He turned and left.
It took her a long time to fall back asleep. When she did, it felt like only moments had passed, but the room had darkened with nightfall. Moonlight cut a clean white streak across her rumpled quilt.
Jude stood over her again.
‘Dammit, Jude,’ Maeve exclaimed, sitting up. ‘You scared me.’
He chuckled, setting something down on her vanity before lighting a candle. Warm light licked up the walls, lingering in the hollows of his cheeks as he eyed her over his shoulder. The concern had yet to leave his gaze. ‘How are you?’
‘Better.’ Thankfully, the cramping rarely lasted more than an afternoon.
He fussed with something on the vanity, his back to her. ‘Rest as long as you need.’
She shuffled up to prop herself against the headboard. As she moved, her braid fell over her shoulder and down her chest. She brought the end to her nose, breathing in the earthy smell of the rosemary. The gesture had meant something to her.
‘Here.’ Jude turned from the vanity and handed her a chipped clay mug.
Maeve brought it to her nose. It smelled somewhat familiar to the blend Bronagh used to make her. The matron had made the brew for those who requested it, but she kept a close guard on her recipe. ‘Jude…’ she hesitated. ‘What is this?’
‘Elden makes it for one of our neighbours when she asks. Bethan says it helps with her monthlies. And, it ah—’ He looked away.
Even in the dim light, Maeve could see his blush. ‘Prevents pregnancy?’
‘Or so I’ve been told. If you – that is, well.’ That expressionless mask she’d thought long abandoned fell over his face as he inched back towards the door.
‘Thank you,’ Maeve said, bringing the tea to her lips to cover her grin. Elden had cut through some of the bitterness of the yarrow with a dash of honey. ‘Glad to see his kitchen skills aren’t transferable to herbalism.’
Jude smiled, finally making it to the door. ‘No. In that, he’s surprisingly accomplished.’ He gave her one final look of concern. ‘And you’re feeling better?’
‘I am. Thank you for the tea, and—’ she gestured towards her braid. Jude didn’t reply, his hand going towards the doorknob behind him. Maeve couldn’t resist one final attempt to crack his carefully laid mask. ‘And thanks for ensuring I don’t get pregnant.’
Shock crossed his features. ‘That’s not – that’s not what I meant by it.’
‘I know,’ she laughed. ‘I’m just teasing.’
The shock melted away as he leaned against the doorway and crossed his arms over his chest. He eyed her speculatively. ‘You certainly are feeling better,’ he murmured. ‘Maybe youshouldget back to work.’
Maeve rolled her eyes, shooing him from the room.
25
Jude
Morning found Jude seated in his usual spot in the front room, Olive on one knee and a botany book open on the other. He flipped through it idly. Bethan and her mother were bound to arrive in the next few weeks, as they did once a season. Bethan was a keen forager, and Jude and Elden often helped her comb through the property for the ingredients she needed. Winter brought hawthorn and sloe berries, wood blewit mushrooms and the occasional crab apple. Chestnuts for roasting and nettles for tea. With any luck, she would bring a batch of gin from last year’s sloe harvest. She knew it was his favourite.
He let his eyes drift back to the window. A writhing headache pulsed behind his eyes. He tried to ignore it. What it meant.
In the distance, Maeve picked her way through the fields bordering the northern wall. Her fair hair hung loose and gleaming down her back, stark against the blackness of the greatcoat.
Hisgreatcoat.
His fingers twitched in his lap. He could still feel the liquid smoothness of her hair, softer than anything he’d ever felt. Shining like spun gold in the candlelight. He leaned closer to the window as she tilted her head back to face the drizzling rain. He could see the edge of her smile, even separated by walls and windows. His stomach clenched.
Tender, unwelcome emotions. Lingering where they shouldn’t.
He turned back to his book, finding it harder than usual to focus. Praying to the icon had to work, not just to regain his memories, but to erase the strange miasma its presence had settled over him. The incessant headache that had cropped up when Maeve had begun painting hadn’t yet abated. His memories felt like colours leaching from a late-winter sky. Growing less and less vivid by the day.
He’d sneaked away to his library each morning to hide his memories in his books, though his magic had felt sluggish to come to the surface, reluctant to answer his call. It was more of a protective measure than anything else – Jude’s magic hadn’t had the same uncontrollable energy it usually did, writhing under his skin like a hungry beast. It hadn’t in a while. Not since he had jumped into Maeve’s memories after the bog, now that he thought of it.
