It could be Maeve’s…possibly.If she kept her wits about her and proved her devotion, she could move up in station and have her voice heard in the strictly regimented Abbey hierarchy. She would be allowed to form friendships with the other craftsmen, a seat at the monthly conclave of elders and senior craftsmen where every moment of Abbey life was decided. After fifteen years of living in the limestone halls, she would finally see behind the curtain. Her life would no longer be one ofquestions and sightless trust. Purpose and belonging: two peaks she had long pointed herself towards, finally within reach.
If her icon of Felix met Ezra’s ruthless standards, of course.
Simple tasks, really.
The stiff set of her shoulders finally relaxed at the sight of her empty studio. No Felix yet.
She lowered the scarf from her hair and toed off her boots, stepping into a pair of soft-soled slippers. The studio was small, barely more than a closet, but it washers. It was more than many people held claim to, and she was grateful for it.
A draught from the half-closed window slunk through the space, skating down her neck with icy fingers. She crossed the room to close it fully. It was usually open to air out the ever-present smell of turpentine and oil, but as winter sharpened its claws, she’d need to put up with the fumes. That, or freeze.
Would the room be comfortable enough for Felix? Wherever he spent his time when he wasn’t at the Abbey, it was sure to be lavish.
If he lived at the Goddenwood, she could only dream of the luxury and comfort he was used to. The secluded village where the holiest of saints lived in community with each other was a fabled mystery in its own right. She’d never been tasked with painting it herself – her talents lay more in portraiture – but she’d studied depictions of it enough to picture its gabled, gold-tipped roofs and jewel-toned buildings with perfect clarity. Outside of the Goddenwood, saints lived in isolation, sequestering themselves to better focus on the prayers only they could answer.
Maeve aspired to their piety, dreamed of it, even, but she found the idea of such a lonely existence hard to grapple with. Maybe that was why only the holiest of saints were allowed to live in the Goddenwood – community truly was the highest reward.
Monasticism might have been a virtue, but loneliness…
The Abbey was isolating enough as it was. Hundreds of peoplelived in the limestone halls – acolytes, craftsmen, elders, guards, household staff – yet interaction between them was kept to a bare minimum. Sometimes, Maeve went days without speaking, longer without touch. Coupled with the Abbey’s strict censorship of information from the outside world, the solitude often felt like a physical weight on her chest. Impossible to breathe around.
The saints were worth every bit of the sacrifice living at the Abbey called for. Maeve was grateful for the life she had been given, the life her parents had chosen for her at seven years old. Always,alwaysgrateful for the opportunity to pray and to paint.
The icons she dedicated her life to creating were more than just portraits – they were objects of focus, symbols designed to connect the intercessor to the saint. She didn’t take her role in the sacred practice lightly, nor the prayers sent dutifully to the saints she so carefully depicted.
Carefully, Maeve traced the edge of Felix’s profile with the tip of her paintbrush. A heady tremor passed through her fingers. A slow-burning peace, undercut by the steady thrum of devotion, not unlike what she felt during prayer or hymns. Warmth, bright and golden and consuming, threaded through her chest.
She’d already completed the underpainting in preparation for Felix’s sitting. Hopefully, the remaining work shouldn’t take more than four or five sessions, though oil painting was a fickle beast and might take longer than she’d mapped out. The detail work could be done without the saint, of course, but a part of her was tempted to extend it as long as she could to keep herself in his presence.
Her hand twitched, smearing a line of burnt umber across his jaw.
Maeve dropped the brush.
No questions. She needed to stay professional.Onlyprofessional.
Just as she was collecting her brush from where it had dropped on the floor, a knock sounded at the door. With a stern word to her nerves to stay in line, she moved to open it.
Felix stood on the other side.
The reality of him forced the breath from her lungs.
A saint.Here, in her studio.
Felix was tall and imposing, with dark brown skin and a finely boned, carefully blank face. Perhaps five or six years older than her. He stared down at her for a beat before his gaze fixed somewhere over her left shoulder.
Words formed and died on her tongue. She’d seen him at a distance before, but never so close.
The thick brocade piping on his black robes shone silver as it swirled over his shoulders and down his chest. A swathe of shiny scar tissue ran up the left side of his neck to spider over his cheek and jaw, dragging down the corner of his eye. A medallion hanging at the centre of his chest glinted as he breathed, revealing a hollow centre. It wasn’t a relic, a medallion that signified an elder’s connection to a particular saint, but it resembled one. Enough for her to take an unconscious step forward to examine it closer.
She was sure she had seen somethingwrongin the light refracting off the metal.
Felix cleared his throat.
Maeve flinched, stepping aside to let him into the room. ‘Apologies. Thank you. Welcome.’ She cringed, swallowing another rush of mindless words as Felix moved past her.
‘Where do you want me to sit?’ he asked. His voice was low, scratchy.
‘There. Please.’ She pointed towards the stool she’d set up by the window.
