Of course it was. Csilla rubbed her scarred palm. All power was dangerous, no matter how brilliant. Humans weren’t gods. Even the best of them, standing next to her and murmuring placating words, was no more than a sliver of an angel.

“But do you?” She wanted Tamas to say yes, and she wanted him to say no. She was strung across the chasm of what Mihály wanted of her and the marrow-deep desire for a way to serve openly.

“No.”

Her heart sank with the simple word.

“I can.” Mihály’s hand pressed harder on the ridge of her shoulder, thumb digging in. “I’ve learned from my mistakes. And I wasn’t entirely wrong—”

“Mihály.” The soft tones of the nickname were replaced with clipped irritation. "May I speak to you in private?”

Csilla glanced around for a place to slip to, but there was nowhere. She smiled as if it didn’t matter and returned to the stoop. The night was turning gray-violet, the breeze chilled. Csilla pressed her ear to the door, but their voices had dropped to a muffle. When the door swung back open, she nearly fell.

“You can think what you like,” Mihály spat, a flush on his skin. “Come on, Csilla. He’s only going to try to convince you that it’s better not to meddle in things. Apparently when you’re old you stop caring to learn.”

Csilla frowned at the honest sharpness in his tone. His sweet words to her seemed practiced in comparison.

“No need to attack, Misi. You’re clearly tired.” Tamas reached out to turn Mihály’s face one way, then another, picked a few stray hairs off his coat. “Send her on and stay with me a while. We can bleed you if you’re hot, give you something if you’re cold. You’re no good to anyone ill.”

It was kind of him to still care. She thought of Ágnes and her endless patience.

Mihály brushed his hand aside.

“If you won’t think of her, think of Evaline...”

“I do.” There was a snarl there, that of an animal with a fresh wound. “Every day.”

It hurt to see, and Csilla stepped up to at least draw this to a close and soothe that hurt. “Thank you, sir. I’ll go home.” It wasn’t a lie. She hadn’t said when.

“Good to see one of you has sense.” Tamas glowered and muttered old blessings at their back.

“Let’s go get some food, shall we?” Mihály’s tone was light, putting the conversation behind them, and it stoppered Csilla’s questions. “That was a worthless stop. I know somewhere that will cheer you up.”

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 acknowledgment 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 sulkies, 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 the 'his girl.'

“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, savory 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.