Chapter 31 Jude
Jude
Jude picked up the letter. Read it quickly.
After he finished, one fact was alarmingly clear. He had fought against it since he first realized that Maeve saw the gold, and held the same memory magic he did, knowing that the truth would wipe the foundation from beneath her feet.
But it was time. It had been selfish, destructive, even for him to hide the truth as long as he did. He’d wanted to ease her in slowly, keep her from falling too fast. But Jude couldn’t delay any longer.
He needed to tell her everything.
In the weeks she’d been in his home, as they’d drawn closer, as the walls between them had crumbled and fallen, she’d remained steadfastly loyal to her idea of the saints.
A part of him had known she wouldn’t allow herself to look any closer, content to keep herself separate from the wretched mess of everything she’d been taught to believe.
It was safer that way, and safety was one desire he’d never begrudge her.
Safety, freedom, was what he wanted above all else, after all.
Jude had watched her develop her theory about iconographers holding memory magic and held his tongue.
He’d worried she’d dug the imagined difference between memory altering and answering prayers out of pure self-preservation, choosing not to see the truth behind sainthood in an effort to protect herself.
If she knew what she was, what the Abbey and her magic marked her as, what did that mean for her beliefs? For her relationship to the saints?
He’d seen her careful aversion toward the truth and hadn’t corrected her, hopeful that she would come to the realization naturally.
Hoping she would make the jump herself and he wouldn’t have to push her off the ledge.
A hidden part of him begged, prayed, that the voice of Maeve’s doubt would be louder than the part of her that still clung desperately to her beliefs. To the Abbey and to the saints.
But Bethan was right – neither of them were safe. As much as he wanted to continue in their bubble of makeshift peace in his home, they were both in danger. The Abbey drew closer by the day.
He couldn’t keep the truth from Maeve any longer. Siobhan’s death was proof enough.
So, he’d given her the letter. He’d cast the first stone into her fragile foundation.
Now, he would throw himself at her mercy and offer to help piece it together again.
He knew better than most the desire to scramble to higher ground when the flood began – but her perch wouldn’t remain steady for long.
Jude folded the letter neatly and tucked it in his pocket, moving towards the window.
Through the thin wash of moonlight coating the moors beyond, he spotted a thick mass of clouds rolling in the distance.
Easing open the catch, he flinched against the bracing rush of winter wind.
Though it was late, closer to dawn than dusk, he searched the sky, not knowing how many birds he would need to see to settle him.
A storm was fast approaching. Maeve was out there, alone.
And he knew exactly where she was heading.