She often wondered what the first signs of sainthood were in a person. Was it like an icon, a corona forming around their head that only the elders could see? Did it come to the elder in a dream, or did it happen in real time?
Finally, Ezra cleared his throat.
Maeve lifted her head. The silence of vast, empty spaces pressed in on all sides. Ezra’s hands were clasped in front of him so tightly that his knuckles were entirely bloodless.
A thought occurred, the accompanying strain of hope damning in its intensity.
Maybe she hadn’t been summoned here for a punishment. Maybe it was a reward. Had whatever happened between her and Felix been a test of Maeve’s loyalty, a stepping stone on her way to the lead iconographer position?
Or… had she ruined her chance at advancement by asking Brigid?
She should’ve stayed silent.
Lead positions weren’t easily come by, especially in iconography. Illuminations, scribing, masonry… all were important, hard-to-master jobs, but none held the status iconography did, nor the level of isolation. If she were made lead, that would all change. She could stretch the limits of her art like never before. Maybe she could visit other painters in the surrounding towns and learn new techniques. Perhaps she could paint something other than icons. Waves and birds and rolling, endless hills.
Maybe, just maybe, she could shrug slowly out of her loneliness, inch by inch.
Even one single friend would be enough. One person she could talk to openly without fear.
Maeve scanned the wall across from her. She focused on an unfamiliar icon. A boy around fourteen or fifteen with dark hair curling around his temples, vivid against the paleness of his skin and a curiously devoid gaze. She silently prayed to the saint that she hadn’t ruined everything.
‘Maeve,’ Ezra said. ‘As you’re aware, Brigid will soon be retiring as lead iconographer. She’s devoted over forty years of service to the Abbey. Painted hundreds of icons, many of which adorn our walls today.’ He swept a hand towards the wall across from them. ‘I recognize a few of yours alongside hers, yes?’
‘Yes,’ she replied. Her voice shook only slightly.
‘I thought so. You’re very talented…’ he paused. Maeve shifted on her feet. ‘I brought you here tonight to inform you we’re considering you for Brigid’s role. But there is something we’d like you to do first. Anassignment, of sorts.’
There was something cold to the way he regarded her. Suddenly, she wondered if the anger she’d thought he’d shown last night was resurfacing in an entirely different way than she’d expected.
‘Anything for the Abbey,’ she murmured, drawing her spine up straight, shoulders back.
Ezra angled his head towards the boy saint she’d prayed to mere minutes ago. ‘Do you recognize him?’
Maeve studied the icon. Once more, his eyes struck her. Devoid, like a candle snuffed out.
An image pushed forward at the furthest recesses of her mind, hazy with age and distorted around the edges. A boy –this boy? –with his face turned away, kneeling at a man’s feet, both hands extended in front of him. A thin piece of twine across the boy’s palms, blood welling around it, dripping towards the floor. Dark hair, damp with sweat at the nape.
As quickly as it had come, the recollection faded.
Recollection…if she could even call it that. It was too hazy to be a memory, too unsteady to be her imagination. She tried her best to force it from her mind, the ruby blood splattering on the flagstone, vivid against the greyscale of dreams.
‘No,’ Maeve managed. ‘I don’t recognize him.’
At least, she didn’t think she did.
‘His name is Jude. A saint, as you might have guessed,’ Ezrasaid. ‘He’s no longer welcome at the Abbey or within our fold. Put simply, he’s been exiled.’
She rolled his words over in her mind, not liking their sound. Saints were encouraged to live isolated lives, but this sounded like something more.Exiled?
It didn’t sound like a punishment; it sounded like a sentencing.
‘Why?’ she asked, praying the question would be allowed. ‘Did he… do something?’
‘A good question,’ Ezra murmured, the brogue of his accent thickening. ‘Jude took the power of the saints, the sacred ability to answer prayers he was blessed with, and uses it outside its design. A corruption that we fear he might use to harm those who pray to him. A recent development, we believe.’
‘How?’ Maeve breathed.
‘We don’t know. Not yet. That’s where we need your help.’
