Chapter 5 Csilla #2
He rummaged around until he found a white handkerchief of soft linen, far too fine for wiping hands on.
She turned it in her hands, stroking the fabric, and examined the two mottled doves embroidered in the corner.
The Varga family. Csilla’s warmth was replaced by a touch of despair.
So even the wealthy were swayed by him now. No wonder the Church was worried.
Mihály picked up her hand and plopped two fried lumps of dough onto it.
‘Ah, here. They’re dry but should taste alright.’
Csilla’s mouth watered as she bit into the dumpling, and she blinked in pleasant surprise at the centre of cherries stewed with enough sugar to take the edge off their sourness.
Still chewing, she offered the other one to Mihály, but he held up his hand.
‘No, go ahead.’
She finished the first and choked down the second one quickly – half from hunger, half from embarrassment at the way he watched her. She washed it down with a swallow of tea, all too aware of the money on her tongue. Everything here had been paid for with heresy.
‘I’m sorry, but I have so many questions,’ he said. ‘In all my studies I’ve never heard of anything like you. May I touch you?’
‘You may not.’
She didn’t have to leave her dignity with her morals.
The Church couldn’t ban touching, but she’d been warned since she was small about the dangers of too much contact.
Bodies were Shadow-born, and skin had its own appetite.
A good servant didn’t stoke its cravings, not that she’d ever seen the appeal.
At fourteen she’d asked ágnes when she should expect such temptation to start, so she could be properly prepared.
The woman had laughed and, upon realising Csilla was actually serious, informed her that it would be somewhere between any day now and never.
So far it had been closer to never, but she wasn’t going to let her guard down.
Mihály chuckled. ‘Nothing indecent, I promise. Please.’
She hesitated, mind spinning rationalisations.
She touched her patients when caring for them.
Him being young and handsome, them being alone in a locked-away attic didn’t make it any different.
He might not even like women, or anyone.
And it wasn’t like he would find anything the Church had missed all the times they’d looked for demon marks. She offered her hand.
He took her by the wrist, tracing a word across her palm with a delicacy that sent a shiver across her skin. He was surely going to feel how her heart was racing.
‘Hm.’ He pursed his lips and dragged his fingertips over her skin again.
Her whole body lightened with hope, the soaring, beautiful ache of listening to the choir’s hymns of praise, every note yearning for something lost before humanity had even finished forming.
It’s not real. It’s not real.
But it felt like it could be. She pushed herself up and away from him, wordless. If that brush of holiness was anything like what she was missing, she wished she’d never felt it at all.
‘You are exceedingly healthy, but what happened on your scalp?’ he asked.
She stiffened, touching her kerchief as embarrassment dragged back the truth of what she was.
‘You can see those? The scars are from when I was a baby. Rat or cat bites.’
Unsightly as they were, they were all she had from before.
‘Hmm.’ Then he picked up her right hand, the one she hadn’t offered, and peeled her fingers from the fresh scab of the slice from her vows. ‘And I see you’re from the Church. Or a very clumsy cook.’
Csilla gritted her teeth, unsure of the safest answer.
‘Don’t worry, you’re not the only one.’ He cradled her palm in his larger one, and Csilla went very still. ‘Though I think you might be the first one who ran directly from vows to me. Does it hurt?’
‘Of course,’ Csilla said before recognising it for a lie.
It had hurt right up until he’d touched her. Now what had been an angry wound was a pale scar. She’d always healed quickly, but not instantly. She flexed her hand and found none of the tension that marred the grip of poorly healed clergy.
The pain was meant to remind the sworn of the gravity of their choice and the care required when using hands for holy work. Her stomach turned, threatening to reject the sweets and tea.
‘I need to go.’
Mihály held up his hands, backing away. ‘I’m sorry. I understand. I have scars myself.’
She raised an eyebrow. He appeared flawless from where she sat, even the shadows laying like adornment on his high cheekbones and soft lips.
‘I want to show you my research,’ he continued. ‘I think you’ll find it interesting. And I think you could be of great help to me.’
‘Help?’
She tilted her head, the word catching her like a fish on a line. What help did he think she could possibly give him?
‘I research souls.’
Her flare of interest only increased her agitation. Listening to any of this was pointless when she’d already as good as killed him. ‘But you said you can’t make one.’
‘I can’t,’ he admitted. ‘It’s hard to explain here. As you may have guessed, it’s not exactly in line with Silgard’s . . . ethics.’ He spoke quickly and settled on the final word as if it were a compromise.
Her brows drew together. Something more outlandish than what he was already preaching?
‘You’re an Apostate?’
There were pockets of them throughout the Immaculate Union, preaching corruptions of doctrine, making their own invocations and pretending they were the same as good work. They were little spots of blight doctored by the Servants of the Road.
‘No, by the saints, though I certainly have a large enough flock.’ He looked more amused than offended. ‘I’ll show you tomorrow if you’ll let me. Trust me, it’s something you’ll want to see.’
A shiver of curiosity went through her. This was the closest she’d ever had to divinity speaking directly to her, filtered as it was.
But then the words hit.
‘Tomorrow?’
It had to be today. She wouldn’t have the guts to leave and come back, now that she’d sat in his home and spoken to him as a man and not a target.
A warning sat in the back of her mouth, coming closer to escaping with every second she absorbed his kindness.
She’d had so little in her life, she’d taken to it like drought-baked dirt welcoming rain.
‘I’m sorry, but I have to go.’
‘Surely you weren’t thinking of walking back alone? The lamps will be dark by now.’
Arany’s Seal was dark too. The reminder of the dying magic set her shoulders back.
He was damnedly right about the threat, but her part in Asten’s plan for him was done. She could go back to the Church and no one would ever question her faith and place again.
That was what the pain in her hand had meant. What this new ache in her chest was. They were as good as words from above telling her it was time to return with her head held high.
And she didn’t want to watch something so beautiful die.
‘I’ll be fine. I’m warm already. I was born in this city.’ She stood, brushing off her skirts as she made a wall between them with her protests. ‘If I don’t go, they’ll wonder where I am.’ That was true enough.
His eyes narrowed. ‘A girl was murdered by the river, and she wasn’t the only body. Do you even know what the people are saying? There’s a devil stalking the streets.’
She reflexively glanced outside at his words. Even an Izir shouldn’t call ill luck so openly.
‘You’re the only trouble I’ve heard of. And this city is protected from devils.’
‘I was speaking figuratively.’ The teasing lilt to his voice died. ‘You really don’t know about the deaths?’
She had seen the strange bodies leaving the city, but that wasn’t the same as knowing. She shook her head.
‘I know there have been deaths, that’s all. But people make bad choices, even in Silgard.’
‘Some are saying the same person made the same bad choice four times.’
Csilla shook her head, keeping her gaze down so his worry wouldn’t sway her. That she wasn’t inclined to believe. Silgard was still a holy city, and people didn’t plan to sin, even if their Shadow natures sometimes got the better of them.
‘I’ll be fine.’ She would say it until it was true.
‘At least join me for the wine. Sleep will come more easily to me, and if you’re so convinced you have to leave, it’ll keep you warm on your walk.’
He took the bottle again, and Csilla winced at the sudden shine. After a moment it dulled to a tarnished silver, and he popped off the cork.
Csilla’s breath caught in her throat as he raised the bottle to his lips. There it was. Her truest moment of service.
‘Stop!’ She stepped forward, hands out and shaking.
He did, lowering the bottle and giving her a quizzical look. She squeezed her eyes shut to force back frustrated tears. She thought she’d be strong enough.
‘It’s . . . Don’t drink it. Please.’
Her voice was dull even to her own ears. He’d shared his home and hospitality, and she couldn’t let him die. Not even if it assured his place in the blessed ether and hers in the Brilliant City.
Asten would be as indifferent to her failure as to her life, but the Church elders, less so. She squeezed her eyes shut, haunted as she imagined ágnes’s disappointed face. All the good she could have done dissolved in a moment of weakness. All those people damned because she couldn’t obey.
Shame filled her chest. She wasn’t a good servant after all.
‘What, is it poisoned?’ His amused expression hardened with the realisation. ‘You were going to poison me?’
Csilla spun and charged to the window. Wind slapped her face as she sat on the ledge, preparing to swing down.
‘Who wants me dead? What’s going on?’ Mihály’s voice rose as he reached for her.
The urge to run converged with pity in her chest at his stricken expression.
‘The Church. You’re not safe here, Izir.’
His hand caught the curve of her cheek, forcing her to look fully into his eyes, and she froze at the touch.
‘And what will happen to you when you tell them you failed? Will you be safe?’