Chapter 7 Jude
Jude
Jude wasn’t sure what had compelled him to leave his armchair that morning and head upstairs.
He’d been sitting in what Elden liked to call a state of forced peacefulness, staring out at the moors and counting the birds with Olive curled up on his lap, when a prickle had started at the back of his neck.
A prodding to investigate the whereabouts of his unwelcome houseguest. Since he’d deposited her in the spare room last night, he’d been trying very hard to forget her existence.
Unfortunately, the sight of her soaked chemise and furious dark eyes had trailed him into sleep.
The house felt different with her in it. The silence felt louder. Heavier.
He liked his privacy. He liked routine and predictability. What he didn’t like was meddling iconographers picking at the seams. He imagined he could hear her footsteps even through the layers of wood and stone separating them.
He couldn’t take it any longer. Jude shoved to his feet and made for the stairs.
Panic overtook him as he found her room empty. Surely… surely she couldn’t already be—
There, kneeling in front of the door to his library, was the iconographer.
Her head was bowed over her hands braced on the wood, pale braid trailing down her back.
Foreboding gripped his heart in an iron fist as he approached.
There was no valid reason he could dream up that would compel Maeve to kneel at the door to his library.
No reason she’d be so focused as to ignore his presence.
Unless. Unless—
He strode forward, grabbing her shoulders and pulling her back from the door.
She went easily. Her eyes flashed wide, then squeezed shut, lips forming words he couldn’t hear.
Jude shoved his hand between her skull and the wall as her head jerked backwards.
Fear dug claws into his spine at her slackened expression.
‘What the fuck are you doing?’
Her raspy mumbles filled the space between them.
He repeated his question louder, shaking her slightly.
Maeve came back to herself with a sharp inhale.
For an agonizing heartbeat, they stared at each other.
Touching from chest to toe. Her face was so close he could see himself reflected in her near-black eyes.
A vivid flush spread up her pale cheeks and down to the gaping collar of her nightgown.
He couldn’t quite seem to separate his mind from his body – and his body was wholly preoccupied with the iconographer pressed against him. An insistent voice reminded Jude that it had been a very, very long time since someone he didn’t know had touched him.
Maeve raised her hands, planting them on his chest, and shoved. ‘Get off.’
Her braid whipped his face as she elbowed out of his hold. Without entirely thinking it through, he caught her by the upper arm and spun her back to face him as she tried to leave.
The back of his mind itched as he took in her face for the first time in the daylight. Her haphazardly braided hair, the skittishness in her darting eyes and heaving breaths familiar in a way he couldn’t place. He could practically picture her on her knees again, an icon held to her lips.
Hate boiled his blood. What a perfect representation of the Abbey she was.
‘What were you doing at the door?’ Jude hissed.
She folded her arms over her chest, chin held high. ‘Where are my clothes?’
He pulled his gaze to the ceiling. That thin white chemise was decidedly not typical Abbey attire.
Especially not when the material had been near-translucent with rain the night before.
He focused on the bite of his nails in his palm, remembering she didn’t know who he was.
Last night, she’d asked when she’d meet the saint, and he’d nearly laughed at the irony of it.
‘How should I know?’ he asked.
‘Where. Are. My. Clothes?’
‘An answer for an answer.’
Ire glinted in her eyes before she looked away. Like a moth to a flame, her gaze flicked back towards the door. Her chest rose and fell with a rough breath. ‘What’s in there?’
Her curiosity was like a hammer straight to the back of his skull. His skin prickled. It had to be a coincidence. She had to be interested in the library because it was locked, because it was a mystery she wanted to pry into. Because she was a fucking spy.
Not because of the magic. Anything but the magic.
Maeve brushed roughly past his shoulder, stirring his thoughts.
‘You didn’t answer me,’ Jude said to her retreating back. He followed her two steps down the stairs and stopped. Her braid swung between her shoulders, thicker than his wrist.
‘Neither did you,’ she called
‘Your bag is in the kitchen downstairs,’ he said. ‘Elden washed your clothes last night. You ought to thank him.’
Maeve stopped midway down the stairs, face ashen as she turned to look back at him. ‘Elden?’
‘The housekeeper,’ Jude replied. He folded his arms across his chest as he waited for her reaction.
‘The housekeeper,’ she repeated, swallowing roughly. ‘You’re the saint…’
‘I am.’ His name hung in the space between them, heavy in the silence. ‘Jude.’
‘Jude,’ Maeve echoed, softer than he thought she might. Her chest rose and fell with an unsteady breath. She gripped the railing tighter.
‘Stay away from this floor,’ Jude commanded when she didn’t respond.
She gave a slight nod in acquiescence. Something small and miserable cowered in him at the sight of her lowered eyes. But as much as he hated his title, hated the way her eyes fell in deference, seeing her squirm wasn’t a hardship.
Jude left before he could see her take another step away, heading back up the stairs. She could find her own way to the kitchen. Elden was sure to be waiting for her, probably with some half-burnt but doggedly well-meaning breakfast prepared alongside her bag.
The housekeeper had carefully gone through its contents that morning, washing her sodden clothes and arranging them by the fire to dry, carefully laying the paintbrushes on the windowsill so their bristles wouldn’t bend.
And Jude had scoured through the rest.
Elden’s disapproving glare had heated the back of his neck as he flipped through her sketchbook and opened a small enamel box containing a string of beads and several metal, coin-sized icons, the faces sloughed smooth from her touch.
No doubt one of multiple coined icons. He used to find them everywhere at the Abbey, scattered like breadcrumbs.
Perhaps most importantly, he’d found a closed envelope tucked in a small pocket on the outside of the bag. He’d held it to the light, trying to read the contents with little success before tucking it into his jacket pocket when Elden wasn’t looking.
He’d open it later – once he felt justified enough by her spying to do some prying of his own. Or once the rawness of the Abbey’s violation grew too much to bear without striking back.
After glancing over his shoulder to ensure the iconographer had disappeared down the stairs, Jude opened the door to the library and stepped inside, locking it firmly behind him. The subtle flap of imagined wingbeats echoed in his thoughts as he closed his eyes.
The library drew a slow breath around him.
He was being inhospitable, but what did he care?
The Abbey stood for two things: control and coercion.
Despite their claims of offering their followers answers to prayers, they were little more than dressed-up executioners, pretending to set you free while tightening the noose.
There was no other way to look at it – Maeve was naive and weak-minded to remain devoted.
ánhaga curled tighter around him. He was still here, still alive.
It might not be much, but to him, it was everything.
He had his house, his cat. Elden. The smallest number of freedoms imaginable, but he wouldn’t give them up without a fight.
Even if he wanted to be free from the Abbey altogether, he’d settle for a return to his life before her arrival.
Jude would survive the Abbey’s prying eyes. He would survive her.
He had to.
Much of his time at the Abbey had been lost to memory, but not everything. There were some things his mind refused to relinquish. The words pressed to his ear as a boy while hands held him flat to a stone floor, the smell of blood in the air, was one of them—
‘You have made your choice, Jude, and now you will reap the consequences.’