Wind stole in through the cracked window, sliding down the loose neck of her dress. Moonlight cut through the storm clouds outside to coat the crisp white of the envelope. The Abbey sigil shone on the still-sealed wax; her carefully penned name.
‘What is this?’ Maeve breathed. ‘When did this arrive?’
A dart of unguarded emotion cracked Jude’s mask. It looked, for a moment, like fear.
She took the envelope. He tracked the motion, chest moving shallowly. His fingers curled into a fist as she worked her thumbnail under the wax, freeing the pages within.
The penmanship was familiar. She’d seen it in letters, though never addressed to her. A prickle started at the back of her neck. ‘Is this Felix’s handwriting?’ she asked. Once more, Jude remained silent. His gaze drifted across her face, almost as though he was keeping himself from reading the letter right alongside her. Dread slipped in, deep in her stomach, churning like bile.
Gold shimmered in her peripherals as she began to read.
You might have already discovered the answer to the questions rolling just beneath the surface the last time we saw each other. The questions I saw forming in your eyes as you saw my finished icon. As soon as your world turned gold.
Sainthood is a lie.
You asked what our powers are. I will tell you as best I can. Sainthood is a safeguard for the Abbey’s secrets. You’re devout. I’ve seen you pray. But, Maeve, please listen to me when I tell you they are heard by no one. They only serve to manipulate and ruin.
The saints are exiles. All of us. We’re sent away when our memory magic is discovered. Sent away, or used. I made a bargain to remain at the Abbey. So did Brigid and every iconographer before her, for you all have the magic the Abbey so dearly loves to use.
I can only hope Jude can explain where I cannot. Even more, I wish I could tell you that you are safe. That you won’t be watched.
You must remain vigilant, Maeve. Trust no one in the local villages, even within Jude’s household, whoever might be there. Do not let anyone know where you are coming from or what you are tasked to do. And, above all, do not under any circumstances paint Jude’s icon. Do not report back on whatever safety he’s clawed out for himself in that lonely house.
At the first opportunity, you must run.
Please, trust me. As a saint, if you must. As someone who is trying to help you, even better.
I hope you find the safety we all seek.
For a long, aching moment, Maeve simply stared. Her mind had retreated to a gauzy place. She felt her blood in her veins, the numbness in her fingertips. The steady thrum of her heart. Somewhere along the way of doubting everything she had ever held dear, she’d decided to believe both Jude and the Abbey despite how the two chafed against each other.
What was faith if it wasn’t accepting contradictions?
The Abbey could be both an instrument of control and a benevolent force for good. A saint could exist as both a tool of the elders and someone who would listen as she cried, someonewho used their abilities like the gift they were. She was an iconographer – and all iconographers had memory magic. Felix just confirmed it. That was the difference between her and Jude. It had to be.
Her breath quickened.
Felix believed memory tampering and the saints’ ability to answer prayer were the same thing: equally interchangeable, doubly destructive.
Which meant—
No.No.
Maeve cut off the malignant idea before it could develop any further. She wasn’t ready. She couldn’t view her new reality in its entirety. She needed to protect herself. Running or hiding, what was the difference, really? Both were equally as cowardly.
The saints and the holy mystery of prayer were her bedrock, her safe place when everything else turned to quicksand. She’d come to terms with the elders being little more than figureheads of manipulation, but the saints and their abilities werereal. She couldn’t allow herself to think otherwise.
She wasn’t safe here. The realization hit her like a blow to the chest.
She’d spent time in Oakmoor, she’d visited Siobhan and viewed her memories of the Goddenwood. She’d met Bethan and Elden and shopkeepers and bartenders, letting herself enjoy the community in ways she was never permitted to at the Abbey. The last thing she’d been was discreet. Felix’s warning had come too late.
The thought gave her pause.
Slowly, her eyes rose to pin onto Jude. ‘When did this arrive?’
His throat bobbed roughly. ‘Maeve.’
She advanced on him until his back hit the wall. The fact the letter had been unopened was lost on her, the reminder that she had broken into his space first forgotten. There was only the letter and the terrible truths within.
