‘I heard you.’ Elden set down the pan with a rattle. Jude wrinkled his nose at the smell of burning onions. Elden didn’t have the patience for caramelization. ‘Only… well. I don’t remember, exactly.’
Jude tensed. He eased closer to the doorway.
‘You don’tremember?’ Maeve prodded. ‘How long have you been here?’
Elden sighed. Somewhat concerning that Jude recognized the sound as his resigned sigh rather than his frustrated one. ‘A little under three years, maybe?’
‘And is that usual for you? Not remembering things?’
No.Absolutely not.
Jude strode into the room, focus immediately landing on the iconographer. ‘Making yourself right at home, aren’t you?’ he asked. She whipped around to face him, a guilty look in her eyes.Good.She should feel guilty. ‘Would you like to search his bedroom while you’re at it? Maybe follow him into the bath?’
‘Jude—’ Elden started.
He shoved open the door leading to the garden. ‘What a lovely few days you’ve had, getting your meals brought to you, your clothes washed. Sleeping late into the afternoon.’ Jude pointedtowards the far corner of the vegetable patch in the distance. Last night’s rain had turned it into more a mud patch than anything fit for growth. ‘Elden and I are going out. Go pick some potatoes.’
Maeve shut her mouth with a snap. To his surprise, she picked up a trowel from a bucket beside the door. Vivid red spread from her cheeks down her throat, disappearing down the neck of one of thosedamnchemises. Clearly, his clothes Elden had given her weren’t good enough.
‘Is that all?’ she asked, lifting her chin.
‘Some parsley. From the greenhouse.’
‘Wonderful.’
Maeve turned on her heel and disappeared into the rain, trowel tight in her white-knuckled grip. Jude watched her go. A small spark of admiration lit his chest, quickly extinguished.
‘Well,’ Elden said, chuckling. ‘That didn’t go as you planned, did it?’
Jude shook his head. ‘Come on. Let’s go to market.’
‘Themarket,’ Elden repeated, sceptical. ‘What for? I was already in Oakmoor this morning.’
Jude slid the cover off a basket on the counter, a small smile tugging at his lips at the sight of the potatoes he’d harvested a few days prior nestled alongside a neat pile of foraged mushrooms. ‘I have a few things to sell.’
The weekly market in Oakmoor was a sordid affair Jude usually left up to Elden. He had a knack for fetching the best prices on their produce and tea blends – probably down to his glowing personality or ability to hold a conversation without wanting to run away. At any rate, he seemed to enjoy the gaggles of grandmothers picking at his business more than Jude.
Jude sifted through the mushrooms, all too aware of the eyes tracking his every movement. If he bruised a single wood blewit, Celia would have his head. He selected the largest and presentedit to the elderly woman. She peered at it through milky grey eyes. ‘Hm. Small this year, no?’
‘Small? It’s bigger than my hand.’ Jude lifted the mushroom higher to examine it.Small.
Celia raised a sparse brow. ‘As I said.’
He laid another mushroom beside the offending one. ‘Two for one, then.’
Celia had them tucked away and was shuffling over to Elden before Jude could even blink. He sighed, picking up the coins and watching her laugh at something the other man said.
Another customer approached the stall. Jude’s gaze immediately alighted on the Abbey sigil swinging from the man’s neck as he pointed to a mushroom in Jude’s basket.
Sweat slicked his hands, trembling as he wrapped the mushrooms carefully in parchment paper and handed the man his change. Ruddy hair fell across his brow, a deep crease between his eyes.
A villager, Jude told himself. A pious stranger.Nothing more.
‘The frost looks early this year, eh?’ the man said. His smile faded when Jude didn’t reply. ‘Well then. All the best.’
Geoff.His name was Geoff. Jude had seen him before at the pub. He played the fiddle.
He watched Geoff walk away as disgust rolled in his belly. Why did he have to be so fuckingskittishall the time? It was off-putting. He turned his face to the sky. Rain misted his skin in a clarifying baptism. What a mess he was.
