Chapter 26 Jude
Jude
He reread the same page three times before the knock came. His gaze remained on the page for a breath before he looked up. Maeve stood at the door. The ends of her hair lay damp against the coat, the top frizzing with rain. A smile on her face.
‘It’s done.’ Her voice was quiet, hesitant.
He shut the book. ‘Your walk? I gathered that myself, funny enough.’
Maeve sat in the armchair across from him. Olive immediately vacated his lap in favour of hers. Little traitor. ‘No. The painting. Your icon. It’s ready.’
Jude stiffened. That was fast.
‘Did you…’ he hesitated, not wanting to raise her abilities for fear of scaring her. ‘Did anything strange happen?’ he settled on.
Maeve looked at Olive on her lap, stroking down her back. Unaware she was being used as a distraction, Olive curled tighter, purring with alarming ferocity. Maeve’s bottom lip trembled.
‘Maeve,’ he said gently. ‘It’s okay if it did. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. That’s what we wanted to happen, isn’t it?’
She levelled his gaze. ‘I’m not ashamed.’
‘No,’ he backtracked. ‘I just… I feel it, too. The Abbey’s interest in your magic, their influence – it feels tainted.
Like they’ve corrupted it.’ He paused, words escaping him.
He didn’t want to say that he still felt damaged by it, even now.
‘I wanted to reassure you there’s nothing wrong with you.
Even if the Abbey can take your magic, it’s still yours. ’
He felt the sweep of her eyes as keenly as if she’d touched him directly.
After a moment that felt far longer than a few seconds, she blew out a breath.
‘Thank you. I know that. It’s just hard to see it as something useful and not something…
Well.’ She lifted her hand off Olive and pressed the back to her cheek as if to cool herself down. ‘Tainted. As you said.’
Relief coursed through him. ‘I know how it feels. But it’s not, Maeve. Not at all.’
Not you, his thoughts reminded him. It only applies to her – not you.
Jude dropped his eyes, studying the edge of a tattoo on his wrist. It was easy to view Maeve, as sincere, as golden as she was, as someone not tainted by the Abbey’s touch. But him…
‘So, yes,’ she continued, unaware of the direction of his thoughts. ‘Something did happen. The same as when I completed Felix’s painting and the sketch of Siobhan. I saw gold, lost track of time, and your icon was done.’
Jude cocked his head. ‘That’s a good thing, I think.’
‘Is it?’ Beneath the fall of her skirt, one booted foot bobbed up and down.
‘It solidifies a link between your magic and icons,’ he explained, sounding more confident than he felt. ‘Maybe that will grow once I pray to it.’
Maeve hummed. Her eyes had a glazed, worried look about them. He had grown adept at reading her face over the weeks, finding it almost instinctual how quickly he could parse her thoughts from her expression. She parted her lips, hesitating for a long moment before whispering, ‘I’m scared.’
His hands tightened on the armrests, the wood creaking. ‘Of what?’
‘If it doesn’t work… praying to your icon.’ She shook her head. ‘I can tell painting the icon is affecting you. I can see it in your face, in how you’ve been…’ she paused. ‘Forgetting things.’
Jude palmed the back of his head. Her words were exposing in a way he wasn’t ready to address. ‘It’s eroding, in a way. Like each swipe of your brush is a wave against me. My mind is more—’ he waved a hand. ‘Loose. Changeable. Like I can’t quite nail down my thoughts.’
She studied him closely; looking for what, he didn’t know. ‘We thought that might happen.’
‘And you? As the iconographer?’ he asked, rolling the words over on his tongue, tasting the bitterness. ‘How do you feel?’
Maeve shrugged. ‘I… I haven’t noticed anything different.
Not really. Well. I suppose that’s not entirely true.
’ She closed her eyes, missing the fear Jude knew shone clearly on his face.
‘Something doesn’t feel quite right. I can’t explain it, but I feel an icon isn’t complete unless it’s done at the Abbey. ’
He froze. ‘You don’t think it will work?’
He hadn’t even considered that she might feel this way. It had been largely her idea, after all. She was the one who was sent here to paint him, and it was she who picked up the brush and posed him for his icon. Yet, the resignation painted over her features was undeniable.
The trust he’d decided to place in her wavered. Like a pebble dropped in a quiet pond, its ripples disturbing the stillness beneath. Had he made a mistake? Was this all a ploy to complete her mission after all? After everything he’d told her, every vulnerable inch of himself he’d revealed?
‘You want to return to the Abbey,’ he said bluntly.
The gaze Maeve pinned on him was unwavering. ‘I’m not taking your icon back there. I promise you, that’s the last thing I want to do. I just wanted to let you know that…’ she swallowed roughly. ‘Something doesn’t feel as it should.’
He pressed her hands into his thighs to still their shaking. ‘Explain.’
‘When I paint icons in the Abbey, it’s almost like it’s not really me painting them.
I’m given a description of the saint, and I work off that.
Usually, it’s short. Hair, eye, and skin colour.
Basic description of their features. Their age and a few lines about their personality.
The rest is up to me. Only…’ she frowned.
‘I never really think about it while I’m painting.
It’s like a face is planted into my mind, and it’s my job to transfer it to the canvas.
Like I’m a conduit for the magic. My memory magic at work, probably.
’ Her eyes slid back to his. ‘But with you, you’re different. ’
Jude raised a brow.
She looked briefly uncomfortable. ‘I know you.’
‘As much as anyone,’ he replied, even as warmth stole through his chest.
‘No. I mean—’ She huffed out a breath. ‘You’re in front of me. I painted what I saw, not what I was told. That painting up there… the icon is of you, Jude. Not a portrait based on a description. Not a saint. A man. You’re real to me, and I think the painting shows it.’
Her words weren’t meant to be affectionate, but he felt their weight all the same.
As she looked at him, describing how she had pictured his face, his hands, the set of his mouth, Jude felt a terrible rush of nakedness.
Maeve hadn’t painted Jude the saint; she had painted him.
He knew, as he followed her from the room and up the stairs to her studio, he was about to see the most intimate rendition of his personhood he’d ever been allowed.
The very thought of seeing Maeve’s portrait terrified him. Yet – he had to see it. Had to see how she saw him, even if the idea of it made his chest ache, his mouth run dry.
Too soon, they were upstairs in the room she was using as a studio, where she’d moved the painting to work on after beginning it in his library.
Jude’s heart raced, trying to outpace the vicious beast of anxiety as she moved to stand behind the icon.
Her knuckles flashed white around the frame. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Show me,’ he murmured. ‘Please.’
Squaring her shoulders, Maeve spun the canvas around to face him.
His first thought was one of awe. She was talented, immensely so. The level of detail, the liberties she’d taken with light and shadow – every part of it was masterful. Her work was breathtakingly realistic yet still stylized, displaying her comprehensive knowledge of colour and technique.
He could hardly admit it to himself, but he looked…
beautiful wasn’t the word. Striking, maybe.
He’d always been ambivalent over his features.
He liked his hazel eyes when the sun hit them and didn’t mind his dark hair when it was long enough to hold a curl, though he hadn’t permitted it to reach that length in years.
His nose wasn’t his favourite. But the way Maeve had rendered him left him feeling both admired and fully seen in a way he’d never been before.
The assertiveness of his gaze in the painting sent a shiver down his neck.
He looked untouchable. Something in the angle of his brows and the press of his lips spoke of secret defiance.
Like he wanted to be seen, but only as much as he allowed.
She’d posed him with the upraised hand of a saint but given him the cool gaze of a dissident.
Jude knelt slowly before it, filled with the strangeness only studying one’s face could bring.
She was right. She did know him. The evidence was in the paint. The faint spray of freckles across his nose, the thick slash of his brows, one more curved than the other. Even the way the light sank into the peaks and hollows of his face… it was him. As he knew himself best.
The realization came torturously slow, an unravelling that started in his chest and wound its way up to his throat where it clenched tight – he couldn’t hide from her. Not any longer.
‘What do you think?’ Maeve asked. Her gaze returned nervously to the icon.
A smile tugged at his lips – she wanted him to like it. ‘You’re very talented, Maeve,’ he said. ‘It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before.’ Her cheeks reddened at the praise, and he immediately wanted to see how much more he could make her blush. ‘It’s beautiful. Truly.’
The colour in her face grew, spreading down her neck. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered.
Jude remained on his knees, staring up at her. He let himself smile fully.
‘Are you going to pray to it?’ she asked briskly, getting back to business.
‘Now?’ He hadn’t considered that she’d want him to try immediately.
He supposed it made sense. Why waste time when both their memories hung in the balance?
His stomach clenched at the thought, ripe with fear of what would happen when he finally had the complete picture of his life available.
What had he forgotten? What had the Abbey taken from him?
Guilt surged; its grip tenacious despite how hard he tried to shove it down—
If his memories were returned, if all his secrets were laid bare…
he would have to tell Maeve everything. Every facet of her memory magic that he’d been trying so desperately to hide would be forced into the light.
He would have to contradict her ideas, tell her that she was heading in the right direction, but she wasn’t there yet.
There was still more to learn. Secrets he held the key to but had been reluctant to give her.
He wasn’t ready. He couldn’t toss her to the storm. Not yet. He needed more time.
Time to ease her into the truth, or time to bask in the denial?
He swallowed the question down, feeling its weight settle in the pit of his stomach.
‘Why not?’ Maeve asked. ‘There’s not much to be gained by waiting. For either of us.’
‘And what if it doesn’t work? What then?’
Her hand slipped into the pocket of her dress, the shape of her fingers racing under the fabric. Jude knew what she was doing, what he’d find if he pulled her hand free and prised her fingers open.
An icon, worn smooth from hours of prayer.
How could she still believe, after everything he’d shown her?
‘Maeve,’ he urged, louder than he meant. His knees ached, but he stayed on the floor. ‘What then?’
‘We go back to the Abbey,’ she finally whispered. ‘And we search for answers there.’
‘Is that what you want?’
He had to know. Did she want to go back, despite how they’d treated her? Did she still want to return with her information about memories and the Goddenwood, about him? Was her goal still to resume her life, now as lead iconographer?
‘I don’t know,’ she admitted, her voice small. ‘Part of me wants to stay here. With you. The other half wants to pretend none of it ever happened.’
Her words stung. He wouldn’t pretend otherwise. ‘I can’t,’ he said, louder than he meant.
‘Can’t what?’
‘Go to the Abbey. The repercussions…’ Jude closed his eyes, head dropping to his chest as his words came out as choked as a confession. ‘I don’t know what they’ll do if I return.’
Maeve laid her hand on his bowed head.
A gift. An offering of a touch he wouldn’t normally allow; Jude, the penitent, on his knees before her. The unexpected need to submit to her every wish in the hopes of earning her favour imbued him with a slow-burning warmth. He didn’t mind kneeling at her feet. He’d stay as long as she let him.
Her hand slid slowly off his head as she knelt beside him. The faintest hint of green shone in her dark irises. Her mouth parted; the tip of her tongue visible through her teeth.
Words left him entirely.
‘Jude,’ she whispered. ‘You need to pray.’
A choked noise left him, bringing with it the realization that his ability to pray wasn’t something he’d broken, merely fled from—‘I don’t remember how.’
Maeve folded her hands over his, pressing his palms together. Her hands looked so fragile around his. Paint stained her fingertips, gold dust lingering in the creases of her knuckles. Her touch was a revelation. An unmooring.
‘I’ll teach you,’ she whispered.
Before Jude could even consider bowing his head, before he could search for the words to beseech his icon, the door crashed open.