Chapter 12 Csilla #3
Evie, that was it. Her daughter’s name had been Evaline.
Csilla rubbed the fabric of the skirts again, trying to ease the sudden goosebumps on her skin.
The woman had paid good money to have the girl remembered in prayer, and she’d heard the name chanted in memorial for weeks.
She clearly remembered her at home as well, keeping her things like treasured relics.
No wonder her gaze was icy as she looked at Csilla; Csilla was desecrating an altar, and only Mihály seemed to be comfortable with the situation.
Madame Varga took a sip of her cordial, but her head was held a little too stiffly, her sip a little too quick for the nonchalance of her pose. ‘I’ll see if there’s anything of interest.’
Csilla could hear the no.
Mihály gave an accepting half-shrug. ‘Csilla, pick up something to take if you like, but we have a project to work on, don’t we?’
‘Far be it from me to keep you.’ Madame Varga rose, bending to drop a kiss on Mihály’s head. His cheek flexed, but he didn’t move away. ‘Please, sit and eat. I’ll have a look at what could be repurposed for . . . your friend.’
‘My gratitude.’
When they were alone again, Mihály finally seemed to relax, picking up a baked cracker sprinkled with small seeds. It cracked against his teeth.
‘Well now. That went better than I thought it would.’
‘What did you expect?’ She, for one, had anticipated a bit more welcome. But she wasn’t a member of the Church anymore. Even someone who may have invited a mercy crew in under other circumstances would balk at her now.
‘More argument about you, honestly. She’s always been fond of me.’
‘And yet you chose to stay in an attic?’
‘Fondness very quickly turns to hovering. I’m sure you understand why I need privacy for my work.’
She pressed her lips together, thinking of all the dead eyes in his cabin.
‘You studied, correct?’
‘Very much correct. I had pen calluses for years.’ He examined his hand before pouring fresh tea into her near-empty cup, a little gesture that flustered her.
Then he reached into his pocket for a bottle and doctored his own drink before taking a sip, eyes darting to the doorway as he did so.
No doubt the lady of the house wouldn’t have approved; she and Csilla had that in common.
‘Did you study anything about Shadow scripts? Demonology? Would there be anything about that in the books here?’
‘And they call me the heretic?’ He sat back with a thoughtful stroke of his beard. ‘I was more interested in the lives of the angels, if you can imagine, as well as practical healing and such that made use of my gift. I told you what I do isn’t—’
‘It’s the murders.’ Just thinking about what she’d seen put a greasy feeling on her skin.
He scanned her face as if looking for a clue that she was joking. ‘What do you mean?’
His voice held the same note it had when he’d realised Csilla was something strange, the taste of hidden knowledge setting off a burning thirst.
Csilla wrapped her arms around herself. ‘Someone is covering them with demon marks, so it must be someone who studied.’
‘Or a demon.’
Now she was the one unsure if he was joking.
‘Or that. Though I don’t see how.’ The words fell sharply into her stomach. ‘Four deaths so far, all marked up. Here, I have names.’
She pulled the stolen paper with the notes on it, and frowned to see how it had smeared. She hadn’t had time to let it dry well, and he’d been too wrapped up in his own voice for her to show him before. But now they were both committed, for better or worse.
‘Have you heard anything like this from the people who come to you?’
Mihály scanned her writing without recognition.
‘Just that they’re scared. They ask for intercessions I can’t give, prayers to spare them and their loved ones. But there is someone who might know more.’
‘Close?’
‘Not far. But we can rest a little longer if you need. I know I put you out.’
He offered his hand, clearly expecting hers to follow. It wouldn’t be so bad, perhaps, to offer him the comfort, though he seemed to think he was offering it to her.
Waiting any longer would make it more awkward. She put her palm lightly against his, though with the alertness of a bird ready to take flight. His thumb brushed the back of her knuckles, and she stiffened, now caught as his fingers closed.
‘Your hands are quite cold. I’ll buy you some gloves.’
He took another sip of tea as if this were ordinary. Perhaps for him it was. And yes, her hands were cold, because she was sure all the heat in her had fled to her cheeks.
‘We have the victims’ names.’ She spoke because even the terrible business of the murders seemed better to focus on than the gentle warmth of his hand around hers. ‘And I know roughly where and when they were killed. That’s somewhere to start.’
‘And you think we’ll be able to find some clue the inquisitors missed?’
‘I think people will be more willing to talk to you.’ It was true, though it seemed blasphemous to say.
‘Or to you.’ Mihály smiled. ‘You have a very calming presence. Has anyone told you that?’
She glanced down, freshly flustered. ‘Not in so many words.’
‘The Church was very foolish to let you go.’
He gave her hand a squeeze and withdrew before she even realised she’d started to welcome it.