No, Maeve decided. No, she could not.
Jude scanned her face, looking for what, she didn’t know. The vulnerability leached from his expression as slowly as the setting sun, replaced with breathtaking determination. ‘We’ll start tomorrow.’
22
Jude
Jude hated sitting still.
It felt like days had passed since Maeve had positioned him by the window in his library. She’d arranged his limbsjust so, adjusting the fall of his coat to slide in a particular, artful way across his thigh. She hadn’t heard his breath catch as her palm had slid up his leg, imbuing warmth into his skin. If it weren’t for the memory of her trying to smooth the short crop of his hair, he’d have got up long ago. As it was, the feeling of her nails against his scalp was fading faster than he’d like.
Moving slowly enough not to draw her attention, he looked at the window. He’d been shouted at a dozen times throughout the morning for fidgeting, and while he liked the stern set of her brow when she scolded him, he thought it best to keep her happy in the meantime. Even if the movement helped distract him from the steadily building pressure behind his eyes.
It was just as he feared. The painting of his icon was affecting him.
He couldn’t deny the headache any more than he could forget about the slow meander of his thoughts, as though each word needed to cross a lake of molasses to fully form. Despite Maeve’s assurances, he’d expected to feel muddled as she worked on his icon, but not like this. Not this quickly.
He wondered if Siobhan had noticed a new icon of herself had been created or if she was already too far gone. Had she feltit when Maeve had burned it? And, perhaps more importantly, had burning really destroyed it? He turned the idea over in his mind. Another question to look into.
Outside, the clouds lay thick on the horizon, heavy with the promise of snow. It had yet to extend down from the moors to dust his house, but it wouldn’t be long. Soon, the hunched boughs of the apple trees and the scrubby grass would be covered in white. His gaze moved to a spider’s web in the corner of the window. It shone pearlescent, threads of silk dipped in iridescent starlight.
Three winged shapes moved towards the moors in the distance. The tense line of his spine relaxed at the sight. A thought swept in as they disappeared over the horizon—
Would this work? Could he pray to his icon?
Maeve’s theory didn’t convince him entirely, even after she’d described what she’d seen in Siobhan’s memory. Surely, after years and years of Abbey power, someone would have thought to pray to their icon outside of Siobhan, alone and desperate.
And it hadn’t even worked for her – at least not entirely.
A swish of Maeve’s brush through paint drew his attention back. The library sat still around them. Something in him relaxed as he allowed himself to stare freely at her face. The vision in front of him – Maeve at her easel, fair hair hanging loose over her shoulders, brush gripped between her fingers – had haunted him recently in the dark space where his dreams ought to be.
She drew her lower lip between her teeth, humming beneath her breath. Jude flipped the corner of his coat over his lap and smoothed it down, black wool scratchy under his palm.
‘Stay still,’ she murmured. Her brows lowered, giving her the appearance of a disappointed schoolteacher as she looked up. ‘How many times do I have to ask you?’
Helplessly, Jude felt like grinning. Something had eroded in him when he decided to trust her to paint his icon. He pressed his hand harder to his thigh.
Maybe not an erosion, but a softening.
‘How long has it been?’ he asked.
‘Almost two hours.’ She leaned over to dip her brush in a splotch of brownish-orange.Burnt sienna, she’d called it. ‘The underpainting is almost done.’
‘Theunderpainting?’ Jude didn’t like the sound of that.
Maeve snickered.
He returned his gaze to the window just as another wave of fogginess crested over him. He swayed slightly on the stool. The three birds had disappeared. Jude found he’d forgotten why he’d wanted to see them in the first place.
‘Are you feeling okay?’ Maeve’s voice sounded very far away.
A knock sounded on the door. ‘I’ll get it.’ Jude moved unsteadily to his feet, thankful for the diversion. He caught the tail end of Maeve’s exasperated groan as he passed.
Elden stood at the door, a tray with a teapot, three mugs and a plate of biscuits in his hands. It looked out of place next to his oversized frame. Jude eyed the biscuits sceptically. He imagined they would do the job if he needed something to hammer in a nail.
Elden harrumphed. ‘They’re not for you.’
Maeve placed her hand into the crook of his elbow to lean around him. The top of her head brushed his chin. ‘Oh! Elden, how wonderful.’ She smiled, the corners of her eyes crinkling as she examined the tray. ‘Are these the shortbread biscuits I gave you the recipe for?’
