‘Why?’ Maeve asked. Tears coursed freely down her cheeks. She took another step back as the realization shot across her face. ‘Because of us,’ she breathed. ‘We visited her. I drew her icon. She showed us her memories. Felix… Felixwarnedus—’
Both hands clutched the back of her neck as she tilted her head towards the sky, putting her back to him. ‘The Abbey will never stop, will they? They take and take andtake. Nothing is out of reach. To… to martyr her, Jude.’She whirled back around, her expression almost deranged. ‘It’s not the first time. I know it’s not. The Abbey has martyred saints before. I’ve seen it. ButI can’t fucking remember.’
She dug both hands into her hair, her chest heaving. Jude reached out, gently pulling her wrists until she slackened. ‘I know. I know, Maeve.’ A choked sob left her mouth as she curled against his chest, hands trapped between her face and his body. ‘We’ll figure it out. We’ll fix it.’
She shook her head, voice muffled against her hands. ‘You don’t know that.’
No – he didn’t.
‘There’s more,’ Jude said, hating himself for what he was about to tell her. ‘Felix isn’t the only one with a warning. Bethan had one to share, too. She has… dreams.’
‘Dreams,’ Maeve echoed, pulling back to look at him.
Jude nodded. As quickly as he could, he told her of the dream Bethan had shared with him and her interpretation of it. The wall of blank icons linked by a rope of gold, how it jumped from icon to icon, consuming all it touched. The Abbey was coming. Siobhan was just the start. Maeve would be next if she didn’t bring Jude’s icon to the Abbey.
He didn’t tell her of the strange fog, the faceless man he guessed was his mentor.
‘And these… dreams. How do we know they’re real? That they aren’t just, well—’ she shrugged, gripping her arms tight around her torso. ‘Dreams.’
Jude let out a long breath. ‘Bethan. She’s a saint, too. But she wasn’t raised in the Abbey.’
Maeve’s expression didn’t change. Slowly, her hand came up to cup the side of her face. Her pale hair slid in fine tendrils across her cheeks and jaw as her eyes lost focus somewhere between them. ‘A saint,’ she repeated faintly. ‘She has the same memory tampering ability as we have, then?’
‘She doesn’t see it in quite the same way,’ Jude replied. ‘She doesn’t view it as corrupted or damaged by the Abbey’s touch, but as a skill, I suppose. A talent she can use for good.’
‘And does she?’ Maeve’s eyes rose to his. ‘Use it for good?’
‘Her medium is dreams. Like I have my books, or you have your painting. Bethan dreams. She understands her magic in a way I—’ Jude swallowed. ‘In a way I haven’t learned to. She tells people what she dreams. Beautiful things that bring them hope. Warnings to prevent harm. Everything is… it’s meant with care in mind, Maeve. Not hurt.’
‘Is that a possibility for us, too?’
He wet his lips. Felt the pressure in her words.
Worse – the hope.
‘Maybe,’ he allowed. ‘Maybe.’
The silentbuthung between them.
‘The Abbey won’t rest. They’ll take our memories. Or worse,’ Maeve said. A shiver wracked her body. ‘Siobhan’s death wasn’t just a warning. It was a message. A threat. Like I said – even if I can’t remember the specifics, I know the Abbey has made martyrs out of saints before. I feel it in my bones.’ She took a deep breath. ‘And… and we’ll never know if our magic is capable of good. Not while the Abbey still exists. Not while they continue to rely on the saints. We need to do whatever we can to stop them.’
Rain fell between them in a sheet of silver. Jude didn’t have a reply. He could only nod.
At the touch of her hands, the tension left his body, exhaustion cresting in its wake. A wrung-out towel with nothing left to give.
‘First thing tomorrow, you’re going to pray to your icon and get your memories back,’ Maeve said. ‘If that doesn’t work, we’ll try something else. We’ll keep trying, keep fighting. We’re not giving up, Jude. Not as long as we’re together.’
She stepped back slowly, her hands sliding off his forearms, her fingertips off the undersides of his wrists. And he saw, for the first time, the softest ray of hope streak across her face. Beautiful and heartbreaking in equal measure. For him, and him alone.
34
Jude
Jude jolted upright. The sleety rain hitting his window drowned out the rapid pattern of his breathing. He’d been dreaming something dark and confusing. His wrists had been tied tightly, with his palms sealed together and skin sticky with sweat and blood. Panting, he drew his hands into the air and searched his palms. Mercifully, they were normal in the cold light of a winter’s morning.
His vision hazed, darkening at the edges. Dryness coated his throat.
Distantly, he heard a voice, growing louder until soft hands touched his shoulders, his chest. A palm pressed against his pounding heart.
