Something in him was changing, though he wasn’t yet sure if it was down to his new icon or the iconographer lurking in every long-forgotten corner of his soul. Both, maybe. Most likely.
He tried to control the roll of nausea in his belly. The gnawing ache of fear.
His icon was almost finished. When Maeve asked him to pray to it, he’d have to go back to that dark place of devotion he’d tried so hard to move on from. As much as he wanted to regain his memories and free himself from every last tie binding him to the Abbey, he was afraid of what the memories of his childhood might show. A time characterized not by care and laughter but by blood and steel and salt.
He knew enough by now to call it by its true name.
Abuse.
His abuser’s face may have been wiped from his memory, but his body still bore the scars.
Glancing at the window to ensure Maeve was still out on her walk, he carefully pushed back the sleeves of his jumper to barehis forearms. He kept them covered even on the hottest days of summer. The slender inked lines and crudely formed symbols were starkly black in the pale morning light. It would be the same if he lifted his shirt and looked at his stomach and thighs.
Down the insides of his arms and from hip to hip were neatly ordered lines inked for passing weeks. Under his collarbone bore the sainthood symbol. BELONGINGmarred the hollow of his right hip below the tallies. Small symbols for loyalty, piety, commitment, and devotion were scattered over his arms, legs, and stomach. The largest was at the centre of his chest, a half-circle with three lines fanning from the top. The Abbey’s sigil.
A reminder of everything lost and everything taken from him. Tattoos he’d driven into his skin during his weakest moments when he believed he’d deserved the torment he’d endured at the Abbey.
Though his memories were distorted and vague, the rot had long sunk into his marrow. He remembered punishment. Coercion. Venomous words in his ears and words carved into his skin. The hot sting of the knife. The grip of a fist in his once-long hair.
He’d been told to keep the blood and his scars hidden. What would the other acolytes think if they saw? They’d believe he deserved it – a weak, cowardly boy punished for his failings. It had taken Jude a long time to fight the voice that told him his behaviourdidwarrant the abuse. To realize he had been a child, and no child deserved to be harmed by someone meant to protect them, even if he couldn’t remember who that person was who had made it their mission to turn his upbringing into a living nightmare.
Now, when he felt the urge to reach for ink and needle, he turned to his books, instead. It was a dreadful practice, maybe – viewing one’s pain play out in live action – but it was therapeutic all the same. Jude didn’t deserve the abuse. Nor did he deserve to be continually punished for it.
He saw that now.
It had been almost a year since he last pushed the ink into his skin.
His heart thrummed frantic behind his ribs as he saw Maeve turn and start to make her way back to the house. Animal quick, urging him to run. He wasn’t sure how he’d feel taking on the role of acolyte once more. It had been almost a decade since he last prayed, longer yet since he believed. He may have been marked a saint in the eyes of the Abbey, but that didn’t make him holy.
What would his icon show – a saint or a heretic?
26
Jude
He reread the same page three times before the knock came. His gaze remained on the page for a breath before he looked up. Maeve stood at the door. The ends of her hair lay damp against the coat, the top frizzing with rain. A smile on her face.
‘It’s done.’ Her voice was quiet, hesitant.
He shut the book. ‘Your walk? I gathered that myself, funny enough.’
Maeve sat in the armchair across from him. Olive immediately vacated his lap in favour of hers. Little traitor. ‘No. The painting. Your icon. It’s ready.’
Jude stiffened. That was fast.
‘Did you…’ he hesitated, not wanting to raise her abilities for fear of scaring her. ‘Did anything strange happen?’ he settled on.
Maeve looked at Olive on her lap, stroking down her back. Unaware she was being used as a distraction, Olive curled tighter, purring with alarming ferocity. Maeve’s bottom lip trembled.
‘Maeve,’ he said gently. ‘It’s okay if it did. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. That’s what we wanted to happen, isn’t it?’
She levelled his gaze. ‘I’m notashamed.’
‘No,’ he backtracked. ‘I just… I feel it, too. The Abbey’s interest in your magic, their influence – it feels tainted. Likethey’ve corrupted it.’ He paused, words escaping him. He didn’t want to say that he still felt damaged by it, even now. ‘I wanted to reassure you there’s nothing wrong with you. Even if the Abbey can take your magic, it’s stillyours.’
He felt the sweep of her eyes as keenly as if she’d touched him directly. After a moment that felt far longer than a few seconds, she blew out a breath. ‘Thank you. I know that. It’s just hard to see it as something useful and not something… Well.’ She lifted her hand off Olive and pressed the back to her cheek as if to cool herself down. ‘Tainted. As you said.’
Relief coursed through him. ‘I know how it feels. But it’s not, Maeve. Not at all.’
