The Sacred Space Between

Prologue Jude

PROLOGUE

Jude

Two blackbirds streaked across the sky – a bad omen if Jude had ever seen one.

Dappled storm clouds gathered where the moors glittered with hoarfrost, the edges already blurred with rain. He checked over his shoulder to ensure he was alone before re-focusing on the sky. His breath hitched in the back of his throat, fingers trembling deep in his pockets.

Jude would do anything to see a third bird cutting across the tumultuous horizon.

The winged shadows moved with sinuous fluidity, there one moment and gone the next, whipping black feathers through the mist like hounds seeking blood.

The scent of the slender firs lingered in the empty spaces between his ribs and stuck beneath his tongue.

The air was quiet. Too quiet. He didn’t realize how much he missed birdsong until winter stretched its fingers and silenced the world around him.

He’d started this ritual of the birds as a child, alone on a frigid windowsill, staring out at the sea with a weight in his belly.

Back when he was still whole. Before exile, before sainthood.

Before he’d been unmade and hastily put back together again.

The old, clung-to superstition whispered through his mind like a melody he couldn’t escape.

One for courage. Two for despair. Three for hope.

Fucking birds.

Giving up, he trudged back towards the house.

Paint chips clung to his fingers as he shoved open the door to the cellar.

He wiped them off on his jacket, ignoring the mud staining the once-fine linen.

Like all his clothes, the sleeves were too short, the trousers fitting more tightly around his thighs than he would’ve liked.

They’d been made for a fifteen-year-old.

It was only natural they no longer fitted at twenty-three.

The door closed with a shuddering groan behind him.

He winced. In a half-hearted apology to the rotting wood, he locked the bolt gently.

He’d need to spend some time mending the patches of wet rot before the temperature dropped entirely for winter.

The house existed in a constant state of decay, but he tried his best to keep it comfortable.

He needed it to last, down to each spalling brick and squeaky hinge.

Still, Jude couldn’t help but wonder which of them would crumble first.

A boom of thunder shoved him from his thoughts.

He scoured the roll of clouds through the smudged window, weighing up the bruised purple of the sky.

It wouldn’t be long until the rain hit. Already, the hills were disappearing into the mist. He could smell it on the air, the dampness of soil and the low hum of lightning.

He turned away just as a black shape left one of the apple trees, stretching out on feathered wings towards the encroaching storm.

A third blackbird.