“Is something wrong?” Had she spilled something, or stepped on a hem?

Mihály stood to take her arm, face softening. His golden brown eyes took on a hint of reverence.

“Sorry. You look very nice.” He reached out as if he were about to brush his fingers over her uncovered curls but held back at her flinch. “It suits you.”

She smiled, but only out of habit. Physical beauty was hardly something the church saw fit to praise, and she wasn’t sure she liked it.

He moved her to a lounge plush enough that it dimpled under her, and an assortment of foods on the low table welcomed them.

Csilla brightened at the food, mouth already watering. Mihály seemed to think enough cordial made a breakfast in itself; if there’d been food at the cabin, he hadn’t offered.

“I apologize for the meagerness of all this. I don’t often entertain, and my food needs are simple enough that I don’t even have a designated cook on staff.” Madame Varga gave a little laugh as if it were the most ridiculous thing that could be imagined. Csilla placed her hands in her lap and crossed her feet at the ankles, eyeing the pickled vegetables and ham beside cups of a weakly distilled herbal concoction. If only one of them would reach for the food so she could eat. Or at least speak and crack the awful tension that settled around like the dust of the hallway. Mihály’s enthusiasm for talking had burned up the hours of the night, and now he’d turned stoic.

She waited, watched as they watched each other, and finally gave up on being saved.

“Your house is lovely, Madame,” Csilla said to break the silence.

Instead of smiling at the compliment, the woman grimaced.

“What happened to the clock?” Mihály looked around the room as if seeing it for the first time, then grabbed a cup and drained it.

Madame Varga waved the question away. “It’s costly to maintain a household alone, and you would know all about it if you’d bothered to call on me once in all the weeks you’ve been here, or give me more than a word when I come to you. You refused all my offers to talk to the University about taking you back, to provide you a home if you won’t go.”

“Give your charity to the church, Madame. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for the difficulty of finding lodging with Csilla in tow.”

Csilla lowered her eyes at the truth of that, a finger sliding around the silver-plated rim of the cup.

“No, you wouldn’t, would you?” She rested a hand on his knee and turned to Csilla. “How old are you, child?”

“Twenty. Not a child.” Though she was starting to feel like one. She didn’t know enough about the world outside the church. Not even enough to sit here and take tea without feeling like her heart was going to break through her ribs with nervous pounding.

Mihály’s eyes flashed as the truth slid off her tongue.

“Old enough to have a vocation, then. Or be a bride.” She raised an eyebrow at Csilla, her hand not leaving Mihály. “Oh, eat if you like. You’re staring at the food like a yard dog.”

Csilla grabbed a hard roll stuffed with potato and ham before Madame Varga had even finished the sentence and took an over-large bite, realizing seconds too late she was probably being rude and had just been insulted besides. The old bread scratched as it went down.

“I’ve no desire to wed. I only wish to be of service.” She lowered her eyes. Anything to disarm the woman’s suspicious glare. “I came from the church.”

It was the wrong thing to say. “A church ward. What use can she possibly be to you, Misi? Be honest with me.”

“I have been! I wasn’t going to let her waste away on a mercy crew.”

Csilla took another large bite of food to avoid a retort. If her chewing was sharp, he didn’t notice.

“Perhaps Csilla would like to look through Evie’s books, if you’ve kept them.”

Evie, that was it. Her daughter’s name had been Evaline. Csilla rubbed the fabric of the skirts again, trying to ease the sudden chillbumps 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.

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 expected.”

They had lodging for the moment, so she wasn’t going to question that. There were more pressing things to ask about. “You studied, correct?”

“Very much correct. I had pen calluses for years.” He examined his hand, then poured 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 stoke of his beard. “I was more interested in the lives of the angels, if you can imagine. 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 realized 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 church 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?”