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?”
She glanced down, freshly flustered. “Not in so many words.”
“The church was very foolish to let you go.” He gave her hand a squeeze and withdrew before she even realized she’d started to welcome it.
13
Csilla
Walking with Mihály in the evening air, dressed in borrowed finery, was like walking through a new city. He drew light wherever he went, illuminating her to the eyes of the people whether she wanted it or not. She’d never been one to be envied, but now people watched as he slowed his steps to match hers or stopped to convince a street vendor to give Csilla a taste of whatever was on offer, sometimes from his hand to her lips, smothering any objection. It was difficult to form questions while reeling from the fact that his finger had almost been in her mouth.
And no one ignored her.
They came to a row of shed houses, pressed one against the other, what had once been something larger pressed and portioned to fit in more of the faithful. He knocked on the door, and his posture shifted. He drew himself up, folded his hands, and Csilla did likewise.
The door was opened by an older man, his thin nose pinched by wire-rim glasses and his beard shot through with goose-feather gray. His face softened in recognition, but a flutter of hesitation shot over his features as he noticed Csilla.
She smiled anyway. It didn’t help.
“I was waiting for you. You alone.” He raised an eyebrow. “I recognize you, girl. You were there in the square.”
The night she’d chosen to disobey.
The man leaned on the doorway, blocking any view of the interior. “Misi, you usually don’t indulge your lovesick little doves.”
Mihály raised his hand in a placating gesture before Csilla could interject. “Please, let us in before you start making assumptions.”
It was at least warmer inside as they stepped into a single large room serving as both a kitchen and sitting area, a ladder leading to a loft above. Coughs sounded from the house next door where wall pressed against wall.
“My name is Csilla.” She might as well make this a little less awkward. A slight echo bounced off the high beams; save the table and a few wooden chests, the room was unfurnished. Perhaps he was new to Silgard. The room held things, but their haphazard placement and the lack of even a personal icon or homespun cloth gave it the air of being a mere house, no one’s home.
“Herre Tamas,” the older man introduced himself. “Sit.”
“My mentor,” Mihály explained, and Csilla’s eyes widened. Her expression earned a laugh from Tamas.
“Oh believe me, the pupil has far exceeded the teacher. I take no responsibility for him.” There was a fond note of complaint as he shifted a few papers heaped with powders and tiny tinctures in amber bottles, the kind she’d seen Mihály use for his tea, and the tablecloth was soaked in places with drops of greasy oils. “How are your spells, Misi? I’ve got something else for you to try.” He held up a small bottle, brown glass glowing amber in the firelight. “In moderation.”
Mihály examined it, then slipped it into his pocket. “I appreciate it.”
