted with the rabble of acolytes who called the Abbey home. He was brought out for important rituals and the seasonal intercessions, always at a distance. Outside of their portrait sessions, most of her view of Felix comprised of hearsay and her own imaginings. Shewondered what life had been like for him – a saint forced to live as an exile in his own home.
It was hard to imagine a lonelier existence.
‘Why is this time any different?’ she asked. ‘If you tried to burn the icons, and it didn’t work… why now? Why will it worknow?’
‘The ritual,’ Felix said. ‘All the prayers build power in the icons. A ritual wasn’t happening when we tried to burn the Abbey as boys. I think that made a difference.’ His expression hardened, a strained line appearing between his brows. ‘The Call of the Sun is about to begin, and Jude’s life is on the line. We can’t just sit back and let the Abbey continue to do what they want without care or regard over who is crushed along the way.’
Sometimes, Maeve realized, revolution wasn’t down to planning or timing or every facet lining up into the perfect moment; it was about perseverance. Determination to see it through no matter how strongly the odds were stacked against them.
‘If this works,’ she said carefully. ‘You’ll no longer be under their control. You’ll have your magic back. You can free your mother from the Goddenwood.’
Felix tensed. He gave a short nod.
There was nothing more to say. She helped him wiggle the barrel onto a wheeled trolley, and, together, they started to push the barrel from the room and up the stairs towards the basilica and the sound of singing.
She’d made herself smaller, eating the Abbey’s words like she was starving and they were the only things that could make her full. She’d closed her eyes and bowed her head, praying to the saints to make her whole, all while the elders watched, knowing she was offering herself up forthemto take.
No longer.
She gritted her teeth and pushed harder. Soon, it would all burn.
50
Jude
Jude heard the singing. Felt the touch of many hands guiding him forward, some friendly, some not at all. How he had come to rest in this strange, liminal space, he could no longer remember. Maybe he had never known at all.
He thought ofher. With every fibre of his fading being, he hoped she was safe.
A point behind his left ear ached, so tenacious he could think of little else.
He was no stranger to pain but had never quite learned to distance himself from it entirely. Perhaps it was for the best, he thought as his jumper was pulled from his body and the heavy weight of fabric settled over him in its place. Perhaps he deserved the hurt, the fire. He’d been a secretive creature. Bowing and scraping, hiding away in the dark. Cradling his misgivings and desires tight to his chest. Maybe it was his destiny to have his ribs cracked open, and his secrets scooped out.
If he were to be a martyr, he’d welcome it with open arms.
A hard shove landed between his shoulder blades, followed by the snap of a door closing. With concentrated effort, Jude peeled back his eyelids and tried to focus. Hands pressed to his shoulders, forcing him to kneel. Ezra’s face swam into existence.
They were alone in a dank, low-ceilinged room beside the main doors to the basilica. The muffled sound of singing came through the closed door, the faintest strain of incense from thethuribles hitting his nose. After Ezra had knocked Maeve out, it hadn’t taken him long to do the same to Jude in his weakened state, especially not with both of their relics swinging from Ezra’s neck. Jude had no idea how he’d moved them from the room or where Maeve was now.
Ezra leaned close. He smelled of drying sweat and incense, the scent alone triggering a rush of nausea in Jude’s stomach. A ripe lash of pain shoved fingers down his throat, and he gagged.
‘You’ll do as you’re told,’ Ezra said near his ear. ‘If you want her to live.’
Jude was nodding before he even realized he was moving.
Ezra tried to conceal the prowling evil that needed violence to be sated, but he’d never done a very good job where Jude was concerned. To the rest of the Abbey, he was a figure of benevolent power. He’d worn his mask well, but Jude wasn’t fooled.
As he studied Ezra’s face, the familiar blue eyes and the darkness behind them, a question formed on his tongue, one long wondered. ‘Why do you hate me?’ Jude whispered. ‘What did I do?’
