Csilla let out a soft breath, twisting her hands together. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad to hear him out. Ilan was the striking hand of the same Church that wanted Mihály gone, but he also had details they needed.
“If you let me take you to Mihály, he can explain things better than I can. But you have to listen. Regardless of what heresy you hear, you have to remember that we are trying to save the city. Like you.”
Ilan’s jaw tightened, weighing the choice. Finally, he gave a little nod.
Csilla swallowed hard and motioned for him to follow her. He was no demon, but angels had once been equally terrifying in their justice—perhaps all the more so because the punishments they dealt were deserved.
15
Csilla
Csilla slunk into the foyer, cringing at the scrape of door over jamb that echoed over-loudly in the morning silence. Ilan clucked his tongue as his gaze swept the walls papered in striped pink and gilt and stained cherry of the stairs.
“So this is the Varga house.” His tone was dry, unimpressed. No doubt it was too ostentatious for his tastes. Ágnes had been right to look at her with such concern. In these clothes, in this place, it would be hard for anyone to believe she hadn’t abandoned everything she’d been brought up to. Or trust how dearly she wished to go back to it.
Where should she take him? Csilla bit her lip. This wasn’t the church, and she didn’t know the household’s rhythms. If she left Ilan while fetching Mihály, some servant might stumble across him and set off a panic before she even had time to come up with a plausible explanation.
“This way, please” she said, leading him past stone-eyed portraits of ancestors to the room she stayed in, though having him near where she slept shifted her stomach.
The bed had been made with an invitingly fresh quilt sometime in her unwilling absence, and the plumped pillows set off an aching desire to lie down and be warm. There were new dresses draped across a chair as well, piled embroidered rose and gold and summer sky blue, a layered cake of luxury waiting for her. She held her head up, imagining this was her normal routine and she didn’t stink of cellar dirt. With stiff arms she transferred the pile to the bed, resisted the plush call once more, and gestured to the chair.
“Please sit. I’ll go get Mihály.”
Surely he could hear her heart hammer as she left. What had she done, bringing him here? If this was some kind of ruse, they’d face worse than jail with what she’d admitted. Mihály thought they had been brought together for a purpose, but there was only so long even Asten’s grace would stall.
Mihály ‘s room was empty.
Csilla groaned. Was he trying to find her? Perhaps he didn’t know that she’d been let go and was looking for her.
The thought unspooled a little of the frustration. It was warming to imagine someone bothering to check after her when she’d spent so long ignored in the church’s corners.
And it was better than imagining he’d forgotten about her and traipsed home with someone adoring as soon as she was out of sight, not even realizing there had been any fuss at all.
She shut the door and leaned back against it with a heavy breath, letting the wood take the full weight of her exhaustion for precious stolen seconds. But that was all she could allow herself with the wolf waiting.
When she returned to the room, apologies already on her dry lips, Ilan was standing over the pile of dresses, examining the lace on the sleeves of a delicate goldenrod day dress accented with fawn-brown velvet leaves. She couldn’t read his expression—disapproval at the styles, some of which were not modest enough for Silgard’s tastes, or surprise such things would be given to someone like her?
“They belonged to Madame Varga’s daughter,” she explained as he smoothed out a crease in a rose-pink skirt.
“The dead one?”
Well, he wasn’t known for tact. Csilla nodded.
He tilted his head. “Must be strange for her to see them on you.”
Csilla scowled, though he was right. “It would be a waste if no one used them.” Ilan looked doubtful but made no further comment, so Csilla continued. “It seems Mihály is still out.”
Ilan returned to the chair and leaned back, seeming perfectly content to wait in silence. Unsettled panic fluttered in Csilla’s ribcage. It could be hours before Mihály returned, and Ilan was apparently just going to sit and stare at her. It would have been too much to hope that he could sit ten minutes without judging someone. She’d always tried not to think about those who were drawn to mercy’s opposite, knowing that the sick and helpless guilt she felt at seeing people split open for the faith was her own weakness. After all, the church had deemed his service far more acceptable than hers.
Seconds crawled by. Csilla folded the dresses, then refolded them. She sat on one side of the bed, then the other, then finally moved to the window and pretended to be absorbed in watching the nightsoil carts making their morning stops.
“Are you thirsty?” she finally asked in desperation. The gnawing in her stomach and scratching weight of the silence trumped the awkwardness of possibly explaining to the madame why she’d brought Ilan into her home. “I’m sure I can find something.”
He inclined his head slightly, and she jumped on it as agreement, motioning for him to follow her. Down in the sitting parlor, Csilla stared at the tarnished bell chains, her hand half-raised to pull. It was so early that even though there were likely servants up, they were also likely busy.
“That one should call the kitchen,” Ilan said, pointing to the right-most chain. “if it’s like most other houses.” He didn’t meet her eyes as he said it.
There was no reason for embarrassment; it wasn’t surprising he spent time in well-off homes. Everyone sinned; it was just a matter of which sins you could afford and how you bought back your brilliance. Csilla pressed her lips thin and pulled. Within a few minutes, a maid came to the door, her breath huffing and kitchen cap askew. A smudge of white flour on her chin and egg yolk on her sleeve showed how they’d interrupted the breakfast preparation.
“Yes?” She caught her breath and bowed slightly, though there was well-deserved annoyance in her eyes.
“Could you bring us something?” Ilan interrupted before the woman could ask why she was being called. “Water, at least.”
The woman gestured to her dusted state. “I’ve just got to baking, but I can find something I’m sure...”
“Please do,” Ilan said, turning to the low lounge.
“Thank you!” Csilla called after.
Ilan was already sitting, one foot resting on his knee and looking strangely at home despite the incongruity of his plain cassock against wine-dark velvet. Csilla settled across from him, arranging her skirts.
“Did you grow up with servants?” she asked. He did have a certain commanding air.
His narrowed eyes told her he wasn’t going to answer. She sighed.
“Inquisitor,” she squared her shoulders, trying to appear like the lady she wasn’t, “if we can’t speak to each other, we won’t be able to work together.”
