She stiffened as footsteps sounded in the hall, and a moment later her shoulders were seized by skeletal fingers.

Ágnes.

“What are you doing?” she hissed. “There’s nothing that can be done for the man now.”

“I wanted to see.” She turned to look Ágnes in the face. “Oh. Oh no.” She looked so much worse than she had just days before. There were bluish bruises shading her skin, and her eyelids drooped. But Csilla’s gasp was too quiet, and the older woman continued, though her voice grew more hoarse with every word.

“See? And touch?” She shook Csilla’s limp hand, and the sting in the scold sent her gaze to the floor. “Is this what you’ve gotten from being with the Izir?”

“He’s stopped preaching heresy,” Csilla said, looking down. Easier to face the entire inquest branch of the clergy than the woman who raised her. “I’m on holy business.” If it involved Mihály it had to be holy, no matter what it looked like. She raised her eyes, a tiny grain of confidence rooting in her purpose. “I’m trying to save the city.” The matter of her own soul aside, Ágnes had to understand that she was trying to do something good. That she was good.

The woman’s spasming cough shook her like a crumpled fall leaf. Csilla put an arm around her.

“You’re worse. I’ll get something that can help you. Mihály—“

Ágnes waved her hand. “No.”

Csilla held Ágnes’ shoulders as she coughed again, so frail there was practically no weight against Csilla at all. How could this be the woman who’d carried her around on her hip until Csilla came waist-high and was far too old for such babying?

The new steps in the hallway were heavier.

Ilan leaned on the doorway, scowling, his collar and hems stark for their lack of decoration. He looked like any other priest, save the hellfire anger in his stare. “Csilla. And Elder Ágnes. Are you not late for prayer?”

“Aren’t you?” she asked, standing and smoothing her skirt. Csilla’s heart ached to see that Ágnes stood in front of her, still trying to offer some protection in her frailty. Too many of her few and precious breaths were being spent defending Csilla.

“I have to question her. Only questions for the moment.” He held out his hands as if the lack of a whip assured Csilla’s safety. The woman nodded, but her eyes didn’t leave Ilan as she left. As if reminding him that whatever he did, it would be seen. If not by her, then by the divine.

“What are you planning?” Ilan leaned against the iron bars, blocking the door. As if there were any way she would run.

“Me?” How did he know they were planning something? Csilla shrunk under his dissecting gaze. Perhaps it had been foolish to think the church wouldn’t know. Asten’s eyes were stamped throughout the city, seeing everything. Maybe that was more tangible than she’d realized.

“I’m just trying to help.” It sounded pointless falling from her lips and even worse when reflected in his expression.

“How was stealing my notes help?”

Of course he would have noticed. He continued before she could conjure another pale defense.

“And you didn’t kill the heretic. How long have you been working together? Since before I even found you in the street?”

“You think this is some kind of conspiracy?” Her exhalation was a brittle laugh. “I didn’t kill him because I’m not as good as you I suppose. And as for your work, I just needed the information. Not for anything bad.”

“Why?”

He didn’t sound like he believed her. Her breathing quickened. She knew what happened when he didn’t believe someone- screams and burns and blood. He reached for the cell lock, fingertips scraping the iron.

“Ilan, what is the meaning of this?” A new priest was behind Ilan, arms crossed, and Csilla had never been so glad to see a member of the faith. This strange man wore the Head Inquisitor’s robes, and his lack of familiarity with her would only serve her well right now.

“This is the last of them?” He tilted his head. “Good. Question her and be done with it. No need to toy with her like a cat.”

Csilla pulled her hands to her chest as if that could spare them from fetters. Ilan didn’t take his eyes from her, pinning her as surely as with iron.

“I know this girl, and I know she hasn’t killed anyone.” Csilla shivered at the slither in his voice; he called her innocent, but there was no exoneration there.

“Then she has something to say about someone else?” The man’s expression lightened. “Come, then, girl, out with it. Who should we be bringing in for iron shoes tonight?”

“I- no one!” Csilla stuttered. “I don’t know who the murderer is.”

“You won’t give us a name, any person who might have information? It will be a blessing on your soul."

She winced as he continued.

"Surely you must have some little sin you wish to clear. And we have ways if you don’t wish to talk.” He delivered the threat with no change to cadence, so smooth it almost slid right past her.

Torturing people for information? She chilled at the thought. The church was there to protect the faithful, and if it hurt them it was only in the name of salvation. Her eyes flickered to Ilan, but he didn’t say anything, not about the torture. Not even about the fact that there was no way to view her sins.

And she certainly had sins now. She pressed her lips together and shook her head.

The large man reached past Ilan, taking the key and freeing her. “Well then, we’re done here. And you,” he said, eyes back on Csilla. “You’re always welcome to return with better information.”

Ilan’s fingers tightened around the bar, and his face took on the terrifying calm of a holy statue. “Come then, Csilla. I’ll take you home.”

“I’m staying with the widow Varga,” Csilla tried to fill the cold morning air with chatter, if only to stop Ilan from asking the questions he clearly wanted to. “She was very kind to take me in.” Her head pounded, and she realized too late she should have asked for water while she was still in the cell. Mercy would have had them give it to her. He only answered with a considering hm, not even looking at her. Even she wasn’t naive enough to think he’d forgotten the wrong she’d done. But maybe, if she was quick, she could stall it long enough to cross a friendlier threshold before being questioned. Use Mihály as her shield.

Mihály, who hadn’t come for her, even though he must have guessed. She had to soothe that anger, lull it into something harmless, before going back to him.

As they rounded the corner to a deserted street, something changed in Ilan’s step. Csilla’s heart skipped, reacting to some instinct a half-second before he grabbed her and yanked her into an alley so quickly she couldn’t scream. He jammed his cane against her chest, the pricks of the ears on the silver wolf-head handle biting through her shift and into her sternum.

“Now that we are alone, tell me the truth. What were you looking for?” His eyes were icier than a mid-winter wind.

Her heart hammered, but the rest of her was frozen, torn between the pain that would come from both lies and the truth. He tilted the cane slightly. “You’re hurting me,” she spat, but her words died as she realized that was the point.

His eyes narrowed. The pressure grew until she was sure there would be spots of blood beneath her chemise and the imprint of brick on her back as she tried to shy away.

“We want to find the killer,” she forced out, and he withdrew the cane, a sweet relief. “He’s helping me save the city.”

She’d caught him by surprise. An awkward sense of pride cut her fear at the open confusion on his face. She had to take advantage of it.

“I know the Church wanted him dead. If it’s willing to break its own laws, things must be dire.” She couldn’t read what Ilan was thinking, but the fact that he clearly was thinking was a good sign. “I was looking at your things because I needed names to know where to start. And you showed me the demons, and I just talked to refugees from Orban, and...” Her rushing voice caught remembering the fear in the woman’s eyes. “And I think you might be right.”

Ilan’s posture eased a fraction.

“And I’m not going to say Mihály is perfect.” She wasn’t entirely sure she would even say he was good. “But he is blessed. And he knows things.”

“Does he have any leads?” There was something new in his gaze now. Curiosity.

“He has ideas.” Terrible ideas, yes, but at least that was true. “And power. With the Incarnate gone, Mihály is the most blessed thing our city has.”