‘What were you doing at the door?’ Jude hissed.
She folded her arms over her chest, chin held high. ‘Where are my clothes?’
He pulled his gaze to the ceiling. That thin white chemise was decidedlynottypical Abbey attire. Especially not when the material had been near-translucent with rain the night before. He focused on the bite of his nails in his palm, remembering she didn’t know who he was. Last night, she’d asked when she’d meet thesaint, and he’d nearly laughed at the irony of it.
‘How should I know?’ he asked.
‘Where. Are. My. Clothes?’
‘An answer for an answer.’
Ire glinted in her eyes before she looked away. Like a moth to a flame, her gaze flicked back towards the door. Her chest rose and fell with a rough breath. ‘What’s in there?’
Her curiosity was like a hammer straight to the back of his skull. His skin prickled. It had to be a coincidence. She had to be interested in the library because it was locked, because it was a mystery she wanted to pry into. Because she was a fuckingspy.
Not because of the magic. Anything but the magic.
Maeve brushed roughly past his shoulder, stirring his thoughts.
‘You didn’t answer me,’ Jude said to her retreating back. He followed her two steps down the stairs and stopped. Her braid swung between her shoulders, thicker than his wrist.
‘Neither did you,’ she called
‘Your bag is in the kitchen downstairs,’ he said. ‘Elden washed your clothes last night. You ought to thank him.’
Maeve stopped midway down the stairs, face ashen as she turned to look back at him. ‘Elden?’
‘The housekeeper,’ Jude replied. He folded his arms across his chest as he waited for her reaction.
‘The housekeeper,’ she repeated, swallowing roughly. ‘You’re the saint…’
‘I am.’ His name hung in the space between them, heavy in the silence. ‘Jude.’
‘Jude,’ Maeve echoed, softer than he thought she might. Her chest rose and fell with an unsteady breath. She gripped the railing tighter.
‘Stay away from this floor,’ Jude commanded when she didn’t respond.
She gave a slight nod in acquiescence. Something small and miserable cowered in him at the sight of her lowered eyes. But as much as he hated his title, hated the way her eyes fell in deference, seeing her squirm wasn’t a hardship.
Jude left before he could see her take another step away, heading back up the stairs. She could find her own way to the kitchen. Elden was sure to be waiting for her, probably with some half-burnt but doggedly well-meaning breakfast prepared alongside her bag.
The housekeeper had carefully gone through its contents that morning, washing her sodden clothes and arranging them by the fire to dry, carefully laying the paintbrushes on the windowsill so their bristles wouldn’t bend.
And Jude had scoured through the rest.
Elden’s disapproving glare had heated the back of his neck as he flipped through her sketchbook and opened a small enamel box containing a string of beads and several metal, coin-sized icons, the faces sloughed smooth from her touch. No doubt one of multiple coined icons. He used to find them everywhere at the Abbey, scattered like breadcrumbs.
Perhaps most importantly, he’d found a closed envelope tucked in a small pocket on the outside of the bag. He’d held it to the light, trying to read the contents with little success before tucking it into his jacket pocket when Elden wasn’t looking.
He’d open it later – once he felt justified enough by her spying to do some prying of his own. Or once the rawness of the Abbey’s violation grew too much to bear without striking back.
After glancing over his shoulder to ensure the iconographer had disappeared down the stairs, Jude opened the door to the library and stepped inside, locking it firmly behind him. The subtle flap of imagined wingbeats echoed in his thoughts as he closed his eyes.
The library drew a slow breath around him.
He was being inhospitable, but what did he care? The Abbey stood for two things: control and coercion. Despite their claims of offering their followers answers to prayers, they were little more than dressed-up executioners, pretending to set you free while tightening the noose. There was no other way to look at it – Maeve was naive and weak-minded to remain devoted.
Ánhaga curled tighter around him. He was still here, still alive. It might not be much, but to him, it was everything. He had his house, his cat. Elden. The smallest number of freedoms imaginable, but he wouldn’t give them up without a fight. Even if he wanted to be free from the Abbey altogether, he’d settle for a return to his life before her arrival.
