He snorted. "I'd have thought I rated something more elegant than that. No nightlight tonic to send me gently to the evermore?"
What a bizarre man. "I didn't have a say." She twisted her hips farther from him, closer to escape.
Mihály sighed. "No matter. When that poison is administered, the throat closes first. It's useful in crowded spaces because the victim rarely has time to scream or gasp. The face will turn violet, and when they die there will be a large exhale as the muscles relax. There's no sweat or vomit."
Csilla couldn't suppress her grimace as the angel-touched man described the grisly symptoms. He chuckled slightly.
"Now you know what to say if they ask. Though something tells me you have trouble with lies."
She shivered at being read so truly.
The bottle still lit under his touch, and the expression on his face made her wonder if he was going to drink it anyway. Perhaps in addition to his powers he had Szente Imre's incorruptible tongue, nullifying poison on the spot. Maybe this whole venture was damned from the outset.
Gritting her teeth, Csilla swung the rest of the way out of the window and went hand over foot down, palms searing on the rungs as she hurried.
"Csilla, please, wait. I'm not mad."
One step, two, a crack...
Her foot skidded, and she tumbled.
Csilla screamed as she fell, grabbing at the ladder which came away with her.
"Csilla!"
Mihály's voice sounded far away as she hit snow slush, not quite deep or solid enough to cushion the impact of the ground. Was the black how dark it was, or was her vision going dim?
Pricks of candlelight and shadowed shapes appeared in neighboring windows.
"Are you hurt? Can you come back up here? Put the ladder back, let me..."
His voice sounded like it was coming from much farther away.
Dazed, Csilla stood and stumbled to the street, letting the dark take her, though Mihály's cries grew more and more instant at her back.
It was foolish to have gone out without a lantern. Tears of pain and frustration pricked her eyes, and she tried to hold them back lest they freeze on her lids. She could barely see in front of her as it was, and her shoulder ached something terrible.
She was worse than a liar, the worst kind of hypocrite. She'd thought herself the perfect servant, but when finally given a true way to serve, she'd failed.
She pressed her cut palm to her cold lips, skin alight with the ghost of Mihály's touch. The church had been right not to trust someone who Asten didn't even consider worthy of a soul.
A light and hoofbeats approached behind her. Csilla tried to step aside from whoever was so clearly hurrying to be in, but a voice called out, "Stop."
She knew that voice like she knew the evening prayer. The Head Inquisitor. Ilan.
You've no need to be scared of him, she told herself as he rode close, lantern in hand. He was righteousness itself, lauded for the viciousness that served the faith. But his work wasn't nearly far enough from the rooms used by the mercy crews, and she'd sewn up the backs and packed snow on the crushed fingers of those he purified with pain.
"Csilla."
She turned her face upward at the address. The moonlight turned his expression more fierce than usual, the angle of his cheekbones like a stone carving, his long lashes casting shadows.
She hadn't even known he knew her name; escaping his notice was considered a laudable goal.
"Inquisitor." She bowed as he nudged his horse forward, the animal's breath huffing pale clouds in the chill air.
"Why are you still out? Was that your scream?"
Shouldn't he know? Her task was a matter of Church justice.
"I had an accident. I'm going—." Home. She stuttered on the word. The church had stopped being home the second she'd told Mihály not to drink.
The inquisitor muttered something that surely couldn't have been a curse. "I'll take you. Too many bodies around lately."
She wanted to refuse. Justice was one of the four sharp tenants of the church, and she wore it on her breast with the rest of them, but the way he delivered it had never sat easy.
Still, it was a long, cold walk back and a much quicker ride, and he wasn't wrong about the bodies. She looked down at her hand, knuckles scraped and fingers numb from the fall. Ilan wouldn't have hesitated. He would have served the faith, no matter what.
"Thank you."
Ilan dropped his stirrups and took her hand to help her step up onto the saddle in front of him. He shoved the lantern into her hand. "Sit lightly."
The black horse covered ground quickly and Csilla leaned forward; both in an attempt to sit lightly, as directed, and to avoid the stiffness and irritation radiating off Ilan. The horse, Vihar, was a friendly sort, even if his master was not. He always took an interest in her when she walked through the stables, even if his affection had been bought with apple scraps. She scratched his neck in silent thanks and he swiveled an ear in acknowledgment.
"I didn't think you'd be out this late," Csilla said as the long seconds of quiet scratched at her. He should have been at prayers, but she wasn't one to correct him. "Did you find anything? Mihály said..."
His sharp intake of breath that ate the end of her sentence told her it had been the wrong question.
"I thought we'd had a lead with that scream, but it was you. What were you even doing with that blasted Izir?"
