He blew out a rough breath. He knew exactly who to blame for his heightened nerves.
She was ruining him. Finding the paranoia he thought long buried and unearthing it, one agonizing inch at a time. She’d already consumed his thoughts; soon, his mind would go, his tenuous grip on self and purpose. Nothing was sacred. Nothing was his own.
It was onlyher.
The iconographer, the woman sent to torment him.
A sudden clamour across the square pulled his attention from his rolling thoughts.
A man had pushed himself up on the lip of the long-dormant fountain, his hands waving in the air as he shouted. ‘Pilgrimage ampulla! Pilgrimage ampulla sold here,’ he cried. Jude stiffened as he reached into his bag and held out a scuffed metal object cupped in his palm – a tin vessel containing a small measure of holy water, marked with the Abbey’s sigil. ‘The winter intercession is mere weeks away. Get your name on the attendance list today. Do not delay!’
Jude spun, putting his back to the Abbey man before he had to see the crowds rushing forward. Even still, he heard their rising voices, the sound of money exchanging hands.
A squeal of pain had him glancing over his shoulder. A fair-haired woman had pushed the Abbey man against the wall and was begging him – fervently,desperately– for something. She no doubt thought the Abbey member could answer prayers. She dug her nails into the man’s neck, drawing a ruby flash of blood. He finally succeeded in throwing her off him and onto the muddied ground. She cried out as someone’s foot landed hard on her arm.
Jude winced, returning his focus to the wall behind his stall and tried to focus on his scorn and not the insidious press of fear. Her fanatical beliefs would only bring her more pain. He couldn’t help her, couldn’t helpanyof them, even if he wanted to.
Still – her squeal of pain echoed in his ears.
He never should’ve come to the market. It wasn’t safe; nowhere was. If the villagers reacted with near-violent interest to a mere Abbey layman, how would they treat Jude? Would he find himself slammed against the wall, pummelled until he answered their prayers? Something even worse?
He’d never seen a pilgrimage guide in Oakmoor. He knewwhat they were, of course – Abbey members who travelled from town to town gathering people who wished to make the trek to the Abbey for the seasonal intercessions – but try as he might, he couldn’t remember what happened at the intercessions. Based on the zealous reaction from the crowd, it must have been something important.
Jude closed his eyes as the voices grew louder. He hadn’t realized so much of Oakmoor’s feeble population was devout. His fragile sense of safety cracked even further.
A hand touched his shoulder.
Jude shuddered, ducking out of it to see Elden watching him, his hand hovering in the air. He cocked his head. ‘Ready? We should leave before things get more…’ he frowned at the tightly packed crowd. ‘Aggressive.’ When Jude didn’t reply, he lifted a jar of fogged amber honey. ‘Your favourite. Celia gave it to me for you.’
Jude looped his basket over his arm. ‘Why not just give it to me directly?’
‘Maybe the endless glowering put her off,’ Elden replied, softening his words with a smile.
The rain had slowed to a ponderous drizzle as they made their way back, the noise of the crowd slowly fading behind them.
Jude was stewing. He couldn’t help it. Despite the atmosphere he’d just left, no part of him wanted to return to the house. He knew he should pick at Maeve a little more, see what he could find out from her iconography knowledge, but the thought of spending time with her made his skin crawl. He didn’t like the perceptiveness in her dark eyes.
Didn’t like itone bit.
Elden snagged the sleeve of Jude’s coat as they came across the low stone bridge that marked the final leg of the walk back to Ánhaga, pulling him to a stop. Jude raised a brow, carefully extracting himself from Elden’s touch. ‘Yes?’
‘Maeve,’ Elden began, voice as slow and steady as ever. ‘The iconographer.’
‘I know her name.’
Elden’s expression pinched. ‘You know she’s been… exploring. The house, that is.’
Jude crossed his arms as tension skittered down his spine. He clenched his jaw. He wouldn’t dignify Elden with a response.
Elden seemed to be of the same mind. He studied Jude, brow raised expectantly. His oilskin coat was misbuttoned, longer on the right side than the left. Jude’s chest cinched tighter the longer he looked at the man he’d tentatively begun to view as an irritating older brother.
The silence stretched. Jude shifted, uncomfortable.
Finally, Elden sighed. ‘Every room you didn’t lock, she’s been inside.’
Jude turned his gaze to the hills. Geoff was right. The frost would come early this year.
‘Jude?’ Elden prodded.
