‘Homesickness,’ Elden repeated, face sceptical. ‘Is that all?’
Maeve nodded, retaking her place at the sink and picking up a plate. Thankfully, Elden didn’t prod as he dried every dish she washed. She tried to keep her mind on her task, but—‘How long have they known each other?’
Maeve cringed as Elden’s drying motions slowed to a stop. The question had left her lips too quickly to stop. He set the plate down, putting his back to the counter and resting his weight on his hands. ‘Bethan and Jude?’
Maeve nodded, watching herself scrub a wine glass as if with someone else’s hands.
‘A year, maybe,’ Elden replied. ‘He doesn’t have many friends.’
‘Is it…’ she hesitated. Warmth coursed up her neck as she considered how to word her question without outright asking if they were lovers. ‘Are they close?’
Elden shrugged. ‘Hard to say. I wouldn’t say they’re friends… necessarily. Not close friends. Her presence is more helpful to Jude than anything else.’
Helpful?What did that mean? She chewed on the inside of her lip as she dried the final few dishes, folding the towel neatly on the counter. ‘Why did they go upstairs? Where did they go?’
Elden paused. He picked up the drying cloth Maeve had just folded and picked at the hem. ‘Jude’s bedroom, I believe. But Maeve—’
‘I’m going to bed,’ she interrupted. ‘I’m sorry.’
She’d heard enough, and her emotions were too close to the surface. If she stayed here any longer, she was going to cry. The prospect was too humiliating to consider.
Before Elden could reply, Maeve left the kitchen. She made her way slowly up the stairs, listening to every creak of the house around her. She told herself she didn’t care. Her goals may have shifted, but she still had a reason for being here in his home. His memories still hung in the balance, and hers were at risk of slipping every day. She needed to focus on unpicking the link between the icons, the saints, and the artists that created them. The Abbey that stole from them.
After that…
Maybe she would return to her family. Maybe she’d rent a cottage by the sea and sell paintings at a village market. She could do anything. Go anywhere.
Jude didn’t factor into her decision, her future. Hecouldn’t.
She shut her bedroom door behind her and leaned against it.
She wondered if she would’ve taken this development easier if she’d experienced something similar before. If she’d had friends in the Abbey growing up, maybe she would’ve grownjealous of them spending time together without her, and learned how to communicate that envy without letting it eat her up inside. Or if she’d had relationships that lasted longer than an evening, maybe she would’ve learned how to move past those possessive feelings and not let them pummel her confidence into nothing.
But she hadn’t. Maeve was at a complete loss at how to cope with the force of both the jealousy and the possessiveness – two emotions foreign to her prior to that evening. She never imagined they could be so strong, so insidious. They demanded all her attention.
She refused to think of Bethan and Jude and the knowledge that she was privileged to see him in ways Maeve had only just begun to dream of. The thought of him, bare, weightless, his hands soft and exploratory. All of his smiles and lingering glances, his bowed head beneath her hand. The look in his eyes as he gazed up at her, a sign of the fragile trust blossoming between them.
Ithurt. She couldn’t pretend that it didn’t.
She’d opened up to him in ways she never had with anyone else. Let him see sides of her she didn’t know existed. And still, he hid from her. He wouldn’t tell her who Bethan truly was to him, wouldn’t be honest about all the shades of his heart. He still kept her from his library unless he was with her, still guarded his memories and his magic like he was afraid she would strike when he wasn’t looking. As much as he tried to deny it, she knew he still feared she would betray him and take his icon to the Abbey.
Beneath the pain, the hurt, a spark of anger bloomed.
If he didn’t trust her now, Maeve feared he never would.
28
Jude
Bethan clicked the lock before turning to face him. All traces of her smiles and laughter from dinner were gone, replaced by the same frantic energy she’d worn when she’d arrived fresh from the storm. Deep grooves were carved beneath her eyes, her normally warm brown skin sallow. Jude recognized that look. He hadn’t seen it very often, but when he had…
‘Bethan?’ he asked. Trepidation dropped a weight into his stomach. ‘Have you had a dream?’
Bethan was a saint, but she hadn’t been raised in the Abbey. In fact, Jude was certain the elders had no idea of her existence. Away from their limestone halls, she’d been able to grow her abilities in ways Jude could only dream of.
Bethan saw her magic not as something to be stolen, but as a gift to be used carefully and thoughtfully.A concept Jude had guarded like a ticking time bomb, to be considered only when he was strong enough to absorb its impact.
Agift. Not a burden.
