Maeve
The young woman wrenched away from under Maeve’s hands, her hood slipping free to reveal wide, glazed eyes and a half-open mouth as she spun back to face the altar.
‘No—’ Maeve cried, reaching for her wrist. To do what, she didn’t know.
None of her words seemed to break through the Abbey-induced stupor, no matter how desperately she begged or how ardently she promised that what they were feeling, what they were seeing, were all lies, all manipulation. All that mattered was the intercession. All that mattered was the saint.
Maeve drew her eyes upwards, and there he was.
Jude knelt on the altar with hands palm-up on his thighs and face pointed towards the ceiling. Beside him, Ezra leaned down to whisper in his ear. The hatred she felt at the sight of her former mentor was strong enough to nearly launch Maeve into the crowd. Her fingers itched to wrap around his neck.
They were running out of time.
As soon as the Call began, it wouldn’t be long until the crowd pulled Jude off the altar.
She raced to the back of the basilica to where Felix was splashing a kerosene-soaked towel onto the lowest row of icons. The air felt clammy on her skin, the heady smell of the oil fogging her senses. At Felix’s urging, Maeve dipped the proffered towelinto the barrel and splashed the oil up as high as she could. Would it be enough? She had seven – no, six – matches. How many did Felix have?
Suddenly, the basilica fell silent.
Dropping the towel, Maeve turned to look.
Atop the altar, Ezra raised his hands high above his head. ‘Blessed pilgrims, acolytes, and elders. The glory of the Abbey has seen fit to reward your piety today. We have a saint amongst us.’
The crowd pulsed with manic energy, moulding their voices to the thrumming boom of the organ. Drummed up and frantic with devotion. Hundreds of people filled the space.
It was exactly as she’d feared.
She spun back to Felix. ‘How long until we light it? Will the icons catch fast enough?’
Felix splashed the oil on the next row of icons. A metallic clang sounded above the voices as she was gearing up to repeat her question. The cover had fallen off the centre of the rose window. Soon, Jude would raise his hands.
‘Felix? How long?’ she repeated.
‘Minutes. Maybe less once we start lighting the matches. You have them, yes?’
Her mind froze, stalling out before it sped forward—‘You didn’t bring any? I have…’ she pulled out the matchbox, dumping them into her palm. ‘Six.’
Felix said nothing as he stared down at her cupped palm, the matches so small, so inconsequential next to the hundreds of icons before them. His throat bobbed as he carefully collected three of them. ‘The elders keep the altar matches locked away. I couldn’t… couldn’t get any. It was lucky I even found the kerosene barrel.’
Her breath escaped her in a rush. ‘Okay,’ she whispered. ‘Okay. Well. We’ll have to do our—’
The volume behind them pitched suddenly louder, the changeso abrupt Maeve’s hands clutched convulsively into fists. Both she and Felix swung around to look. The crowd had breached the confines of the chancel to surround the altar. Ezra was no longer standing atop it.
And neither was Jude.
‘Where is he?’ Maeve shouted above the melee. ‘Where did he go?’
‘The crowd has him,’ Felix said. Sweat beaded on his dark brown skin. ‘This fire had better start quickly, or…’ he shook his head, levelling Maeve with a bleak look.
She didn’t want to put a voice to the words rolling around in both of their heads. If the crowd had Jude, they wouldn’t be satisfied with his clothing or touch alone.
They’d want his blood.
Forcing her panic down, Maeve turned back to the icons and strained to splash kerosene up as high as she could. Icons stretched a dozen rows high, all of various sizes and age. They’d never be able to get the oil on all of them. Even more, how would they guarantee the fire would reach the highest icons as quickly as they needed?
Felix drew the first match to the lowest icon. It lit quickly, but the fire remained small and contained as it ate away at the canvas, stopped from spreading by the expanse of stone wall between each framed icon. His matches were small, the flame barely more than a spark that quickly petered out.
They needed something bigger.
