Maeve opened her mouth to respond when her gaze caught Felix’s.
His eyes levelled hers with a maddening intensity. Every moment he had previously refused eye contact coalesced into his stare now – something so fervent she felt like he was trying to speak directly into her mind.
Indignation and something like confusion rolled in her stomach. How could Felix put her in this position? What was she meant to say to Ezra? As much as she couldn’t allow whatever magic Felix had deployed to finish his icon to compromise her career, equally, she couldn’t be seen disrespecting,doubting, the saint in front of her.
The truth, then. Her only option.
She turned to Ezra. ‘I started with the oils today. I was working, and there was this gold light, and the dust—’
Felix stepped closer. Maeve glanced at him. Something like panic crested his expression. Was it her imagination, or did he shake his head at her?
Abruptly, fear surged within her. Why was he nervous? What had hedone?
And was she about to be blamed for it?
‘Maeve?’ Ezra prodded. She tore her eyes back to her mentor. To his placid, encouraging expression. He laid his hand on her shoulder, squeezing gently. ‘Whatever happened, you can tell me.’
Maeve sucked in an unsteady breath. ‘Well… My head started swimming. I think I fainted, and when—’
‘Sounds like you might have been unwell,’ Felix cut in. ‘A spell. Women have that sometimes. Hysteria.’
‘I don’t think so,’ Maeve forced out through the anger limning her throat. ‘How would that explain the paint drying? Besides—’ she paused, weighing her words. ‘You were here. What did you see?’
Felix shut his eyes briefly, breathing out hard through his nose.
‘What, indeed, Felix?’ Ezra murmured.
She wanted to ask more, demand that Felix tell Ezra the full story. It was her career on the line, after all. But what did she have to gain by angering a saint?
The gravity of her thoughts hit her full in the face – maybe she was the one in the wrong.
Who wassheto question a saint?
Maeve ducked her head under Felix’s pressing stare. Guilt surged in her chest.
‘It’s getting late,’ Ezra continued. ‘Perhaps you ought to go to your room, Maeve. I need to speak with Felix. We’ll discuss this first thing in the morning.’ He pulled her around by the shoulder, a smile on his face. ‘A good night’s rest will surely offer clarity.’
Felix disappeared down the opposite hall as Ezra guided her from the room. His footsteps echoed like bells in her sluggish mind.
‘Maeve,’ Ezra said quietly. She dragged her gaze back to his.
Torchlight flickered, licking long stripes of flame up the Abbey’s limestone walls. The weight on her shoulder increased. Ezra’s smile seemed to grow softer in response. Warmth filled her chest. An early summer berry, sour on her tongue. When he spoke, his voice sounded muffled and far away. She’d expected anger for her questions, her impertinence. Not… this – the gentle smile, the guiding hand.
‘Let me walk you to your room,’ he said.
Soon, Maeve sat on the edge of her bed, worrying the edge of her skirt between her thumb and forefinger. Shadows trailed Ezra as he moved around the room. The darkness undulated inthe liminal space between her slippers and the doorframe. Thicker than air, thinner than water. When she lay back against her pillows, the light behind her eyes faded into night-pressed blackness. She covered her face with the crook of her elbow.
Ezra closed the door behind him. The lock slid home with a metallic click.
2
Maeve
The vicious beast of worry struck as soon as Maeve awoke the following day.
Her questioning was concerning. She’d entertained the odd doubt over the years – who wouldn’t? The Abbey was all she’d ever known. Her parents had chosen to give her up and offer her life and talents to the saints. It was an honour and a privilege she’d do well not to squander. There was no room for questions, not when the saints had given her so much. Besides, once she was made lead iconographer, she’d have no need for questions.
The nausea grew teeth, guilt biting down.
