That bit of hope fizzled, the blackened end of a snuffed match.

“You’re not supposed to let anyone with a shadowed soul through. And did the glass turn black?”

“Well, no...” The guard removed his glove and touched the glass himself, brow furrowing all the more as it glowed pale gold, with a hint of graying around the bottom, like wisps of incense smoke. He needed to say a few prayers and perhaps make a confession, but the problem wasn’t the glass.

“Then let us pass. Helping me is a blessing to you. Look for yourself.”

Mihály walked through the gate, beckoning for Csilla to follow. As she stepped over the rune-marked entrance, the dim spots in the glass on the guard’s hand vanished, his kindness to Mihály instantly reflected in the state of his soul.

They were back in Silgard. The clack of her steps on the cobblestone hadn’t changed, but somehow everything else had.

They were swiftly turned away from every type of lodging. Being an Izir didn’t stop the raised eyebrows and suspicious eyes when it became clear Mihály was asking for himself and a woman not sworn to him, and Csilla refused to play along and pretend to be his wife to get a room. He may have felt secure enough to ignore custom and talk his way around rites and lie, but there had to be some kind of propriety in all this. Every time he got too close or turned those sincere eyes onto her, it was like the thin squeeze of apron strings being tightened and she wasn’t sure how many “no”s she had left in her.

“Let’s say you’re my ward, then,” he sighed as they stood outside of the fifth building that had refused them. “You’re short enough to pass for a child if no one looks too closely, and you’re already an orphan. I’ll tell them you’re…“ He paused and looked her up and down, and she crossed her arms over her chest, not that there was much to cover. “Fourteen?”

“That is just going to make you look worse." The blisters were back to full-on wounds now, and Csilla’s stomach was protesting the lack of lunch and her bladder was aching. Her miserable body begged her to give in and make it easy. The town wasn’t so large that there were endless options. If they couldn’t rent somewhere legitimate, they were going to end up in that tomb Mihály was so fond of, snuggling with the ashes of the dead. “Can’t we go back to the place you were leasing before? We’re wasting time.”

He snorted. “You were up there— there was barely room for me. We need at least room for three of us.”

“Three…?” Her voice trailed off as she caught his meaning. Somewhere large enough for slaughter and magic.

“I do know someone who would help,” he conceded. “But you’ll absolutely have to pretend to be my ward.” He sighed. “Maybe we should look somewhere further downriver. The rooms are cheaper in those districts. Though I hate the smells by the pig yards.”

“Mihály,” Csilla groaned. “If you know someone, why aren’t we there already?”

He scratched at his chin and shifted their bags. “I don’t mind being seen,” he conceded, “but there’s a world between that and having one’s presence flaunted.”

The house was not as large as the cathedral, but that was the only mark one could say against its grandeur. Csilla couldn’t keep her lips together as she stared at the carved flowers and doves over the lintel, grace and movement etched in flecked granite.

Mihály rapped on the door twice, and a servant in a starched green frock, a world cleaner than they were, answered. Csilla drew herself up, but since she was still only chest-height to Mihály it barely made a difference. From over the servant’s shoulder the sparkle of the lamps in the entryway set the dark wood of the banisters aglow, as polished as the golden holder of the eye of Asten itself.

Mihály gave the man a charming smile. “Is the lady in? Tell her it’s Mihály.”

The servant looked them over for a moment, a quick scan of Csilla, a longer look at Mihály. “One moment,” he said, shutting the door.

“This is your friend?” Csilla said, voice still half-hushed in awe. The widow Varga was well known across the city for both her wealth and tragedy, losing both her husband and daughter in the span of a month not even a year prior. “Mercies, why were you living in an attic when you could be here?”

Mihály was about to speak when the door opened again to reveal an older woman, her shoulders draped in silver fur from foxes that were rare everywhere but the farthest north and the heady scent of rosewater cream radiating from her skin. Despite the lines on her face and the thinness of her graying hair, she was a handsome woman, even more so up close than when parading into the church on service days.

Csilla’s mind flitted back to Ágnes, her ashen skin and cough. This is what she should look like—with years of life still ahead.

“Misi, oh my dear, do come in. You don’t even need to knock, you know.” She reached over to brush overgrown strands of hair out of his eyes, letting her palm linger on his cheek before her eyes slid to Csilla. “Who is this?”

“Csilla, a ward I’ve taken in as a new assistant. She’s very bright.”

Csilla smiled faintly at the compliment, though she knew it was a lie to make her presence go down more easily. It was at least better than wife.

The woman’s expression pinched, taking Csilla in feet to crown. “A very self-serving sort of charity.”

They were going to be turned away again, and Csilla would scream. She clasped her hands politely instead, squeezing until her fingers numbed.

Mihály waved his hand. “She’s my student. Please don’t misunderstand. Everyone else in the city seems to.”

Csilla dipped forward, smiling through her worry, putting on the face any orphan learned to give in front of prospective homes. A look that asked to be taken in and promised no trouble at all. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Madame Varga.” She tried to make it sound like it truly was.

“Well, I suppose you can both come in.” The widow glanced at what Mihály was carrying. “And your bags?”

“I’m afraid I have to ask a favor. We are lacking in accommodation at the moment.” There was a slight catch as each word left Mihály’s lips.

The woman’s eyes lit, a pink flush coming to her cheeks that took ten years off her face. “Of course, Misi, of course. You should have come when I asked you the first time. It’s not a favor to help your family.”

Family? Csilla mouthed, but the woman pulled a string that sent a brassy chime echoing through the house. The noise only punctuated the drafty silence in which it rang.

The servant appeared again, and Madame Varga raised a ringed hand.

“Set them up in suites. Misi, would you like to stay in—“

“A guest room will be more than enough.” His voice cut so quickly that Csilla jumped. “I’ve no wish to disturb anything. But if you could provide something for Csilla?”

Her eyes softened, and she touched his cheek again. “Fine. It’s been too long since I’ve had guests. No one visits this cursed house.” Her tone was light to the point of cracking.

Csilla shifted her eyes away even as curiosity gnawed at her. There were clearly threads between them, but she couldn’t gauge how tightly they were woven.

They were placed in suites at the opposite end of a wing that had been disused for some time, judging by the marks that their feet left in the dust. A pang of sympathy twinged in her. As large as it was, the cathedral had never felt as empty as this.

“I’ll send my girl over to clean up while we have tea,” Madame Varga had said, and Csilla looked around the spacious room she’d been placed in. If they failed and she had to leave the city, perhaps she could find work in a grand house like this, polishing the silver flowers that held up thick ribbon-tied curtains and floorboards of dark mahogany that gleamed like cut stones.

A knock on the door drew her up short. She opened it to see a young woman with a pale blue dress draped over one arm, gauzy fabric trailing, and a pitcher in the other.

“The Izir asked me to find you something. This belonged to the mistress’s daughter when she was younger. It might fit with a bit of adjusting.”

Csilla bit her lips and took the dress. She’d never touched material so fine, with gold embroidery along the neckline and hem, the waist apron tied with a girlish sash of white.

She’d also never dreamed she’d be having someone else help her get dressed, and she was sure she was red from hairline to toes as the maid began removing her clothing.

“I’ll do it myself,” she said as she slipped off the rest of her outer dress down to her chemise, thin enough to see the skin beneath. For an instant she was back in the drafty church hall, young and naked and cold. The click of the door as the girl left barely registered.

She picked up the pitcher for a welcome drink when the smell of vinegar and herbs hit her nose and she saw the sponge floating on top. Of course, the lady of the house expected her to be clean. At least the maid had left before seeing Csilla try to drink bathwater.

Once refreshed and redressed, Csilla spun, the fabric lifting in the luxury of space. This was a dress made for swaying entrances and graceful dancing. Csilla’s heart pained as she brushed down the skirts. She’d always worn charity clothes, and it was likely some of the original owners were ash, but it was entirely different when she knew where the girl this had been commissioned for was buried. The widow's whole family had been touched with death.

The hallway swallowed her as she made her way towards the sound of voices. Mihály and the older woman were in a sitting room, both looking up as she entered.

Mihály paled, but Madame Varga’s eyes hardened.