"Yes," he answered, the mark on him heavy. "Damn me, but I will."

17

Csilla

Ilan had asked that they come and look at the latest body in the morning before Matins and Prime prayers when the fewest people would be up and about. That meant far too many hours for her to keep to her own troubled thoughts. She’d excused herself to a bath as soon as they returned, and Mihály had been happy enough to leave her to it; the trip back had been awkward enough with her feigning cramps and exhaustion, Ilan split between what seemed to be mild concern for her and less mild contempt for Mihály, and the Izir himself lost in some reverie with his ghost.

Evaline’s ghost. Csilla had been wearing her clothes, likely drinking from her cups, costuming herself in her jewelry, being made a puppet of what Mihály wanted in truth. She should have put it together more quickly. She should have asked more questions, been more suspicious from the moment he was delighted to find a hollow girl among his admirers.

If Csilla had thought her guest room opulent, that was nothing compared what was given to the cherished daughter of a wealthy house. She pulled back the sky-blue window curtains, quilted with tiny pearls, each one worth a day’s portion of food and still lovely despite the dust dulling their luster. The view faced the cathedral, where the gilt of the towers turned what little light there was into haloed glow. Below were gardens of the house, beyond, public lawns that would be green come full spring. What had been designed to please Evaline also pleased Csilla. That was some comfort. Perhaps a part of her would feel at home.

But there was no ghost. She held her breath to see if anything stirred the air, but it was silent as a snowfall.

Had Mihály even told Evie what he thought about souls? Csilla dragged her fingers over the spiraled mahogany bed posts, Evie’s marble-topped writing desk, nicked with careless pen-knife strokes, the small bottles of perfume gone rancid. Little things untouched by the grieving hands still in the world.

Perhaps she loved Mihály regardless. Love often stole sense and self-interest. At least, that’s what Csilla had gathered from overheard confessions. And Mihály’s looks and charisma likely made up for his...eccentricities.

But she grimaced when she thought of his workshop, blood and dust and feathers and raw, holy power. Had Evie put up with that, too?

Perhaps she’d approved. Csilla wasn’t Mihály; she couldn’t ask directly, and she wasn’t entirely sure Mihály would give her an honest answer if she asked for his intervention.

She shut the door with reverence and walked back towards the guest wing, where lamplight glowed in a crack of pale orange under Mihály’s door.

He didn’t answer her knock at first, and she half turned away. It would be much easier to push the whole thing aside, to focus on the task and worry about the result later. But that result was going to be her soul.

She knocked louder and finally got a grunt in response.

Mihály was cross-legged on his bed, thin shirt half open and a light sheen of sweat on his brow. Empty bottles littered the sheets, and when he looked at her his eyes were only half-focused. “Did you need something?”

She should just say it.

“It’s Evaline.” Csilla paced around Mihály’s bed, sure she would wear the rug to threads with her anxious feet. It was so clear now that this was the source of his wellspring of heresy- not hidden knowledge, but his own grief-fueled hopes. “You think you can make me be her.”

He blinked and dragged a hand down his face. “I can’t make you do anything.”

No. But he knew how few options she had. How few they both had. She should have guessed earlier. All his sweet words, his gifts, his care...They weren’t for her. They were for the ghost she would become. It was a strange sort of disappointment; she hadn’t wanted the attention. It was still nice to have it after a lifetime of being something less than. The church had only seen a use for her as a weapon. For Mihály, she was a toy at best. She was his means to a future with someone better.

“You did agree to help me,” he continued. “Just as I agreed to help you.”

And he was holding up his end of the bargain. She couldn’t be the one to back out. It wouldn’t be truthful. It wouldn’t be kind.

It would leave her right back where she was, outcast and hopeless. She had to learn to like this, or she was worse than damned.

She took a deep breath. “Tell me about her, then. Tell me what happened. Tell me the truth.” Everything she knew about Evie came from the things she’d borrowed, but lace and pearls couldn’t summarize a person.

From the drawer by his bedside, he pulled a well-creased portrait of a young woman with thick black hair braided through with tiny white and red flowers and narrow-set green eyes. The curve of her lips suggested a coyness and joy in her own skin that was foreign to Csilla, and it gave her a vibrant beauty that radiated through her otherwise plain features.

“Evaline Varga was my soulmate. I realized as soon as I met her.” He stared at the portrait with the adoration the faithful reserved for worship.

“Okay.” Csilla could spare the talk of soulmates, which managed at once to seem like a childish fancy and to hit some place raw inside her. She swallowed down the lump and forced her face to remain passive. Her pains weren’t his problem, and he needed someone to listen.

“We were happy. Engaged”— his voice caught on the word— “but she became very ill. Nothing I did helped. She spent days on the edge of death, begging for deliverance. In the oldest stories, angels resurrect the dead.”

One had, at least. The angel Lajol had so loved a human he’d crossed the ether to bring her back.

“Szente Rozalia.” It was the kind of miracle that hadn’t manifested since the Severing.

Rozalia had come back perfect after touching the divine and stayed perfect long after her death, but nothing more was written of Lajol. Angels had been charged with loving the imperfect creation that was humanity, but it had rarely ended well for the angels. Some cults insisted the Severing was in part protection, a parent separating ill-suited playmates. It was only natural that Asten took the side of the better of Their projects.

Mihály’s cheek twitched. “Perfect after she was pulled back from the ether, suggesting the emulsion into glory is not instant. We would let Evaline die, then bring her back before she could be joined with the greater brilliance. My blood would provide the conduit between the physical and the divine.”

Blood was the price of creation.

“Something else came with her. At least, that’s the best I can gather.” He pulled up his own sleeve, where a pale sliver of a scar bisected the blue vein. “I wasn’t quite conscious at the time. Turns out I don’t have that much more blood than other men.”

“That’s not possible,” Csilla said, brows furrowing. “We’re protected.”

“Silgard is protected.” The plainness of Mihály’s words made her shiver. “Outside Silgard things can still be coaxed through. You saw the seal on the roads. Why else would we need priests to tend them?”

Her face must have betrayed her concern, because he gave a brittle laugh. “Don’t look so scared. The Servants of the Road do their work well. We were blastedly lucky Tamas knew the invocation to take care of it. And it didn’t not work, exactly. She came back for me. Just as I knew she would.”

He fished a flask out of his other pocket and took a long sip with a sudden waft of spiced licorice, eyes closing as he stole a second of intoxicated bliss. No wonder Tamas worried for him. Trauma was its own form of illness.

“And you want me to be her.” Even she could hear the reverence evaporating in her voice.

“You’ll still be you. Just...more.”

“How do you know? Are you just saying that to make me feel better?” It was a tasty sort of lie, sugar to make the medicine more palatable.

He startled, then deflated, his shoulders sinking. “I guess I don’t. And I guess I am.”

The honesty was sweeter.

Csilla was suddenly very aware of the damp hair curling against her neck, the night robes she wore—not that a single sinful sliver of flesh was showing. Standing before him dressed for the bedchamber was scandal enough. Mihály’s lip curled up, and she realized she’d been wordlessly staring.

“Are you wishing you’d killed me now?” The words themselves were jagged.

Csilla’s heart seized, the way it always did to see a thing in pain. She sat next to him so gently the bottles didn’t shift or clank.

“No. But I wish you’d told me before.” A slight hitch in his breath told her he was listening. It was ridiculous to think anything she could say could help the great Izir. But he was still a man, a young man at that. And his grief was still so fresh.

“Would you have believed me? Would you have agreed? Wait, no, you would have, wouldn’t you.”

She couldn’t tell if there was admiration or censure in the tone. Maybe there was a measure of correctness in both. “Yes,” she admitted. “And I believe you now.” She drew her knees up, hugging them. “Will you hate me if I’m not her?” If I’m a disappointment to you, too?

Her answer was the barest shake of his head. “I know you won’t be exactly the same; how could you be? Having a soul won’t take your memories, your own dreams. But I will love you. So much.”