Maeve
They planned to leave for the Abbey at first light.
Maeve sat in front of the mirror in her room, running her brush through her damp hair from roots to end. Slowly, methodically, letting herself sink into the motion. The familiarity.
She examined her face, scouring each faint line, each freckle and crease and shadow for changes. Something that reflected the upheaval she felt within. But her face looked the same as always. Dark eyes, large in her pale face. The gold of her hair smoothed into cornsilk by the brush. She’d decided to indulge in one of her nicer silk chemises for her final night in Jude’s home, one she wouldn’t dare wear out of her bedroom.
Gently, she pressed the pad of her thumb under one eye, then the other. Slid her forefinger down her nose to her lips. Her gaze bored into her reflection. She’d sat and examined her face in a mirror recently, hadn’t she? With the sound of the waves in her ears and limestone surrounding her.
Maeve closed her eyes.
She couldn’t remember.
Whatcouldshe remember of the Abbey? She was used to recalling everything with the clarity of a painter: the play of light and dark, the roughness of stone or the fragile glide of silk. How the corridor outside the kitchen smelled in the early morningwhen the bread was baking or how the kneeler felt digging into her shins.
The shape of the Abbey was still there. Of that, she was certain.
The specifics, however…
She set her hairbrush on the table and dropped her head into her hands. A shiver coursed down her spine. A part of her had noticed the subtle fade of memories over the past few days, but a larger, louder part had demanded she ignore it. She didn’t want to think about what it could mean.
A quiet knock on her door stirred her thoughts.
Maeve sat up. There was only one person it could be. ‘Come in,’ she called.
Jude entered a moment later. He held up a silver razor with one hand, gliding his palm over his head with the other. ‘Would you mind?’
‘I don’t know what I’m doing,’ Maeve replied with a huffed laugh as she took the proffered razor, gesturing for him to sit on the stool. His gaze lingered on her as she moved, pulling away just as quickly. A blush reddened the tips of his ears.
Maeve glanced down. She’d forgotten about the chemise. The silk was fine enough to show every contour beneath the thin fabric. Clearing her throat self-consciously, she caught Jude’s eye in the mirror. ‘What would you like?’
He felt around the back of his neck, sliding his fingers through his short hair. It was beginning to hold a curl at the ends. ‘Just short enough that it can’t be grabbed.’
Grabbed?
She swallowed her questions, gently moving the razor across his scalp. Fine, reddish-black hairs dusted his shoulders in her wake. It wasn’t as hard as it looked to get his hair back to the length it had been when she arrived. She ran her thumb up the nape of his neck, following the pattern of gooseflesh. ‘Cold?’
‘No.’ Jude tilted his head so she could get around his ear. ‘Are you packed?’
‘Mostly. I’m leaving my painting things here.’
‘Are you planning on returning?’ His eyes flicked to hers in the mirror, leaving just as quickly. ‘For your supplies?’
Maeve carefully ordered her words. She didn’t want to give him anything but the truth, as fragile and uncertain as it was. She coasted her hands over his head to loosen any cut hairs. ‘I don’t know. I just… I don’t know what to expect when we return.’
‘You said the winter intercession would be happening, correct?’ Jude asked.
They had discussed their plan last night after cleaning up the icon’s burnt remains. Once they’d obtained the requisite robes and enough materials for a significant, and hopefully fast-catching, fire, they planned to sneak in disguised as pilgrims. If they timed it correctly, they should be able to burn the icons, and potentially the entire Abbey, in between the hymns when the basilica was empty.
‘Yes,’ Maeve replied. ‘It takes place over a week. If we leave in the morning, we’ll arrive on the evening of the second-to-last day. The intercession ends with the Call of the Sun.’
‘What’s that?’ he asked, brow furrowed.
‘A ritual at the end of the eighth and final hymn,’ she said, moving the razor close to his temple. He tipped his head back, throat stretching long. ‘A saint is present to hear the prayers. It’s said…’ she hesitated, fighting past the headache blooming behind her eyes. ‘The elders tell us that any prayer asked during the Call goes directly into the saint’s mind. When they lift their hands and direct the sun into the basilica, all the prayers will be answered.’
Jude kept his eyes downcast as he listened, lashes casting long spikes down his cheeks. ‘I remember a little of it, I think. I’ve tried to pull more of the memory up since you burned my icon.’ His eyes rose, skimming over her body before they refocused on her face. ‘I was in the basilica. There was a… man. A saint,I believe. He was standing under the rose window. People surrounded him. All wearing habits. They were reaching for him. Like they wanted to, I don’t know… pull him off the altar. Like he was a sacrifice.’
‘I remember something similar, but not much more,’ Maeve replied. She set the razor on the table, scrubbing her hands over her eyes and taking a deep breath.
