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 refocusing 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.