A man pushed into Ilan’s side as he jostled towards Mihály. “Izir, I’ve been waiting.”

“I’ll say a blessing for your family,” he waved him off, taking Ilan by the arm instead. “What are you doing here?”

“Where is Csilla?” He’d keep the conversation as short as he could. From the corner of his eye he could see his mother waiting, poised with the perfect stillness of a hunter with quarry in sight. If he didn’t hurry, he was going to be cornered and hugged again.

“She’s at home. And I’m sure she doesn’t want to see you.” Mihály’s expression became a hairsbreadth more measured. Ilan knew it for what it was now— a quick calculation, gauging which version of himself would get the most favorable result.

Ilan, however, hated every face he had. “She left already?” He’d congratulate her for her good sense, but he also wanted to hit something.

Mihály frowned. “She was never here. She wasn’t feeling well.”

A prickle slid down Ilan’s spine. “That’s not what I was told. If she is here and you just want her to yourself, I need you to think beyond your own ego for a moment. Ágnes is going into anchorage. Csilla should know.”

“Told by who?” The music was starting up again, and with it came people with outstretched hands, reaching for Mihály, asking to be granted the next turn. With a graceless tug Mihály had Ilan on the dance floor. “Talk here, otherwise people will keep interrupting. I’ll let you lead.”

For fuck’s sake. As if they needed this to be more ridiculous. He could smell the brandy on the other man’s breath. “Someone is dying, and you want to dance?”

“Someone’s always dying,” Mihály countered. “Why shouldn’t we dance?”

“I know this might be hard to get through your head,” Ilan said as he yanked Mihály in rough steps that at least effectively kept them from getting run into, and prayed his parents weren’t watching what he did with his years of dancing instruction, “but you owe something to her. Whether you like her or not.”

“You don’t know the first thing about what I owe her...”

Ilan’s heel dug into Mihály’s toes, and though he knew the crack was shoe leather he dearly wished it was bone. The stumble sent them too close to another couple, and Ilan pushed Mihály out of the way, off the floor, with a palm in his ribs to match the verbal jab.

“For the virtues, the one redeeming trait you have is that you seemed to care about the people you served. Or was that a lie, too? You like the worship, not the good that would earn it? And when Csilla asks you to be the least bit accountable, you disappear?”

Mihály’s eyes flashed dark. “I told you she’s sick. I left my mentor with her.”

Well that was comforting.

“And you’re here, drinking and swanning about like there’s nothing else that could possibly require your attention. Is she not even worth the tiniest bit of the power you get your worship from? Whether you like her or not you didn't have to leave her ill.” If there was anything that could crack Ilan's faith, it was this: that Asten had let such a selfish man wield divine power.

There was something stricken in Mihály's gaze, the look of a bird stunned by a sun-blinded collision with a window. The song ended, the last crying violin notes fading among a smattering of applause and rising chatter.

“What’s this?” Madame Varga appeared at Mihály’s shoulder. “Come, Misi, it’s my turn.”

Mihály looked between the woman and Ilan, jaw clamped tight. Ilan’s lip curled.

“By all means, stay and dance, Izir. This is probably the best place for you. I’ll figure out the miscommunication on my own.”

“No,” Mihály said. “You’re right. I’ll go with you.”

The woman went a shade paler than her powder.

“Nemes Mihály, how dare you take my hospitality and repay it with this humiliation,” the woman hissed. “You cannot leave me in front of everyone like this. I’ll have to leave too, and I’m not—”

Mihály cringed, but when he spoke his voice was firm. “I have to get Csilla.”

“It can wait-”

“It can’t,” Ilan said. She would sigh, and the Church would lose her money, but the Varga fortunes were running thin already. It wasn’t much of a loss. He grabbed Mihály by the hand, ears burning but not trusting him not to run back to the easy adoration and flowing drink. “Come with us if you have to save face.”

He could breathe more easily when they were back out front, the night wind cool on his sweltering skin. At least the woman had the sense to stay quiet, though her eyes held myriad complaints and she held Mihály’s sleeve.

“Call your carriage, Madame. I’ll ride beside.”

In the shadows inside Mihály was placating her, face as false as anything painted on the party guests as he raised her hand to his lips. By her answering frown, she wasn’t believing him.

Ilan took a deep breath, about to lean over and say something, but there was something new on the wind: the sharp burn of smoke and distant screams. Vihar tensed beneath him, ears strained forward, and the carriage horse jigged as running people came into view.

Whistles and bells joined the cacophonous, bright sounds clawing the dark.

“What’s going on?” Ilan shouted to one of the people running, a large empty milk pail swinging on his arm.

“The church,” the man yelled back. “The church is on fire.”

26

Csilla

“Csilla.”

The sound of her name barely passed through the foggy haze spinning in her head. She stood at the window, hands resting on the sill just to feel something cold. Orange sun dipped through the little cracks between close-crammed buildings, drawing night as it slipped down.

Time moved strangely. Her breaths were no longer than they had been, but every time she looked at the sky, the light had shifted. Stars sprouted and moved like kicked-up sand, clouds melded into black and reappeared as if the divine had breathed them.

She must be ill. It was strange. She had never been truly ill before. She’d never caught any of the outbreaks of scarlet rashes and spots that spread through the other children. Even the oldest fish never sent her running to the privy. None of her care had ever sent her to their own mercy wards. Ágnes always told her that her health must be proof that she was at least a little blessed.

And now that was gone, too. Her fingers curled, nails further cracking the web of tears in the old paint.

“Csilla," Tamas’s hand closed around her upper arm. “Lie down.” At his touch something seemed to crawl under her skin.

“I’m doing better. I think.” She smiled, though the movement set off another small pounding in her head, and her mouth felt coated in metal, like she’d been licking one of the old snow-chilled spoons they gave teething babies. Whatever Tamas had fed her with in her lucid moments was certainly flavorful.

“Indeed.” Tamas came close and tilted her chin, pulling at her eyelids. His thumb only added to the pressure, and she flinched as he withdrew, black and purple spots blooming in her vision.

“Drink this,” he said, offering a bottle. “It restores the blood.” She frowned, but politely downed it. The thick wash of liver-flavored tonic hit her empty stomach in a jolt. It was certainly potent medicine. As she lay back down, he took her newly cut arm, scabbing over and flaking. “And he didn’t even think to heal it properly.”

She wanted to say that they’d been well distracted with Csilla perhaps dying, but her tongue was heavy, and everything was just out of focus, like the altered reflections in shifting water. From behind Tamas, she thought she saw a glimpse of someone clad in gray, moving like dust in the air.

Was she seeing ghosts now? She shook her head. No ghosts would care enough to come for her.

Below a door slammed hard enough to feel through the floor. Tamas’ lips curved into a grim smile. “And now I will help you further.”

Heavy-limbed and dizzy, she couldn’t move as Tamas’ finger traced something on her arm, just as Mihály had. The pressure behind her eyes increased, like there was something else aching to squirm out of her, thin fingers combing through her eyelashes, claws reaching behind her sockets. Burrowing in her like a new den.