"He wasn't preaching heresy," Csilla spoke for both of them, Mihály still shivering against her. "He was praying, proper prayers, and trying to soothe them." Csilla looked over Mihály again, gentle apologies in her touch. He hadn't wanted this. "He tried to help."

"Tried to help how?" Sandor came from behind and pushed Ilan aside, taking charge and no doubt ready to take credit.

"Nothing but the honest word," Mihály managed. "The people are scared." His words were muffled by the blood in his mouth, and when he cringed she could see a tooth sitting crooked in his gum.

Csilla's heart clenched. He hadn't even tried to defend himself. Guilt stabbed for every moment she'd doubted him. He loved the people, just as she did.

Sandor looked him over with a disbelieving glare, but it was clear he lacked the will to say it to the Izir's face.

"Bring everyone in for questioning." He looked back at Mihály. "Your kind only answers to a higher jurisdiction. You can go. But we may want answers later."

"It's not their fault," Mihály said, stepping forward and dragging Csilla with him. "I don't want them hurt. They're innocent." He directed the last statement to Ilan, who gave the smallest nod of acknowledgment that the plan had failed. They hadn't turned up anything worse than people bested by fear.

But he didn't step in to defend them.

Sandor pushed one of the staggering witnesses out of the way. "That's not for you to decide. Bring them all in."

"But they didn't do-"

"But they may know something," Ilan cut her off, and an unfamiliar anger sparked in her belly as Sandor gestured to the crowd, approving.

This was always just an exchange of information, of tools. It wasn't like he agreed to be kind.

But he had been kind to her, at times. There was none of that now as he watched the arms of the gathered be looped with hemp rope, lip curled, no longer looking at her at all.

Relief and sorrow collided in her. There was still a chance one of these people knew something that could help. It might all be over, but every one of these people was going to pay for the crime of wanting answers. For wanting peace. She turned back to Mihály, but he spoke before she could.

"Go back to Madame Varga's," Mihály said, gaze darting towards the mausoleums, his breath fast.

Csilla looked up at his swelling lip. "No. You need actual care, not a ghost." She reached up to try and check the damage, and he slapped her hand away so hard it stung.

Their faces mirrored each other in shock, and she turned away before he could offer an apology. He'd rather run away to a ghost than face the problems with her, even though she had her own bruises from trying to help him.

Csilla pressed close against the wall as the group marched towards the cathedral at Sandor's barked order. But Sandor wasn't going with them. He watched them, yes, hands broad on his hips, a picture of the church's authority.

But as they moved on, he turned heel and walked the other direction.

In the shadowed overhangs, Csilla followed.

20

Csilla

Csilla knew the doorway Sandor stopped in front of and the worn and thoughtful face of the man who opened it: Tamas.

What business could Tamas have with Sandor? He wasn’t at the riots; Mihály hadn’t even mentioned his name.

“Inquisitor?”

Surprise colored Tamas’ voice. Csilla didn’t have the luxury of moving closer to read the nuances of his expression, and the glint of his glasses shadowed his eyes. Sandor looked back at the road, quick glances left and right before stepping close.

“About your Izir...”

Their words faded as they stepped inside, and the door closed with a thud. Csilla slipped close and pressed her ear to the wood, the cracked red paint scratching her cheek. But it was a thick door built to block both heavy snows and the clatter of street traffic, and all she heard was the quick thud of her own pulse, strong under her skin.

She walked around the house, dragging her fingertips against the brick walls, searching for a crack or vent leaking whispers. It was no use. The shutters were already tight against the approaching night. The only sound was a creeping cold air and the shriek of a distant crow. Csilla crossed her arms against a shiver. The last slanting sunlight was disappearing into violet dark behind the rooftops, a few scattered stars peeking overhead.

After long minutes, Sandor emerged. The door slammed behind him, and neither spoke a parting blessing.

Csilla counted to one hundred and combed her hair forward so brown waves fell over the tender spot on her jaw. Then she knocked.

“I don’t want to...Csilla.” Tamas stepped back and looked down at her, lips pursed. “You’re here now? It’s late, and I hear there’s been trouble.” He glanced over her shoulder, but Sandor was gone. “Where’s Misi?”

“He wanted to be alone. May I come in?” She forced her voice to sound small and respectful. Suspicion would get the door slammed.

“Of course. I thought you’d been ignoring me completely.” He ushered her in and shut the door after a final glance at the streets.

Inside, the room smelled like pipe smoke laced with cloves and a strange, sharp tinge she couldn’t place. She furrowed her brow. “Ignoring you?”

He waved her over to the small table in the middle of the room where stubby candles were burning and gestured for her to sit. Yellowed wax dripped onto stale crumbs and what looked like spilled sugar, oddly rich in the humble surroundings. “I’d sent a note to Mihály asking about you. Perhaps with all the trouble he’s causing he didn’t have time to pass the message along. Is he well?” The urgency in his voice worried at her.

“Well enough.” She didn’t want to tell Tamas she’d gotten his precious student punched if Sandor hadn’t mentioned it. Tamas arched an eyebrow.

“And his spells? Have you seen anything?”

“Mmm. He drinks a lot— I’m sure it doesn’t help.” Her mind darkened, remembering the salt-sharp fever in him as he slept, long fingers crushing her wrist. “Not always just spirits. But it’s not his fault.”

Tamas sighed. “So he keeps his own faith and drowns himself in weak man’s baptism. Well. I can’t say I haven’t had a part in that, though I wasn’t expecting him to be in the well so long. And I wasn’t expecting you to stay with him.” The accusatory note in his tone was the sting of a lash. “I did warn you to leave.”

Csilla laced her hands and rested them on the table in front of her. She wasn’t here to talk about Mihály. “What did the Inquisitor want? I saw him leave.”

“He thinks I can take responsibility for Mihály. As if anyone could.” He tapped his fingers against his lips, the creases in his forehead deepening. “How is he treating you?”

“Mihály? Fine.” Better than fine when he forgot she was Csilla and not Evie. The echoes of his desperate touches lingered on her shoulders and in her hair, the clinging remains of love with nowhere to go.

“And has he managed to get you a soul?” Tamas gave her a pointed look. “Or save the city, or whatever it was you thought would save you in turn?”

She shook her head, pulling her hope around her. She wouldn’t let his needling hurt. “We haven’t had any luck at all.” Whatever evil was lurking, it was well hidden.

Tamas sighed, then picked up his pipe and lit it. He took a deep drag as a thicker smoke haze danced above them.

“Are you certain you never had a soul?” he asked. “The mercy priests didn’t take you wet from between your mother’s legs.”

His eyes locked with hers, and she flinched. It was like being stripped bare all over again.

“If I’d had a soul and lost it, I’d be dead. Do I look dead?” Anxious prickling made her throat thick, his gentle questioning jabbing her most sensitive spot. At least when she had a soul, even if it was Evie’s, no one would question her right to exist.