Each hymn during the intercessions had a meaning. Calls for prayers, for alms, for acts of service and displays of penance. Each designed to bring both acolytes and pilgrims closer to the pulsing heart of the Abbey. Towards something like devotion.
Her memories of the intercessions were hazy at best, buried in the malleable soil her mind had become. Trickles of chanting came through if she really focused. The burn of incense in her nose.
The faint but unmistakable tinge of violence.
How could she plan to face something she couldn’t see clearly? How would she know what to expect when they arrived at the Abbey midway through an intercession?
‘I don’t know what we’ll face when we arrive,’ Jude continued, echoing her thoughts. ‘I can’t… can’t promise safety. I wish I could.’
Maeve nodded. ‘I know. But we can’t wait any longer.’
She played with the seam of her chemise, rubbing the fine material between her fingers. ‘Lately, my memories – you know what you were saying earlier? About your body not feeling like your own. About how you felt eroded. The headaches and the nausea.’ Jude made a quiet noise of assent. ‘I think it’s happening to me, too.’
He stilled. ‘What?’
‘I wasn’t sure at first. Maybe I didn’t want tobesure. But I can’t deny that it’s getting worse.’
‘Maeve…’ Jude murmured, anguish in his eyes. He reached out and took her hand, curling his fingers tight around it.
She closed her eyes and forced herself to continue. ‘Ever since we burned your icon, since we decided to go to the Abbey,’ she shook her head, ‘it’s all I can think about. And if we thought your symptoms were because I was painting your icon, that can only mean—’
‘There’s an icon of you at the Abbey,’ Jude finished.
‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘I can’t think of anything else it could be.’
Jude pushed to his feet. ‘I think we should leave now.’
Maeve blinked. ‘Now? It’s—’ she glanced out the window at the pitch-black sky. ‘Jude. It’s nearly midnight. We can wait a few hours.’
He linked his fingers behind his head, pacing to the window and looking out. His breath fogged the glass. ‘You’re a saint. An iconographer. They want to control you. Look at Siobhan.’ His voice thickened. ‘If I hadn’t introduced you to her, if I hadn’t gone poking around her memories… the Abbey would’ve been content to let her live out her days alone and forgotten. Safe. If they have your icon, they’re closing in on you. We can’t wait, Maeve. We need to leave now.’
The weight of his words settled heavily over her. She stood, crossing the room to lay her hand on his shoulder. He turned to her, the guilt painted across his features unbearable.
‘We’re better off confronting them directly than lying in wait,’ he continued, searching her face as he spoke. ‘If they want to isolate you from me, if they want to use your icon to harm you, we can’t just wait for them to do it. I can’t keep you here; I can’t have something else be my fault.’
‘Jude,’ she whispered, moving her hand up to cup the side of his neck, tracing his pulse with her thumb. He exhaled heavily, eyes falling shut. ‘You cannot blame yourself for their actions. You didn’t kill Siobhan. The Abbey did. You were a friend to her, someone who understood what she’d been through. The fault lies with the Abbey, and the Abbey alone. Not you. And if… if something happens to me, it won’t be your fault either.’
The crease between his brows cinched tighter even as his eyes remained closed. ‘I can’t let it happen to anyone else. Not to you. Not to Elden.’
Despite her earlier vow to speak only truth to him, Maeve found a lie forming on her tongue. ‘It won’t. I promise. A few hours aren’t going to make a difference. And I want to enjoy the time we have left here.’
Jude’s eyes flicked open. He studied her for a long moment, closely, steadily, like he was memorizing her features. Beneath her palm, she felt him swallow roughly.
His eyes dropped, sliding down her neck, lingering on the low dip of her chemise before trailing down her body. The shift in his focus felt deliberate in a way nothing between them had before, as though he was allowing himself to fully look his fill for the first time. Like he wanted to see every part of her, to brand his gaze into her skin. A lungful of air after a lifetime underwater.
Every laboured breath scraped the silk of her dress over her pebbled nipples in a way that nearly hurt. The tension threatened to consume her, obscene, almost, in its power. In that moment, Maeve knew she would’ve given him anything,anything, he wanted.
Jude took a short, quick breath. Then, he moved. Stepped closer. His hand rose, fingers skimming the fine material of her dress, coming to rest lightly against her waist. She felt the fine tremble of his fingers against her skin. The heat was unbearable, both on her skin and from the heavy weight of his eyes on her body. She squeezed her thighs together to alleviate some of the ache.
His gaze dropped, following the movement. His damp lips parted on a low exhale as his thumb brushed the underside of her breast. She bit back a whimper, the sound slipping free to break the silence.
With a rough jolt, Jude stepped back. His hand left her.
Maeve’s vision blurred as she swayed on her feet like a newborn colt, trying to orientate herself around the sudden break in contact. When she met Jude’s eyes, he looked just as strung-out, just as wrecked.
His gaze dropped to the floor as he cleared his throat. ‘I don’t mind you lying to me, you know.’
She tried to clear her mind, to remember what they’d been speaking of. She’d promised him nothing was going to happen to them, hadn’t she?
