A door in the middle of the far wall caught her attention, urging her closer.
There was no sign of the housekeeper. She was alone.
Anticipation slicked her palms. Perhaps this was a good place to begin her prying. Slowly, she knelt, wrapping her fingers around the brass handle. It was warm to the touch.
Eight years ago, she’d knelt beside another closed door like this one, hadn’t she? She’d been alone in her wing of the Abbey, the other students off attending their designated areas of study. She hadn’t been feeling well and had been given special permission to rest, a rare treat in her regimented life. She remembered smoke seeping under her closed bedroom door.
The door handle had been hot enough to make her flinch back and inspect her palm before she’d put two and two together and screamedfire. Shuddering now, she ran her hand up her forearm, knowing the skin there was unmarked despite her memory of burning flesh. Either her injuries hadn’t been as bad as she remembered, or the burning flesh had been a nightmare.
She tried to turn the handle again. Locked. She looked closer.
Was itglowing?
Something hummed in the back of her skull, a begging to open the door.
If only she could turn the handle; if only it weren’t locked. She needed to get inside, she must—
Hands shoved her from the door. ‘Getback.’
Maeve gasped as someone pulled her upright and pushed her against the wall so hard her teeth knocked together. She closed her eyes against the light that marred her vision with streaks of black and blue. Hands held her against the wall as she fought to peel open her lids, finally succeeding.
The housekeeper stared back, eyes wild.
‘What thefuckare you doing?’
7
Jude
Jude wasn’t sure what had compelled him to leave his armchair that morning and head upstairs. He’d been sitting in what Elden liked to call a state offorced peacefulness, staring out at the moors and counting the birds with Olive curled up on his lap, when a prickle had started at the back of his neck. A prodding to investigate the whereabouts of his unwelcome houseguest. Since he’d deposited her in the spare room last night, he’d been trying very hard to forget her existence. Unfortunately, the sight of her soaked chemise and furious dark eyes had trailed him into sleep.
The house felt different with her in it. The silence felt louder. Heavier.
He liked his privacy. He liked routine and predictability. What he didn’t like was meddling iconographers picking at the seams. He imagined he could hear her footsteps even through the layers of wood and stone separating them.
He couldn’t take it any longer. Jude shoved to his feet and made for the stairs.
Panic overtook him as he found her room empty. Surely…surelyshe couldn’t already be—
There, kneeling in front of the door to his library, was the iconographer. Her head was bowed over her hands braced on the wood, pale braid trailing down her back. Foreboding gripped his heart in an iron fist as he approached. There was no validreason he could dream up that would compel Maeve to kneel at the door to his library. No reason she’d be so focused as to ignore his presence.
Unless.Unless—
He strode forward, grabbing her shoulders and pulling her back from the door. She went easily. Her eyes flashed wide, then squeezed shut, lips forming words he couldn’t hear. Jude shoved his hand between her skull and the wall as her head jerked backwards. Fear dug claws into his spine at her slackened expression.
‘What thefuckare you doing?’
Her raspy mumbles filled the space between them. He repeated his question louder, shaking her slightly. Maeve came back to herself with a sharp inhale. For an agonizing heartbeat, they stared at each other. Touching from chest to toe. Her face was so close he could see himself reflected in her near-black eyes. A vivid flush spread up her pale cheeks and down to the gaping collar of her nightgown.
He couldn’t quite seem to separate his mind from his body – and his body was wholly preoccupied with the iconographer pressed against him. An insistent voice reminded Jude that it had been a very,verylong time since someone he didn’t know had touched him.
Maeve raised her hands, planting them on his chest, and shoved. ‘Getoff.’
Her braid whipped his face as she elbowed out of his hold. Without entirely thinking it through, he caught her by the upper arm and spun her back to face him as she tried to leave.
The back of his mind itched as he took in her face for the first time in the daylight. Her haphazardly braided hair, the skittishness in her darting eyes and heaving breaths familiar in a way he couldn’t place. He could practically picture her on her knees again, an icon held to her lips.
Hate boiled his blood. What a perfect representation of the Abbey she was.
