He half-lifted his shoulder in what could have been a shrug. “I’ve stayed out in worse.”

Csilla sat down next to him, deftly removing the bottle and pouring the pungent remains on the ground, just in case he decided to self-medicate further back to where he couldn’t even listen to reason. It wouldn’t affect the sleep of the dead.

He opened his eyes to glare. “That was not easy to brew.”

She let the bottle drop on the brown and trampled grass. “I don’t care.”

“Well that’s a first.” There was a depth in his eyes like the river on days it was exceptionally still and dark. How could he be so educated and handsome and yet so completely, bafflingly self-destructive? The charming man he’d shown her the first night they’d met had all but disappeared.

“I care about you,” she said finally, “which is why I am here in this cemetery and not somewhere warmer. Why don’t you go see Tamas? He wants to help you, you know. He tried to help me.” She might not have welcomed his attempts to push her away, but that didn’t make them not a kindness.

A few snowflakes drifted to kiss her hair, sharp white crystals on the breath of the night air to remind them that while it might already be third month, the weather made no promises. Csilla stared at the clouded sky in despair. Men who drank froze quickly, and she had no way to move him. She unfastened her cloak and spread it across the pair of them, settling herself in beside him. He was barely warm.

“What are you doing?” The touch of concern in his voice softened the brittleness of her irritation.

“I want to meet this soul.” She had to face the girl he wanted her to become.

Mihály sighed. “I don’t know if you’ll be able to sense her, even if she’s here, even with my power. Have you ever seen a ghost?”

Some of the novitiates whispered of things haunting the halls of the church, rites gone wrong and angry spirits, people who had loved too much to even give it up for eternal joy, those who feared eternal cold. Some of the braver ones tried to summon them and had their ears boxed for it.

Any 'ghosts' were the cats, with their quick feet and ability to appear and disappear like spirits.

“No,” she admitted. “I looked for them, though.” For a while, imagining her family had died had seemed a more pleasant fantasy than the idea that they’d left her. “No one came and asked for me, so I thought…” She’d checked and wiped every monument in the cemetery, offered candles and wine and endless tears. The spirits hadn’t seemed to notice, though the mercy priests praised her secretly selfish dedication to the dead.

Her chest squeezed with the shame of it.

Mihály rubbed his eyes as if trying for sobriety. Then he shifted and put an arm around her, pulling her to his chest with an awkward thump.

It was like being embraced by a drunk but friendly bear and she squirmed, but he held fast. Finally, she sighed and relaxed, letting her cheek settle on the coarse wool of his coat.

His breath slowed. He was falling asleep again.

Tiny snowflakes landed on her makeshift blanket, sparkling crystals glittering for a moment before melting into dark spots on the fabric.

Where were the ghosts? And where in this cemetery did she belong?

The sounds of the city beyond the walls grew fainter with people making their way in for the night. Her nostrils burned with every frosted breath as the snowfall picked up.

“What would it take to get you to leave?” she asked finally. Waiting for ghosts was all well and good, but his split lip needed cleaning.

He muttered something that sounded enough like “nothing” to make her roll her eyes. “Come on. You miss her all day. Let her miss you one night. And Madame Varga will worry if you don’t come back.”

“We have plenty of time.” He lolled his head to rest it on her, and she sighed at the extra weight.

Did he not realize the early dark was already here? Finally she hit upon the one thing she could offer. “Come back and I’ll stay with you all night. You won’t be alone, and you won’t be cold.”

He hummed interest against her skin and his hand slid from her shoulder to skate down her arm. She flushed, but at least she had his attention.

“Last time, you left.”

She turned her head to look into his eyes, their faces so close he was all she could see, his breath warming her cold-nipped skin. She hadn't known he'd realized when she'd slipped away.

“This time I won’t.” She reached up and brushed the cut on his mouth, crusted with darkening blood, before he leaned farther in. “Can’t you heal yourself?”

“I could,” he conceded, turning to kiss her fingertips and smiling at her shiver. “But I like being tended to.”

She stifled a groan and closed her free hand around the cloth on his coat. “Come on. We’ve had a bad day, but…”

He caught her by the chin, and she flinched where his thumb jabbed the blooming bruise. “And you want to make it better?” He reeked of potent wormwood, his honey-brown eyes liquid dark. “Did you see them? They don’t trust me anymore. And do you think any one of them was possessed?”

She softened at his pain. No matter his faults, he loved his followers. “They’re scared.” His hand slid to her neck, the pressure of each finger a blade against the skin, cutting her voice to a choking whisper. “We’re all scared. But staying out here won’t help. It’s time to go...“ She faltered, tongue heavy. The Varga estate wasn’t home, and never would be. “back.”

He paused, face lit with desperation and moonlight. “And you won’t leave?”

She regretted the offer now that his hands were hot in her hair and against her waist, but she knew the rawness in his voice- she had the same painful spot, well-coated as it was with faith. “No.” She stopped pulling and leaned into him instead. This cheek pressed to his woolen coat, the guilty ache under her ribs…They were just another way of showing mercy. “I won’t leave.”

21

Csilla

Ascream echoed in the dark cathedral hallway, bouncing off stone and into Csilla's ears. She shuddered, stomach clenching, offering a small and useless prayer of solace as she rubbed her fingers together, nails stained with traces of Arany's gold that she'd brushed as she passed the statue. No one had given her a second look as she entered. Wrapped in a wool cloak dyed a dear robin's egg blue, brown hair uncovered and curled loose around her shoulders, she looked like any other citizen come to beg something of the church, not belong to it.

It was a part to be played, but it fit worse than the dress.

Perhaps she should have waited for Mihály to fully wake, but it had been enough of a challenge to get him in motion and into a proper bed before sunrise. At least he'd slept; with him breathing in her hair and kicking her in the throes of sweat-soaked nightmares, she'd barely had a chance to close her eyes. She'd kept her promise, but what sleep she had gotten felt haunted. All she could see was the cracked eyelids of corpses and her ears were full with the whispers of a dead girl, urgent and rattling.

When she'd tried to rouse him in the morning, even over-steeped tea and thick liver paste on thicker toast with enough paprika to make her sneeze hadn't been enough to chase away his hangover and he waved her off with a groan and promise to join her later.

She was starting to wish she'd just waited. While she wanted to know if there had been any payoff to their gamble, she wasn't sure she wanted to face Ilan. Or if he'd even want to talk to her— he certainly seemed to have gotten what he wanted last night. No matter what small favors Ilan did for her, she shouldn't forget where his loyalty was. The muffled cries of his victims were as much her fault as if she'd been the one flogging them.

When the man limped out, cradling his shirt to his chest as red welts swelled on his back, Csilla's stomach lurched. She stepped forward, wanting to offer something, but her hands and pockets were empty, and he wouldn't meet her eyes to let her soothe him with words.

Ilan followed minutes later, starting at her but recovering quickly. He didn't look put out in the slightest, save a light sheen of sweat from the exertion. She swallowed back an admonishment, knowing her anger should be turned in at herself. Ilan had never claimed to be anything but what he was, and she was the one who had put Mihály's followers into his hands.

"Did any of them tell you anything helpful?" That would at least make this worth it.

Ilan's gaze slid across the empty hall, silently chiding her for recklessness. He gestured for her to follow him.

Ilan's room wasn't any different from the small rooms used by the other clergy members privileged enough to be granted privacy, everything simple and serviceable. As he shut the door, though, he reached up and slid an extra chain lock on the inside. The untarnished iron was stark against the centuries of wear around it.

"You shouldn't be here. What if it hadn't been me in there? What excuse would you have given then?"

She didn't have an answer, and her shoulders sank. "Well I could hardly not come. You don't have to beat them, you know." They hadn't punished Mihály's followers before, merely warned them, and surely being dragged into the church would make them honest in their answers. "They'll think themselves martyrs."

"Consider it a blessing. I was able to interrogate them for something they actually did. Everyone in the city is going to end up on the rack at some point if Sandor keeps on, and at least this might be useful."