‘That’s what I need to discover,’ Jude replied. ‘There’s something that allows the elders to access the magic, something that captures it. And something that fuels it. And you, Maeve – an iconographer. I think you help to bridge that gap.’
‘But icons are of saints,’ Maeve argued. ‘Are you saying there are icons of normal people like me, who can’t answer prayers?’
‘Well, they would just be called portraits, in that case. Not icons.’ His smile didn’t reach his eyes. ‘But, yes.’
She weighed up his story, his admittance of magic and how the Abbey had altered memories. The icons.Hericons. Something so precious to her, something holy, repurposed in a way that went against the very core of their creation.
‘Why? Why alter memories?’ she asked.
‘To protect themselves. If a situation threatens the Abbey’s authority, they bend it until it snaps. It’s how they maintain their followers.’ Jude levelled her with a look that was both assessing and charged. ‘And us, Maeve? Those of us who can see what they’re doing and can do it ourselves? They get rid of us as quickly and as quietly as they can. They can’t have people running around who know the truth, now, can they? Not when everything they believe is at stake. And not when they can use us for their gain. Not when they take our memories from us to fuel their stolen magic.’
Maeve’s view of the Abbey, ofherself, seemed to break apart and reform, messy and haphazard, with each damning word Jude spoke.
How could it make sense? Even if what he said was true, why did it have to be a malevolent thing? The Abbey, Ezra, and the other elders could still care for their acolytes and followers while protecting their interests.
Couldn’t they?
‘What if my interests and the Abbey’s are the same?’ Maeveasked. Jude’s eyes flared as he leaned forward to speak, but she held up a hand to stop him. ‘Iamtheir own. Even if you were marked a saint, you still left—’
‘Sent away,’ Jude interrupted. ‘I didn’t leave. I wasforced.’
‘I’ve always been loyal. Even if I can see the gold, why is that—’
‘Donotpresume they care about anyone who isn’t an elder. They didn’t care about me, not when I was fifteen and scared, nor when they shoved me here to live the rest of my days alone. And they didn’t care about you. Not if they sent you here.’
Maeve shook her head. She couldn’t accept it, couldn’t eventhinkof the Abbey as anything that wasn’t home. ‘I… How could they know I have the memory magic too?’
His look was part pity, part frustration. ‘Even without the incident with the icon, they knew long before you did, Maeve. I guarantee it. And if they know… they sent you away because of it.’
Saints, it hurt. Maeve parted her lips and took a deep breath.
‘The Abbey asks for piety and devotion, for trust from its followers. Why influence their memory? What do they gain?’ She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered, agony in every word. ‘I wish I could just believe you. Believe everything.’
Jude studied her for a long moment before pushing to his feet. ‘There’s someone I want you to meet.’
‘Tonight?’ She blinked, mind spinning at the abrupt topic change. ‘Meet who?’
‘No,’ he shook his head, loosening a raspy chuckle. ‘It’s been a long day. I need to sleep. And we both need to bathe.’ He looked pointedly down at her muddied hem. Their socked feet. ‘Tomorrow.’
‘Who is it?’ Maeve couldn’t help but press as she rose from the chair. But Jude was already turning, walking towards the door, holding it open for her to pass through. Too soon, he was locking it behind them and leading her up the stairs.
This late at night, the only noise in the vast house was the creaking of the floorboards. The air was cool and damp against her skin, prickling at the thin layer of nervous sweat collecting at the base of her throat. She gazed at the slashes of moonlight playing in the exposed line of Jude’s neck, the hollow at his nape.
He stopped in front of the bathroom and turned towards her, only a few inches away. He didn’t move. Instead, he tilted his head to the side, meeting her eyes from behind lowered lashes.
A sudden urge to reach for him rose with a vengeance, clanging warning bells in her head. If she didn’t turn and put her closed door between them, she’d do something she’d regret. Like press her fingers to where his pulse beat in his throat as rapidly as hers.
His steady inhale broke the silence. ‘Goodnight, Maeve. Enjoy your bath.’
She stared at the space he’d vacated for long after he left.
19
Maeve
Jude waited for her at the front door early the following morning. The night had been a restless one, full of half-formed dreams and waking hours where Maeve had searched her memories for holes with a fine-toothed comb. For anything that felt…off. Too shiny, too perfect.
And she wondered… if she found any, would she know?
