Csilla pressed her lips thin. Something else to be on the lookout for. She’d seen various kinds of “spells,” shaking fits, catatonias, ravings. Though by the pungency of the treatment, she wondered if any supposed affliction was simply the tremors of someone kept too long off their spirits.
“So what are you doing with this strange little bird? I saw you with that wine, child,” he said before Csilla could jump in. “You think he can help you?”
The tone of his voice twisted her hope into a pitiful thing, like he thought her a child as well, sure she could get a miracle. How much did he know of what Mihály did well away from the eye of Asten?
“I-”
“What do you know about demons?” Mihály cut in. “You were a servant of the road, you tended seals.”
This man had also left the Church. Now that she was looking, the old cut scars of his palm were visible, though long since faded into other wrinkles.
“Getting right to the point, eh? You’ve been speaking to the refugees? They know more of broken seals than I do.”
“Refugees?” Csilla frowned. There had been more people coming to the city, but refugees and war orphans were tended closer to the lines. Silgard was at the center of all but particularly close to none. “I noticed more people, but I thought...”
“Thought they were coming to welcome the Incarnate back from his holy campaign?” There was a wry twist to the man’s lips. “Maybe he will have vanquished all the Shadow breaking free before he returns. May Asten’s will prevail.”
Csilla reached for a mark that was no longer there, her hand brushing gauzy fabric instead of iron. “All the more reason to keep the city safe.” She swallowed and swiped a finger over her knuckles instead. Children learned the four points of their finger joints could stand in for the consecrated tool.
Mihály put a hand on her shoulder, though it felt more like being pushed into acting as a shield than serving as comfort. “Csilla has asked for my help in catching the killer.”
Tamas stiffened, heavy brows drawing together. “You have no business with that.”
“Do I not? This is my home, too.”
The man shook his head. “Don’t get involved. You’re too valuable...”
“More valuable than anyone else in the city?” There was no vanity in his tone.
“Honestly, yes. And I don’t see what either of you get out of this. Unless...” He turned to Csilla, about to speak, when Mihály cut him off.
“She’s agreed to help me, and I’ll help her.”
The older man let out a woofing breath. “Oh no. You leave the poor girl and whatever savior complex she’s got alone.”
“Sir.” Csilla’s fingers rubbed nervously together, though she tried to keep them still. “I don’t have many options, and he is helping me...”
“Did he tell you why he came to this city in the first place?” The man leaned back, crossing his arms over his thin chest. At this angle the light caught his glasses, hiding his eyes.
“To preach, I assume.”
Tamas’ laugh caught her by the throat. “What a dear thing you are. Cathedral-raised?”
Her little nod felt like a confession. Tamas may have left the Church, but the judgemental look she knew from growing up was still stamped on his face.
“Misi is here because he was expelled.”
The Izir’s face was dark, but he didn’t protest. Csilla turned, her mouth dry. The little dead things in his barn...it wasn’t the first time he’d tried to change the world with blood. He’d shown her as much.
“He has always been the first to try things he shouldn’t, and he went too far. He came out of his experiment thinking that despite the…mistake…he could still get what he wants, that it was everyone else who was wrong. And if you’re now what he wants, you’d be smart to run.”
Something small knotted in the pit of Csilla’s stomach. Tamas said run, but there was nowhere to go. Silgard was her home.
“Do you think he can give me a soul?” That was what she needed to focus on. Saving the city and herself so she could go back to saving others.
Tamas paused, and Csilla’s hopes dangled on the filament of the second. It wasn’t a yes. But it wasn’t a no.
He reached for a pipe, hands fumbling with the tobacco tin. “This is dangerous stuff.”
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.”
