Oh.
"No." Unfortunately. That, at least, would be something other people could understand. Something she could understand. "I just think he could use it."
"You worry for him an awful lot."
An exasperated laugh bubbled up in her throat. If that were the criteria, she was in love with the whole world. "By all the saints, I wish I were in love with him; it would certainly make things easier. But I'm not. And I worry about you too, you know."
Ilan looked abashed, a slight redness rising on his pale cheeks. "I don't need you to worry about me."
As if not needing to worry had ever stopped a single worrier. "I suppose you don't, with the new inquisitor so pleased with you."
His eyebrows raised, and she flinched, placation rising in her throat. She really hadn't meant for that to come out. "Excuse me?"
She shifted, looking everywhere but his narrowed blue eyes. "I'm..." Sorry was the first word on her tongue, but she wasn't sorry. "I thought you didn't like him. But you still took everyone in when he ordered it."
"That was always the plan, Csilla. He only thinks it was his own idea. I still loathe him, but he was momentarily useful. You don't have to like the people you work with, especially in such vital matters."
It felt like a direct dig, and she stared into her lap. Well, she'd never planned to be liked. It didn't matter.
"The result is what's important, not the means," Ilan continued. "I'm loyal to the principles of the Church. I know my place. As I thought you did."
She raised her eyes to meet his, unable to answer.
They never gave you a choice, came Tamas' mocking voice again. But she'd made a choice anyway. She'd chosen the Church. She'd chosen to help.
Sometimes it seemed like those things weren't the same, a worry always just out of sight in the dusty corners of her mind.
But Ilan would never understand that. He was already turning to his prayers, lips moving silently. With no one to glare at, his face was calm and assured, and she would have traded anything for a moment of that peace. She used to find it so easily here, taking comfort in ritual so old it left physical marks; stone worn down by praying knees and ceilings stained to smudge with candle smoke. Now everything was jagged.
He opened his eyes, and she flinched at being caught. "Yes?"
"I..." She held out her hand. "Ágnes always said that it might help Them listen. To me." Her words grew small with flustered embarrassment. No one else in the Union needed a conduit. Least of all Ilan.
If he did take her hand, she could at least absorb a touch of his confidence, if not his blessing. She would give anything for even a fraction of that self-assurance.
He pushed her hand into her lap. "You're not a child. You can pray for yourself."
She shouldn't have expected better. But her face must have shown her disappointment because he beckoned her to kneel closer to him. Together they leaned against his altar, and if she wasn't entirely comforted, at least she wasn't alone. Shared weariness was still companionable.
Please help us. Please come back.We've messed everything up, but we're trying.
The prayer was hollow. She didn't want to deliver empty thoughts to equally empty air. All her cold fingers wanted was Ágnes, her body hungry for the safety of sitting with someone who loved her. She sucked back what might have been a sob.
"You can go to her if you like." Ilan opened his eyes again, though they flickered with hesitation. "She's been worse lately." Csilla pressed her lips.
"How did you know I was thinking..."
"You're easy to read. And I do also have a mother."
She supposed he must, though she couldn't picture him as a child. The idea of his sharp expression on a small, rounded face was vaguely unsettling.
"Ágnes no longer goes on mercy rounds, and I wouldn't be surprised if she goes into anchorage soon," he continued.
The ill and elderly went into anchorage when they were ready for deliverance, spending their time in solitary prayer and writing their reflections to guide the future members of the Church. It was meant to be a joyous time, the culmination of a life lived in brilliance. But when Csilla thought of Ágnes spending her last days alone, with no visitors or care, her chest seized so strongly she lost her breath.
"I don't know if she'd even want to see me," she said after a moment. Ágnes had been so disappointed in her when she found her in the cell. She could only be more so to find that Csilla hadn't taken any of her advice.
"It's up to you. But it might be your last chance."
She opened her mouth to protest again, but the soft determination in his eyes stopped her.
"For her sake, Csilla."
The words were another church-sanctioned kindness that felt like pain. She nodded, trying to reconcile the priest who caused the agony that still rang in her ears with the man before her, urging her to do what she was made for: comfort. Regardless of his personal feelings, he understood her. She would try to offer the same.
"Thank you."
Ágnes was in her room, lap draped in fur and a copy of the writ, and she was sleeping. It was relief and pain in one. If she was too ill to tend to others and take mercy missions, she'd be sick in heart as well as in body.
"Ágnes?"
The older woman's thin lashes fluttered, and she looked down with rheumy eyes. "If I wasn't still so cold, I'd say this was a vision. A welcome one," she added at Csilla's worried frown. "Why are you here?"
"You," Csilla answered, achingly aware that wasn't the whole of it. "I hope they've been helping you." It didn't look like it.
"I help myself, and Erzsébet keeps my lap warm. I'm glad to see you," Ágnes said, and Csilla lit with guilt. "But you're still only in Silgard because of the heretic, aren't you?"
