Chapter 13 Csilla #2
He seemed to need the cheering more. Csilla trailed a few steps behind, glancing over her shoulder and searching for movement in the shadows.
At least she was safer with Mihály than alone.
She followed as the Izir guided her down streets where the stones were bleached white and scrubbed clean, the buildings marked with Eyes that were gilded and not merely carved.
In daylight it would have been beautiful. In the dark the gilt threw shadows.
It was slow going, people of all types stopping Mihály for a word. He paused for each of them, speaking softly, and her heart warmed even as she worried that the Church would serve them better.
A freckle-cheeked woman with a suckling child bowed over his hand, asking for her husband’s safe return from the front, and then he embraced another whose words Csilla couldn’t make out as they spoke against his shoulder. What if she told these people everything she now knew?
She held her tongue. Whatever it was based in, the comfort he offered set people at ease, and there was honesty in that.
And when they asked him to preach, he politely refused, with an expectant look at Csilla as he waited for acknowledgement that he was refusing to speak heresy at her behest, like a pup waiting for praise for correctly sitting.
She settled for patting his arm, and he preened.
They stopped in front of a white-porched building with lanterns blazing in every thick-glassed window.
A few small carriages, their ponies bored and stamping, lined the front waiting to cart away those drunk or stumbling out desperate for privacy.
This was one of the dining clubs for the wealthy in the city, a place she’d only passed by.
‘I don’t think I belong there.’ She didn’t want to belong there. It was one thing to indulge a little in private, with proper knowledge of one’s guilt. It was another to search for a way to flaunt while still under the cathedral spires, especially when there was work to do.
Mihály sighed. ‘Csilla, you’re not dressed like a church mouse anymore. No one will try to kick you out. You’re very pretty, I promise.’
She frowned. Her hesitation wasn’t embarrassment, and his attempt at a compliment wasn’t pleasing in the least. The only reason she looked fit to join was because a girl who was now ashes had no use for gowns.
‘There are sinful people in there,’ she said, knowing she sounded like a child and hating it.
But she’d heard the confessions and seen the sin ledgers of the kind of people who held membership.
Luxury wasn’t outlawed, but it was heavily taxed, and those who could afford to think about such comforts in Silgard could also afford to have cares outside the Church.
‘There are people in there,’ he corrected her. ‘And isn’t it vain to think yourself better than them?’
That bit. Her job was to care, not judge.
Politeness dictated Mihály hold the door, and Csilla found herself the first to step through onto the veined marble floor of the lobby. A man in a dark burgundy waistcoat gave her a pinched look. ‘Are you one of ours?’
‘No?’ And she didn’t particularly want to be. She could taste the oily perfumes and ashy tobacco in the air, souring the luscious smells of cooking fat wafting from somewhere beyond. At least her stomach was happy to be here.
Mihály stepped up behind her.
‘Do I need to be?’ the Izir asked. He slipped an arm around Csilla, and the man paled and bowed.
‘Of course not, Izir. Are you here to dine? Or perhaps for the lounge? Though your girl . . .’
She wrinkled her nose at his last words.
‘We are here to dine, and of course Csilla will be welcome.’
‘Very good, sir.’ The man looked visibly relieved as he escorted them through a hallway.
Beyond the open doors leading to the dining hall were smaller lounges with gaming tables and men shrouded by pipe haze, their heavy eyes turning to glance between Mihály and rolling ivories as they passed.
The dining room was blessedly less smoky, but looked onto a grim garden, all spindly brown bush twigs and dry grass.
They were seated next to the courtyard window, so close the cold seeped through the glass.
Csilla started as a second servant appeared with a fur to drape over her lap.
For a moment she wondered how the woman had known she’d shivered, but with the placement they’d been given, everyone could see them.
And they were looking their fill, with curious eyes and curved-lip whispers pointed their way.
The people here must be good, she told herself. They were staying in Silgard, after all.
But even in Silgard, you could cleanse your soul with money. And there was so much money here the air seemed rotten with it.
‘Is there anything you don’t eat?’
Mihály scanned the menu. There wasn’t a choice, really. The handwritten paper outlined what the chef would prepare that day. Still, the list stretched halfway down Csilla’s forearm. Who needed to eat so much?
‘If there’s anything you like you don’t see, I’ll have it made,’ he continued, stroking his beard and muttering something about a dearth of quail eggs, the paucity of the season.
The luxury of that comment was so foreign he might as well have been speaking another language.
He went on, describing each treat and offering.
Csilla nodded, pretending she understood while her heart pounded loud enough to muffle his words.
His concern was overly sweet and smothering.
Too much like courting. He’d denied any interest to both Madame Varga and his mentor, but this didn’t seem like the kind of environment in which he’d practice self-control.
‘I like everything, but I don’t know that even I can eat all this.’
She looked down the list again to avoid meeting his eyes.
Sauced winter pheasant. Three kinds of roasted turnip soups.
Four kinds of dumplings, savoury and sweet, one for each course.
A few things she couldn’t even identify.
And then there were the drinks, a dizzying tour of the continent in spirits that was even longer than the food list. ‘How much does this cost?’
He waved off the question. ‘What use is money and education if it doesn’t get you a taste of the finer things?’
He spoke like someone who hadn’t always had them. Before she could ask, he continued.
‘And they do give whatever isn’t used to the poor or the pigs. It doesn’t go to waste.’
That was some comfort. But Mihály should know that it wasn’t his money or education that had the doors opening or the best table being pulled out.
Csilla leaned back as a carafe of fruit brandy and two glasses were brought to them.
‘We’ll take a bottle, but we only need one . . .’ Mihály started.
But Csilla grabbed her own glass and cut him off with a thank you to the staff. Perhaps it would ease her nerves.
‘You drink?’ he asked, pouring her a half glass of the pale drink that glimmered like a jewel. The syrupy scent stung her nose and took her back to the poison, when things had at least made a horrid kind of sense.
‘No,’ she admitted as she picked it up. There was wine in the cathedral stores, sacramental and ordinary, but no one ever offered either to her. But everyone else here was drinking. She could at least try to fit in.
‘To health and holiness.’
They clinked their glasses together, and Csilla took a small sip. It was sharp, with a slight linger of apricot that brightened on her tongue even as it burned.
When she looked up, Mihály had his hand resting on his chin, half-smiling at her.
She turned her attention back to the brandy, took a gulp, and choked.
Her dining companion said nothing, only passed her a linen napkin.
Csilla was grateful when the bread was served and she could absorb the taste with dark rye.
More and more people were coming in, spotted furs and tall hats.
Csilla recognised a few from their parading into the cathedral, others were looking around like they’d never seen the room.
Early pilgrims come to greet the Incarnate’s return, then.
Or refugees. Wealth didn’t protect people from Shadow, though perhaps it guarded them from other things.
There’d been no murders on the finely maintained streets of this district.
Yet another reason they shouldn’t be wasting their time here, even if the bread was fresh and the wine plentiful. It was a mockery to sit here and feast while evil went unchecked.
Mihály’s foot brushed her ankle under the table, and she jumped, rattling the drink again.
‘You look very dour for someone dressed so prettily. Smile, will you?’
She tried, but the stretch of her cheeks hurt. ‘I’m thinking. We don’t even have a plan—’
‘Exactly.’ He nudged her again, toe skimming her calf as she stared. ‘I’m no ascetic. I refuse to sit in the dark wearing haircloth and wait for a revelation when I might as well do it with an elegant dinner and charming company.’
Csilla examined the surface of the brandy, the colour close to the magic stirred by souls. The dinner was certainly elegant, but she knew she was lacking in charm. She wasn’t even sure how she would put on a show of it.
She took another sip. Maybe it would help. ‘So you were expelled?’
Mihály winced as his own drink went down wrong and he snatched the napkin back.
‘So much for the charming company. But yes. My ideas weren’t any more popular at school than they are with the Church. It’s their loss.’
‘And you knew Evaline at school? And that’s how you know Madame Varga. And Tamas.’
He nodded, though his eyes stayed on his glass. ‘Yes, Tamas quickly took me under his wing when I entered school, though I think he may have just wanted the distinction of being my mentor. Evie was two years below me. I was her tutor, at first. Her mother was always a great help to my accounts.’
So there was a time when he was fine with Madame Varga’s charity. Csilla pressed her lips together. She was hardly one to judge.