But when he showed up at the Varga house, the person who answered the door wasn’t the maid he’d seen before. It was an older man, his face tired and clothing equally creased. His homespun trousers weren’t what a butler serving as the face of the house would wear, but they also weren’t what the woman would provide a family member or lover.

Ilan ran his tongue across the roof of his mouth. It likely wasn’t important, but it was another thing out of place.

“They’ve all gone, off to stick their heads in the sand at the Vasvari estate. Won’t be back till past midnight I assume, what with all the drinking.”

Gone? He could see the Varga woman and even Mihály electing to cloak themselves in the false safety of carriages and walls and money, but Csilla should have known to ignore it.

But why would she want to listen to him when he’d become just another voice of the faith denying her what she so rightly wanted? She’d told him to go with the last snarling gasp of a trapped animal.

And, despite her protests, she was besotted with the Izir, or at least by his neediness. But he recognized the chasm behind Mihály’s gaze. The Izir would swallow every drop of sympathy Csilla could offer, and it would never sate him. He would never even love her for it, and their natures would complement each other in perfect misery.

He rubbed the bridge of his nose, reins in his free hand, head already aching with regret at the dozen small hypocrisies adding up to this very bad decision. It shouldn’t matter to him if Mihály drew Csilla further into his thrall or if one elderly servant passed to brilliance without acknowledgment. It had nothing to do with saving the city, wouldn’t stop the killer’s knife or reseal the broken magic across the union.

All it would do was stall the breaking of an unfortunate girl’s heart, and the fact that it ate at him was disgusting.

And yet he still found himself riding towards the western edge of the city, away from the church spires.

The estate hosting the gathering had once been the territory seat of Lajol, still owned by the western border’s governing family. With curtains pulled back on all the windows to let them sparkle in the sun, it was as alight as the cathedral.

The attendant at the front started at seeing him. “Is there Church business here?”

He could say there was; they would not deny him entry, and they were breaking curfew. But there were softer ways that would cause less panic. No one was leaving Silgard; he’d get to the guests’ sins soon enough. There was no need to bring open threat to a party.

“I’m a guest of the Baron Koriatovych,” he said instead. “He will cover my revelry tax.”

It was disgustingly easy to slide back into this life and these words. There were few things that felt worse than getting things based on who he was, not what he did.

The attendant blinked, taken aback. “I...just a moment.”

Ilan rubbed Vihar’s neck perhaps a bit harder than was called for as the man disappeared into the dazzling house, swallowed by bodies and light. His father might say no. Ilan hadn’t returned his last letter. Or the one before that. Or the one before that, come to think of it.

The man returned, relief on his face. “Your sins are paid for, welcome.”

The words rolled heavy in Ilan’s stomach as he trotted to the entrance and passed Vihar to a waiting stable boy, with a few choice words about consequences if anything should happen to the horse while in his care.

Inside the stately grays and gold of Silgard were replaced by blush pinks and powder-blues, trays of cakes baked hastily with what scant rations were available and over-iced to hide the flaws, and pale spirits passing briskly. The air was laced with perfumes, but also the odd note of incense. And there were far more people than he expected, elbows and draped fabrics brushing against each other in hurried conversations. Across the vast foyer doors were open to a courtyard garden, where a few younger guests played lawn games on still-yellow grass.

Ilan tugged at his collar, scanning faces. They’d all passed over the gates, they shouldn’t be corrupted. They clearly felt safe here. They shouldn’t.

A cough echoed behind him.

He turned. A young man he couldn’t quite place stood with fists clenched, the high collar of his braid-trimmed coat undone to reveal scalded red across his neck. The burns were like streaked finger marks against pale clay.

“You’re prodigal now?” The man’s voice was gravelly, like he had coals in his lungs, and after a moment Ilan placed him as a third cousin or some other equally distant and grasping relation. Though the last time they’d met, the man had been a foot shorter and dumped peas in his lap.

“Filip.” Ilan inclined his head, though his eyes didn’t leave the other man’s throat, their echo on his own demon-scalded skin.

“I thought you were supposed to be protecting the divine.” He gestured to the scalding, yellowed and brittle like a fall-touched leaf at the edges. “Run away when you realized you couldn’t?”

Ilan’s fingertips tingled at the reminder. “You were attacked by a demon?” Ilan tried to remember where Filip called home, how close it was.

“Possessed,” Filip spat. “I lost myself for three days before they found a priest who could still work. And I’m not the only one. Why do you think we’re all in Silgard?”

There were briars in the eyes and tangled voices that surrounded them, and he noticed now that between jeweled brooches and golden chains was the dull protection of consecrated metal.

“Ilan.” A deeper voice cut Filip off before Ilan could answer. Posture suddenly painfully stiff with the muscle memory of childhood lectures, he turned to face his father.

The Baron Koriatovych was not tall, and the breadth that had been military muscle and hunting prowess had softened as his taste for action declined but his appetite for other things remained. His face was hale, but his left arm hung limp in a grayed bandage sling. Ilan couldn’t tear his eyes away even as his father extended his good hand.

“We haven’t heard from you in over a year.” There was reproach there that made him feel ten years old again. But there was also relief. His father was glad to see him, and Ilan was shamefully glad for it. He was even more glad to seem them safe in the city away from the dangers on the road, though he shouldn’t care for them more than any other citizen.

Maybe Sandor had been right to accuse him of clinging to the past.

“I’m here on official business,” he said, but guilt quickened his words.

“Clearly,” a lighter voice sighed, and Ilan suppressed a groan as his mother Olga grabbed him from behind with a squeeze. “I was hoping you came because you worried about us, Ilya. You look like death." The possessive grasp of his waist was colored by the long years of terror every time he was sick or injured, which had been often. She was never satisfied until she was practically absorbing her children back into the safety of her skin.

Losing them would do that to a mother.

“I’m just tired. I need to fetch the Izir and his guest. He is in attendance, yes?” There still wasn’t a sign of Mihály’s blasted head, much less Csilla.

The older man inclined his head towards the deeper parts of the house. “They haven’t let him off the dance floor all night. Your mother danced with him.”

She laughed, pearls on her ears and in her fine blonde hair catching the light. “You can’t blame us for wanting some intercession. We could all use more protection now. He even looked at your father’s arm. Which you haven’t asked about.” Her grip tightened with a prick of nails. “They had him back on the front for six months.”

The baron nodded confirmation as Ilan swallowed hard, trying to choke down the pebble of resentment that a man who had already given years of service would be called back for more fighting. “It’s a mess, all of it. I’m lucky to have come out so lightly, starting to think the old boys are....”

“Hush.” Olga clucked her tongue to stop him from finishing. He didn’t need to. Ilan knew well that there were plenty in Saika who thought the west had the right of it and independence would serve them better than the bonds of the church.

“I’ll find the Izir and his guest and take my leave.” He’d stolen enough seconds away from his mission, and if the escape was also an excuse to slip from his parents’ pleading eyes and the strangle of his own feelings, there was no harm in it.

His father caught his arm.

“If you’re going to use my name to enter parties, you could come home once in a while.” His father’s words were true enough to hurt. “The birds need shooting and the horses need riding. Asten lives within our borders too.”

Ilan raised his chin, green homesickness in his lungs. He’d sworn away attachments, wealth, and his family name. But saying you renounce a thing didn’t mean not wanting it; he’d whipped many a priest for the same selfish desire he’d never fully managed to kill at the root.

It was easy to say you didn’t love a thing when it wasn’t right in front of you.

“There is more important work. Even you have to be careful in the city now.” He turned again to his mother, her lake-blue eyes a mirror of his own. “Obey the lockdown orders, and stay away from the Izir.”

Ilan wove through the throng towards the grand room at the rear. He could already see Mihály, a head above most of the crowd, a woman dressed in wine-red in his arms with a drunken blush on her cheeks and decolletage to match. He looked around for any hint of chestnut curls; Csilla was short enough she’d likely sink into the crowd, but if he could grab her without directly talking to Mihály, so much the better.

But no such luck.

“Mihály.” Ilan strode towards him as the music died and grabbed him by the embroidered sleeve the second he let his partner go.

“Ilan?” His eyes darted as if unsure that this wasn’t some prank.