‘Did they just leave us?’ Jude asked into Maeve’s hair. He should probably be more concerned.
She made a quiet humming noise, still pressed against him from chest to hip. Every shift of her body was a very visceral reminder that Judedesperatelyneeded to think of something that wasn’t the soft curve of her breasts against his chest. His body determinedly reminded him that this level of closeness was a whole new experience, and one he ought to pay closer attention to. He breathed in through his nose, thinking of Elden’s compost.
Dammit.All he could smell was Maeve.
‘Try the door,’ she whispered.
He pulled back as far as he could, reaching for the handle. He’d forgotten there was a door, in all honesty. He tried to turn it. It didn’t move. ‘I think it’s stuck,’ he grunted, trying to push against it with his shoulder without jostling Maeve too much. It only pressed them tighter together. She didn’t say anything as he continued feeling around the handle.
Stuck, Jude thought, or trapped? He tried the handle again. If the door was jammed, the handle would still turn… wouldn’t it? But if it had been locked—
Maeve’s stifled, panicked breaths broke through the haze of his thoughts. Jude stilled. Looked down at her. Even in the dim light coming through the window overlooking the sanctuary below, he could see the pinkness of her cheeks. Her wide, pupil-blown eyes. ‘Are you all right?’
She nodded, jerky. ‘Yes. Just… tight spaces aren’t my favourite.’
‘Let me just—’ he banged the side of his foot against the door. The sound of protesting wood echoed through the small space. He tried again, harder this time, but it wouldn’t budge.
Singing trickled through the organ stall, coming from thesanctuary below. He looked out over Maeve’s head towards where the pews were now filled with congregants. Service was beginning.
Panic cinched tighter around his chest. He couldn’t tell Maeve he suspected they’d been locked in here, not while she still trembled against him. He had to figure this out himself.
‘Mr Peters is down there,’ he said, trying to keep his tone conversational. Why would he lock them in here only to head down and start his church service? Was he waiting for something?
Jude swallowed. Something… orsomeone?
Maeve pressed her face tighter to his chest. A small whimper left her lips, muffled against his jumper. Jude laid his head on her crown and tried to think. The scent of his apple soap tickled his nose. More her smell than his by now.
‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have been so interested in the organ,’ he said lightly.
She huffed a quiet laugh. The movement jostled her body against his. He hissed a breath in through his teeth. ‘As long as my eyes are closed, it’s not so bad,’ she said.
Jude wrapped his arms around her, sliding his palms flat against her spine. He stroked up and down with his fingertips. ‘Elden will find us soon. I promise.’
Wouldn’t he?Jude scanned the pews below. Elden was nowhere in sight. Surely, Mr Peters would’ve given him the fire materials before starting the service. Although, he had said they would be ready after, hadn’t he?
Maeve didn’t reply. Her hips shifted against his. He bit his lip, wishing the pain was enough to distract him, but then her hands came up and slid around his ribcage. Her nose nudged the side of his neck, a soft inhale filling the space. Every thought and half-dreamt idea about her coloured their proximity deep red. She was so warm, so close. He could feel every inch of her touching him in ways no one had before. He would lose his mind if he allowed himself to dwell on it.
She rocked forward, closer, somehow. And, ohno—
‘Please stay still,’ he managed. He pulled his hips back as far as he could, counting to ten, then twenty.
‘Sorry,’ Maeve whispered. She didn’t sound very apologetic.
He studied the congregants below in an attempt to distract himself. From his vantage point, he could see the tops of their heads, their hands gripping the pews. The bouncing of children’s legs and the furtive whispers of back-row patrons. Mr Peters stood at the front, speaking to the crowd in a measured, authoritative voice. His words slid over Jude like a ship over water, its presence inconsequential to the turbulence beneath.
Sometime between leaving them in the organ stall and starting the service, Mr Peters had slid on an ornate white robe, fitted with a shining silver medallion.
Jude’s mind fuzzed, a wash of dreamlike stupor eating at his consciousness until he was consumed entirely by the slow sway of the pendant. Gold lapped at the edge of his vision.
Familiar, it was sofamiliar.
He blinked slowly, tipping his head left, right.
‘Jude?’
A hand on his chest. His heart, rabbiting against her palm.
‘Jude.’
