Chapter 8 Maeve
Maeve
Maeve sagged against the wall at the foot of the stairs and shoved her hand into the pocket of her chemise.
She just needed a little bit of comfort.
Even a touch of the metal icon would be enough to soothe – until she remembered her favourite icon was in her cloak pocket, the rest still in her bag.
She’d left it in a heap by the front door, hadn’t she?
Embarrassment surged in. She couldn’t believe how she’d treated Jude.
He was still a saint, no matter what he’d been accused of.
Every particle of her being screamed at her for the blatant disrespect she’d shown him.
And in his own home, of all places. Whether or not he expected her piety – he had turned his back on sainthood, after all, let his magic become tainted – his position required deference.
Her behaviour was a reflection of the Abbey.
She couldn’t bear the thought that she’d already displayed its image in such a sacrilegious light.
What must he think of her?
She’d tracked mud into the house and left the horse for him to care for, even asked him when she’d meet the saint. She refused to think about the reverence that had no doubt suffused her voice with that particular question.
Maeve shuddered. She’d disrobed.
The memories from the night prior were waterlogged and hazy, but she was confident he’d admonished her for her lack of self-awareness. A rebuke she’d most certainly deserved.
At least her chemise wasn’t as sheer as it’d been last night.
She shoved the reminder firmly away as she peeled herself off the wall. If she was going to accomplish her tasks here, she couldn’t allow herself to get caught up in mistakes she couldn’t change. She could only move forward.
With that thought in mind, she followed the faint sound of rattling pots towards the kitchen.
The room was snug and humid, with warm wooden cupboards and an iron range topped with something faintly smoking.
The fogged window looked out to a vegetable patch beyond and a greenhouse silhouetted against the gentle slope of the heather-laden moors.
Beside the range, a man had his back to her, his entire focus on a knife clamped tightly in his left hand.
Maeve cleared her throat. ‘Hello?’
He turned, knocking into a precariously balanced pitcher in the process. Milk slopped over the side of the blue and white ceramic. Maeve rushed to steady it, smiling at his hasty thanks.
He wiped his hands on a dishcloth before presenting one to her.
His palm was warm and dry, enveloping hers completely.
Sandy blond curls flopped over blue eyes as he smiled.
She smiled back. He wasn’t much taller than her, with shoulders broad enough to take up a doorframe.
He looked around thirty, if not younger.
‘Maeve, I’m guessing?’
She nodded, remembering the name Jude had given her. ‘And you’re Elden.’
‘That I am.’ He squeezed her hand one final time before releasing it. ‘You’ve met him?’
‘Last night,’ she replied, not wanting to get into the specifics. ‘I, ah – arrived quite late. He let me in. I think he stabled the horse, as well?’
Elden frowned. ‘Don’t have a stable. He must have taken it to the neighbours.’
Last night?
Maeve chewed her lip, remembering the intensity of the storm. She hadn’t seen another home for miles. A dart of guilt ran through her stomach.
‘How are you finding ánhaga?’ Elden asked, his thick northern accent rolling off the word.
‘I haven’t seen much of it so far. But it’s, ah – very cosy.’ Maeve paused awkwardly, wondering how to word her request. ‘But I need to find a room to set up my things. Did Jude tell you I’m here to paint his icon?’
Elden nodded. He rolled his lips, studying her for a long moment. Abruptly, he turned away. ‘I’ll leave finding a room up to him.’
Somehow, she doubted the saint would be very helpful – not after their previous interactions, at least.
If ánhaga had secrets tucked between its walls, she would have to do all the digging herself. Her first letter was due to Ezra before the end of the week, and if she knew him at all, tardiness would not be tolerated.
Maeve leaned against the butcher’s block behind her, studying the stacks of colourful ceramic bowls, the chipped mugs. ‘What does it mean, ánhaga? I don’t recognize the language.’
Elden picked up a spoon and swirled it into the pot on the range. ‘It’s an old language. I don’t know much of it anymore.’
She noticed he didn’t answer the first part of her question… had she offended him with it?
Once again, she cursed herself for her hasty tongue.
How many times would she misstep before she found her footing?
Her social skills were woefully rusty, grown almost entirely by brief interactions when she was allowed into Whitebury or short, monitored conversations at the Abbey.
It was no wonder she could barely manage a straightforward exchange without putting her foot in it.
‘Smells good,’ Maeve said, drawing closer to peer into the stew cooking in the pot. ‘I’m not a bad cook, you know… if you ever need any help?’ Her voice drew embarrassingly high at the end.
‘He won’t.’
She spun around. The saint – Jude – leaned against the doorway, arms folded.
How long had he been listening in?
His resemblance to his boyhood icon was uncanny in the daylight, something she had missed in the exhaustion of last night.
The same knife-sharp features and dark hair, shorn close to his skull, where it’d once been long enough to hold a curl.
The same shifting hazel eyes, now bright with animosity where they’d held a careful blankness before.
Her gaze lingered on the slightly too-short crop of his trousers, the tightness of the material around his thighs as he moved towards her. The way the sleeves of his deep green knitted jumper were not quite long enough to reach the jut of his wrists.
A black cat swept in behind him, tail held high. Jude reached down and scooped her up against his chest. Without a word, he drew a spoon out of a cluttered drawer next to the range and swirled it through the broth, bringing it to his lips.
‘Nice of you to introduce me to your guest,’ Elden said. He sent a wink in Maeve’s direction. She relaxed enough to smile back. She hadn’t completely offended him, then.
Jude sprinkled in salt from a dish on the counter. ‘She is not,’ another pinch of salt, ‘my guest.’
Her smile faded as fast as it had come.
She didn’t know how to behave around him. Not even a little. He was so unlike Felix with his sweeping robes and unwavering distance. Nothing like the other saints she’d painted off description alone – always stoic, like they existed on some higher plane she hadn’t a hope of reaching.
As they should be, in her opinion.
But Jude… he shocked her with the unabashed humanness of him. There was no other word for it. The way he moved, face twitching with displeasure as he tasted the stew. The irreverent words coming from his mouth, even the cat – none of it was as she’d expected.
He had betrayed the Abbey, Maeve reminded herself. The man before her had corrupted the magic he was lucky to be blessed with. She had made a promise to find out how. A promise she intended to keep.
‘Jude’s right,’ she said, daring to draw her voice loud enough to break over their quiet bickering about the salt. ‘I’m not his guest. The Abbey sent me to paint an updated icon.’
Jude deposited the cat on the floor with a pet down her back. He rose slowly, cocking his head as he considered her. ‘An icon…’
‘Yes. An icon.’
‘Yet, you’ve spent your morning snooping around my house instead.’
Her first reaction was anger at the accusation in his tone.
She stifled it quickly. She needed to tread carefully with him, that much was obvious.
She didn’t want to offend… well, maybe not Jude, but his position.
His sainthood. Nor did she want him to question why she’d been kneeling at the door earlier, asking questions she herself didn’t know the answer to.
Maeve dropped her eyes and lowered her voice, just as she’d been taught. ‘My apologies. I was just trying to find my clothes.’
Elden pushed past Jude to hold out a large bag in her direction. Jude watched the bag pass into her hands with narrowed eyes. Her whole body relaxed at the touch of the worn leather.
‘Thank you,’ she murmured. She opened the bag, loosening a sigh of relief at the sight of her still tightly sealed palette. ‘I was worried about my paints.’
‘Paints,’ Jude scoffed under his breath.
Elden ignored him. ‘I gave your clothes a wash. The storm had done a number on them. They’re drying on the rack by the fire, but I put some of Jude’s old clothes in there you can wear in the meantime.’
Maeve’s cheeks flushed at Jude’s answering sound of derision. She looked closer at her bag now that some of her panic had subsided, running her fingers over a soft navy wool cardigan. It was a kind gesture, but in no world would she be wearing Jude’s clothing.
‘Thank you. I appreciate it.’ She took a half step towards the doorway. ‘Is there somewhere I can bathe?’ she asked, directing her question towards Elden.
‘Outside,’ Jude replied.
‘For the love—’ Elden groaned, surprising her with his comfortable familiarity with the saint. ‘I’ll take you, Maeve. There’s a bath near your room you’re welcome to use.’ He offered Jude an unimpressed glare as he moved towards the hall.
She met Jude’s steady gaze, ignoring how it burned to do so. ‘I’d like to begin your icon tomorrow. Does after lunch suit?’
‘Tomorrow?’ Jude tapped his chin. ‘No, I have plans.’
Maeve tried to keep her expression neutral. ‘The day after, then?’
‘Let’s make it the end of the week.’
She blew out a short breath from her nose. ‘Fine. Yes. Good.’
‘Wonderful.’ A sharp-edged smile played at the corner of his mouth. ‘I cannot wait.’
‘Thank you,’ she mumbled under her breath. The acerbity in his voice rankled.
To her surprise, Elden was grinning as he led her towards the front of the house. ‘Jude likes to joke, but he’s harmless.’
‘It can’t be easy having a stranger come into your home,’ she offered as they ascended the stairs.
‘No. Especially not for someone like him.’
‘How do you mean?’ Maeve asked, hoping her desperation for insights into Jude didn’t show in her voice. More bare floorboards, empty walls, and closed doors surrounded them. Elden pushed open one near the end to reveal a clawfoot bath. She’d never seen such a welcome sight in her life.
‘He’s been here a long time,’ Elden said, pulling open a cupboard and unearthing a towel. He paused, still facing the cupboard. His shoulder moved with a sigh. ‘Well. Jude likes his routine.’
‘Nothing wrong with a routine,’ Maeve replied lightly. She liked Elden so far, but something told her his openness might recede if she pried too far. But she had a job to do. She needed to push him as far as she could. ‘How long has he been here for?’ she asked.
Elden glanced towards the open doorway, taking a half step towards it. ‘Eight years, give or take.’
Eight years?
Did that mean he’d been, what… around fourteen when he’d been marked as a saint?
Veneration wasn’t unheard of at such a young age, but their ability to answer prayers typically surfaced a bit later, closer to twenty.
Intense study and mental pressure sometimes made it appear earlier, however.
She wondered if that was what had happened to Jude.
What elder had been the one to see the first signs of sainthood in him?
Who had pushed the tattoo into his skin?
She pictured the last time she had witnessed a saint’s veneration.
A young woman. Her hair had been riotously curly, the light streaming in from the basilica’s rose window catching on strands of gold amongst the deep brown.
It had fallen across the elder’s arm holding her down for the ritual tattooing.
Her mouth had fallen open as the needle touched her skin, eyes closing.
In bliss or agony, Maeve still wasn’t sure. Maybe both.
She blinked the memory away. She hadn’t seen the woman since. Hadn’t even learned her name.
Sometimes, the newly marked saints stayed at the Abbey for months after veneration, other times they left right away.
If they stayed, they no longer attended meals, prayers, intercessions…
anything that allowed them a modicum of normality or community was stripped away.
She always wondered what they were told to convince them to enter into such isolated lives, whether the exchange of community for sainthood was an easy one or simply a necessary sacrifice on their way to the Goddenwood where it would be repaid a hundredfold.
Maeve drew her attention back to Elden. ‘Jude’s been here the whole time?’ she asked. ‘Since his veneration?’
Elden fidgeted with the edge of the towel. ‘Yes, I believe so. Although I’ve only been here a few years. I don’t know what life was like for him before then.’
‘Was he alone before? Do you know?’
Elden’s face shuttered. ‘Can’t say I do.’ He set the towel on a low stool by the tub. ‘Need to get back to the stew before Jude ruins it.’
‘Of course,’ Maeve murmured, angry at herself for pushing too hard. She’d need to work more carefully next time. The last thing she wanted was for Elden to suspect anything. Jude’s watchful eye was trouble enough. ‘Thank you,’ she repeated. ‘For the bath. And the hospitality.’
Elden nodded, stepping into the hall. He held the door just before it closed. ‘Perhaps it’s best if you do your job and go home. Let Jude return to his routine. Yeah?’
Maeve flinched. ‘Of course.’
Elden shut the door behind him. Maeve shut her eyes, lifting one hand to her chest to feel the movement of her breath. It didn’t matter if she was wanted here. Didn’t matter if she was liked. What mattered was the Abbey. Her tasks. Her icon.
She moved her hand up to cup her throat. No matter how practised she was in the motion, swallowing her desires never came any easier.