Not you, his thoughts reminded him.It only applies to her – not you.
Jude dropped his eyes, studying the edge of a tattoo on his wrist. It was easy to view Maeve, as sincere, asgoldenas she was, as someone not tainted by the Abbey’s touch. But him…
‘So, yes,’ she continued, unaware of the direction of his thoughts. ‘Something did happen. The same as when I completed Felix’s painting and the sketch of Siobhan. I saw gold, lost track of time, and your icon was done.’
Jude cocked his head. ‘That’s a good thing, I think.’
‘Is it?’ Beneath the fall of her skirt, one booted foot bobbed up and down.
‘It solidifies a link between your magic and icons,’ he explained, sounding more confident than he felt. ‘Maybe that will grow once I pray to it.’
Maeve hummed. Her eyes had a glazed, worried look about them. He had grown adept at reading her face over the weeks, finding it almost instinctual how quickly he could parse her thoughts from her expression. She parted her lips, hesitating for a long moment before whispering, ‘I’m scared.’
His hands tightened on the armrests, the wood creaking. ‘Of what?’
‘If it doesn’t work… praying to your icon.’ She shook her head. ‘I can tell painting the icon is affecting you. I can see it in your face, in how you’ve been…’ she paused. ‘Forgetting things.’
Jude palmed the back of his head. Her words were exposing in a way he wasn’t ready to address. ‘It’s eroding, in a way. Like each swipe of your brush is a wave against me. My mind is more—’ he waved a hand. ‘Loose. Changeable. Like I can’t quite nail down my thoughts.’
She studied him closely; looking for what, he didn’t know. ‘We thought that might happen.’
‘And you? As the iconographer?’ he asked, rolling the words over on his tongue, tasting the bitterness. ‘How do you feel?’
Maeve shrugged. ‘I… I haven’t noticed anything different. Not really. Well. I suppose that’s not entirely true.’ She closed her eyes, missing the fear Jude knew shone clearly on his face. ‘Something doesn’t feel quite right. I can’t explain it, but I feel an icon isn’t complete unless it’s done at the Abbey.’
He froze. ‘You don’t think it will work?’
He hadn’t even considered that she might feel this way. It had been largely her idea, after all. She was the one who was sent here to paint him, and it was she who picked up the brush and posed him for his icon. Yet, the resignation painted over her features was undeniable.
The trust he’d decided to place in her wavered. Like a pebble dropped in a quiet pond, its ripples disturbing the stillness beneath. Had he made a mistake? Was this all a ploy to complete her mission after all? After everything he’d told her, every vulnerable inch of himself he’d revealed?
‘You want to return to the Abbey,’ he said bluntly.
The gaze Maeve pinned on him was unwavering. ‘I’m not taking your icon back there. I promise you, that’s the last thing I want to do. I just wanted to let you know that…’ she swallowed roughly. ‘Something doesn’t feel as it should.’
He pressed her hands into his thighs to still their shaking. ‘Explain.’
‘When I paint icons in the Abbey, it’s almost like it’s not reallymepainting them. I’m given a description of the saint, and I work off that. Usually, it’s short. Hair, eye, and skin colour. Basic description of their features. Their age and a few lines about their personality. The rest is up to me. Only…’ she frowned. ‘I never really think about it while I’m painting. It’s like a face is planted into my mind, and it’s my job to transfer it to the canvas. Like I’m a conduit for the magic. My memory magic at work, probably.’ Her eyes slid back to his. ‘But with you, you’re different.’
Jude raised a brow.
She looked briefly uncomfortable. ‘I know you.’
‘As much as anyone,’ he replied, even as warmth stole through his chest.
‘No. I mean—’ She huffed out a breath. ‘You’re in front of me. I painted what I saw, not what I was told. That painting up there… the icon is ofyou, Jude. Not a portrait based on a description. Not a saint. A man. You’re real to me, and I think the painting shows it.’
Her words weren’t meant to be affectionate, but he felt their weight all the same. As she looked at him, describing how she had pictured his face, his hands, the set of his mouth, Jude felt a terrible rush of nakedness. Maeve hadn’t painted Jude the saint; she had paintedhim. He knew, as he followed her from the room and up the stairs to her studio, he was about to see the most intimate rendition of his personhood he’d ever been allowed.
The very thought of seeing Maeve’s portrait terrified him. Yet – he had to see it. Had to see how she saw him, even if the idea of it made his chest ache, his mouth run dry.
Too soon, they were upstairs in the room she was using as a studio, where she’d moved the painting to work on after beginning it in his library. Jude’s heart raced, trying to outpace thevicious beast of anxiety as she moved to stand behind the icon. Her knuckles flashed white around the frame. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Show me,’ he murmured. ‘Please.’
Squaring her shoulders, Maeve spun the canvas around to face him.
His first thought was one of awe. She was talented, immensely so. The level of detail, the liberties she’d taken with light and shadow – every part of it was masterful. Her work was breathtakingly realistic yet still stylized, displaying her comprehensive knowledge of colour and technique.
