“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."
Fair enough point. But something in it rankled her. These people weren't just part of a puzzle to be solved or a collection of clues. They were alive, and they hurt. "But did they actually know anything?" She crossed her arms, bracing for the answer she'd come for.
Ilan paused, an annoyed twitch on his cheek. "No. Not yet. But we're not done."
Her stomach dropped. "So we've got nothing." Yanking their single thread had pulled the piecemeal cloth to tatters. "None of them are guilty at all? What do their souls say?"
The cold anger she'd seen in Ilan's eyes as he pulled her away from fists and curses returned. "Nothing so dark as murder. Certainly not possession. And none of them have seen any sign of demons here, though the stories the refugees tell are horrors."
Csilla turned away from the window and sunk down on his bed. She spread her hand on the gray blanket, imagining the seal beneath her fingers, the faint glow on the stone and dirt and bone below. Mihály would be sick over putting his followers under Ilan's striking hand for nothing, and she would be sick over bringing him the news.
She was sick now with how she'd only made everything worse for the people she wanted to help. And Ilan didn't seem to think anything of it beyond how it affected progress in their case.
He turned, a curious tilt to his head, and she realized she'd been staring. She pulled her gaze away and pretended she was studying the wall behind him instead.
"Would you like to pray? You do still do that, don't you?" Ilan asked, kneeling in front of his altar. He lit a stick of incense, and her nose twitched at the note of fir resin under the warm spice of myrrh. It called up the forest more than the worship hall.
"Not enough." She couldn't remember the last time she'd tried to properly speak to the divine. It didn't seem to matter as much when she had Mihály beside her. She gathered her skirts and got to her knees, self-conscious as she tried to maintain some semblance of grace. "I'll pray for the people you've got in there. And Mihály, I suppose." She could pray that he would rouse and be well and that he wouldn't need her quite so close tonight.
Ilan's eyes swept over her as she fidgeted with her layers. When they stopped, there was a new crease in his brow and a curl to his lip. "Are you in love with him?"