If Ánhaga had secrets tucked between its walls, she would have to do all the digging herself. Her first letter was due to Ezra before the end of the week, and if she knew him at all, tardiness would not be tolerated.
Maeve leaned against the butcher’s block behind her, studying the stacks of colourful ceramic bowls, the chipped mugs. ‘What does it mean, Ánhaga? I don’t recognize the language.’
Elden picked up a spoon and swirled it into the pot on the range. ‘It’s an old language. I don’t know much of it anymore.’
She noticed he didn’t answer the first part of her question… had she offended him with it?
Once again, she cursed herself for her hasty tongue. How many times would she misstep before she found her footing? Her social skills were woefully rusty, grown almost entirely by brief interactions when she was allowed into Whitebury or short, monitored conversations at the Abbey. It was no wonder she could barely manage a straightforward exchange without putting her foot in it.
‘Smells good,’ Maeve said, drawing closer to peer into the stew cooking in the pot. ‘I’m not a bad cook, you know… ifyou ever need any help?’ Her voice drew embarrassingly high at the end.
‘He won’t.’
She spun around. The saint –Jude– leaned against the doorway, arms folded.
How long had he been listening in?
His resemblance to his boyhood icon was uncanny in the daylight, something she had missed in the exhaustion of last night. The same knife-sharp features and dark hair, shorn close to his skull, where it’d once been long enough to hold a curl. The same shifting hazel eyes, now bright with animosity where they’d held a careful blankness before.
Her gaze lingered on the slightly too-short crop of his trousers, the tightness of the material around his thighs as he moved towards her. The way the sleeves of his deep green knitted jumper were not quite long enough to reach the jut of his wrists.
A black cat swept in behind him, tail held high. Jude reached down and scooped her up against his chest. Without a word, he drew a spoon out of a cluttered drawer next to the range and swirled it through the broth, bringing it to his lips.
‘Nice of you to introduce me to your guest,’ Elden said. He sent a wink in Maeve’s direction. She relaxed enough to smile back. She hadn’t completely offended him, then.
Jude sprinkled in salt from a dish on the counter. ‘She isnot,’ another pinch of salt, ‘my guest.’
Her smile faded as fast as it had come.
She didn’t know how to behave around him. Not even a little. He was so unlike Felix with his sweeping robes and unwavering distance. Nothing like the other saints she’d painted off description alone – always stoic, like they existed on some higher plane she hadn’t a hope of reaching.
As they should be, in her opinion.
But Jude… he shocked her with the unabashedhumannessof him. There was no other word for it. The way he moved, facetwitching with displeasure as he tasted the stew. The irreverent words coming from his mouth, even the cat – none of it was as she’d expected.
He had betrayed the Abbey, Maeve reminded herself. The man before her had corrupted the magic he wasluckyto be blessed with. She had made a promise to find out how. A promise she intended to keep.
‘Jude’s right,’ she said, daring to draw her voice loud enough to break over their quiet bickering about the salt. ‘I’m not his guest. The Abbey sent me to paint an updated icon.’
Jude deposited the cat on the floor with a pet down her back. He rose slowly, cocking his head as he considered her. ‘An icon…’
‘Yes. An icon.’
‘Yet, you’ve spent your morning snooping around my house instead.’
Her first reaction was anger at the accusation in his tone. She stifled it quickly. She needed to tread carefully with him, that much was obvious. She didn’t want to offend… well, maybe notJude, but his position. His sainthood. Nor did she want him to question why she’d been kneeling at the door earlier, asking questions she herself didn’t know the answer to.
Maeve dropped her eyes and lowered her voice, just as she’d been taught. ‘My apologies. I was just trying to find my clothes.’
Elden pushed past Jude to hold out a large bag in her direction. Jude watched the bag pass into her hands with narrowed eyes. Her whole body relaxed at the touch of the worn leather.
‘Thank you,’ she murmured. She opened the bag, loosening a sigh of relief at the sight of her still tightly sealed palette. ‘I was worried about my paints.’
‘Paints,’ Jude scoffed under his breath.
Elden ignored him. ‘I gave your clothes a wash. The storm had done a number on them. They’re drying on the rack by the fire, but I put some of Jude’s old clothes in there you can wear in the meantime.’
Maeve’s cheeks flushed at Jude’s answering sound of derision. She looked closer at her bag now that some of her panic had subsided, running her fingers over a soft navy wool cardigan. It was a kind gesture, but innoworld would she be wearing Jude’s clothing.
