The city truly wasn't that confusing, much as pilgrims complained that the districts bled together and the door fronts didn't always face the expected direction. It was simply much like the divine itself: difficult to parse when in the thick of it and best understood through long study and the occasional overview from on high. She'd had almost twenty years, and plenty of time hanging out cathedral windows, to take in the whole.

Her calculations were almost correct. It was only the wobble of a loose heel that slowed her. Shoes donated for charity had already walked a fair number of miles.

Csilla pulled the iron of the back gate closed with a sigh, adding 'mend a boot' to her list of tasks.

"Csilla. I've been waiting."

The quiet voice drew Csilla up short and dispersed the mental calculation. Elder Ágnes, her face shadowed by the peak of her red hood covering the frost-rime white of her hair. The head of the mercy order must have been waiting for her arrival, and watching in feast day colors. Csilla bit her lip. Had she missed something?

"I'm sorry, Elder. There was just so much to do. I'm late for dinner, aren't I?" Whoever she'd inconvenienced would no doubt be cross, and the resulting next interaction even more awkward, and she'd rather just quietly do all the work herself.

Ágnes put a hand on her shoulder, urging her through the low door. "There's something else for you to do."

"Hm?" Csilla let herself be led back to where she slept, a windowless side room of the cloisters crammed with three small beds for visiting penitents to share. They came and went. She never left.

A set of gray robes lay on the bed, the sleeves and hems embroidered with a dance of red poppies and lined in matching scarlet. The uniform of the church's mercy priests, the inverted match of Ágnes' colors.

"Who died?" She jumped to take the bundle before the older woman could reach for them. If there were empty clothes, it was because a body had left them. Ágnes was sick enough without handling the things of the dead. Illness had a tendency to creep, and the mercy priests were more often than not tending their own.

But the older woman shook her head, smile lines deepening around her heavy-lidded eyes. "They're for you, dear."

Csilla ran her fingers across the wool. The fabric was stiff with newness, not a single worn hem or stain. "For…me?"

Ágnes nodded, her smile soft. "The Prelate has decided it's time. Change and come quickly."

"Now?" There was baby spit in her hair, and she had a broken boot, and she still wasn't entirely sure she hadn't misheard.

The woman's posture sharpened. "Unless our Lord has told you differently, yes, now."

Csilla flushed. Elmere would be thrilled when she brought his next dose. "But..."

"But?" Ágnes's face softened, stepping forward to take Csilla's cheeks in her dry palms. "My sweet girl, this is your reward. Be happy."

"I am!" The words came out too quick, too young, and Csilla folded her hands together, half in reverence and half to hide the tremble. "I just never expected..."

She'd never expected anything. Hoped, yes. Prayed, often. Those were comforts. Expectations were what hurt.

But the wool was freshly dyed, the robe cut short for her scant height. Ágnes was dressed for celebration. The Prelate was waiting for her.

Ágnes ran a hand through Csilla's chestnut hair, untangling the wind-mussed curls with a mother's practiced grace "Quickly, Csilla."

Csilla stripped her dirty overdress. Cold puckered her skin as she slid the new robes over her linens, breathing deep of the smell of wool unstained by human sweat.

She adjusted everything so it fell properly, and knotted the apron with care. There was only one last piece.

In Ágnes' palm was a mark of four, the cross-shaped silver reminder of the cardinal virtues. The metal glowed warm like a firefly at dusk, reacting to the consecration on it and the goodness in Ágnes' touch. The connection between the creative spark of the divine and the brilliance of the human soul, still visible thanks to Arany's sacrifice.

Csilla kept her hands fisted at her side. If she touched it herself, she would break that fragile spell. Ágnes pinned it to her chest with a smile of pride.

The last thing Ágnes offered was a dark cloth, and Csilla bowed as it was wrapped over her eyes. Everyone save the Prelate and the Incarnate themselves went to the heart of the church blind.

They walked for long minutes before Ágnes stopped, and papery lips brushed Csilla's forehead. This close she could hear the rattle in the woman's lungs, a sharpness with each breath that dug into Csilla in matching agony. "Whatever happens, remember that our job is to serve. Trust in the church."

Csilla furrowed her brow as a stronger arm took hers to lead her the rest of the secret way. That should go without saying. She served, and she trusted, even as she was led into the depths.

The seal was well hidden in the labyrinth below the church, surrounded by centuries of tunneling passages that stretched from the sacred heart and out of the city, now mostly stoppered with sinkholes and refuse. She'd learned the cathedral like she'd learned her letters, and though this path was new, the broken steps and cool damp air of the underground were old friends. Her fingers dragged along the water-eaten wall as she was led through and back around bends and curves and odd corners, brushing lichen and the splintering wayward roots tunneling through the walls, occasionally catching on something that might have been bone. Before the orders came to save the land and burn the dead, Silgard had been built on the backs of the faithful.

She'd crept below often in her childhood to search for blessed Arany's sacrifice, breath heavy as she made prayers that wouldn't be heard and waited for the blossom of a miracle in the dark.

She'd never found the seal, but today there would be a miracle. It wasn't Szente Gellért's glass forest or Rozalia's perfect corpse, but a welcome for a soulless girl was miraculous enough.

The door to the sanctum groaned like a dying thing as it opened, and the cloth was removed from her eyes.

Elder Abe, Prelate of Silgard and second only to the Incarnate in Asten's eyes, ushered her into the prayer chamber, bony fingers pressing her lower back. In his other hand was a knife, handle twined gold and silver, inlaid with a topaz eye ever-glowing with inner fire. Csilla pressed her palms together, eyes on the holy glitter of the blade in rushlights.

It was what she'd been waiting for.

The other orphans had made a game of telling her there was a family who'd asked for her, and would help her comb her hair and offer her clean handkerchiefs, then laugh as she sat outside the church for hours. They'd bet sweets and chores on how long she'd wait, but even after she'd caught on, Csilla still went. There was always a chance that the next time they'd be telling the truth, and hope was stronger than the potential for humiliation.

Standing before the Prelate felt exactly the same.

"Csilla," he greeted, inclining his head. His gray hair was clipped short, thinning to bald at the crown. "Ágnes has you ready for your role I see. It suits you."

"Sir." She dipped low in response, her voice barely audible, the rest of her silently begging him to say why she was there and assure her thrumming heart that this wasn't another jest.

He wasn't wrong, though. The dove-gray wool, with its slaughter-red lining peeking out at her wrists and throat, did suit her. She might not have a soul, but she'd served the city too long for it not to live in that empty place inside her, molding her to minister to its needs. Now anyone who saw her would see her for a member of a mercy crew and know she was living shelter for their pain.

"I remember when they found you," Abe said, and she tilted her head at the fresh wistfulness in his tone. Ordinarily it would please her, but at the moment it was a torture worse than anything the inquisitor could produce. Every second of uncertainty was a misery. "At Arany's feet, in the snow."

Csilla shivered, as if the frost on her skin had lingered. She'd heard the story so many times it was practically a memory. A baby near-dead from cold at the statue's base, scalp weeping blood through crusting scabs and speckled with Arany's miraculous gold. A baby who left her baptism water cold and clear, whose touch never sparked the smallest reaction in anything from a church threshold to a relic.

"And I thank you for your mercy in taking me in, Prelate." They could have done a thousand things with her— sent her to a farming family in need of extra hands, sent her to the burning pit at the top of the world said to be where creation broke and brought forth Shadow. They could have simply given her a large dose of tonic, and rocked her over the veil with lullabies. But they let her live. Every thudding beat in her chest was a reminder.

The thousand flat eyes of the angels watched them from the stuccoed wall, flaking old paint like paper tears. Their golds and whites had dulled to a dead, smoky brown, expressions lost to time. He beckoned her farther into the chamber, light lost with each step.

Beckoned her to the seal.

It was nothing like she'd pictured. It was said to sparkle like the endless dazzle of winter stars over Silgard. It was said to glow like the eyes of the angels, ever watchful over the humanity they loved.

What lay on the ground was a dim, foggy etching with charcoal flecks darkening what light still shone. Tarnished gold flickered across the eight points like the frantic heart of a dying bird.

Abe moved behind her, fingers curling into her shoulders. "The Church has found a use for you, Csilla. If you still wish to serve."

She barely heard with the horror before her. If the seal was dying, the power of the Church was, too.

"What's wrong with it?" This couldn't be everything.

The Prelate ignored her, hands still cages on her. "Do you also know the Izir who has graced our city of late? Nemes Mihály?"