He traced the path of the fires, where flames caught like ball lightning before running up in smoke. Someone had known just where to strike, where there would be dry wood and not stone.

It wasn’t an accident, or the result of restless violence, or even a demon. It was sabotage.

And it couldn’t have come from outside the Church ranks.

Mihály knelt among the injured beneath Arany, touching burns and speaking softly as his finery was ruined. Of course now they welcomed the blessed touch of the heretic— a hypocrisy, but an understandable one. One prone figure, however, slapped his hand away.

Elder Ágnes, taken from anchorage, gray but still alive.

“I can ease your breathing, at least momentarily, if you let me,” Mihály was saying, and though the woman’s answer was lost in coughs, the shake of her head was emphatic. She hadn’t wanted any hands spared for her before, she wouldn’t want any now. That was the point of anchorage.

Ilan walked to them, gesturing for Mihály to rise, but still mildly surprised when he did so.

“Mihály. Get Csilla. This is why I was trying to bring her.”

Ágnes shifted, eyes cracking to look at him. A smear of ash had fallen over her hairline and streaked her face like a dried tear. “Csilla?”

Ilan nodded, gaze still flicking to catch anything that might tell him why this happened. “She’ll want to see you.”

Ágnes reached out and touched his hand, barely the weight of feather brush behind it. “Please watch her.”

The memory of the despair in Csilla’s eyes as he told her to go stung like a nettle whip. She wouldn’t want him to be the one who watched her.

“You’re not going to let her see you like this, are you?” Mihály spoke softly. “You took in a lot of smoke. Your lungs are already damaged. At least let me make you comfortable before she gets here.”

“I’m comfortable.” She held out a shaking hand as a ward. “I’m safe under the gold.” The old woman turned her palm up to catch a blessing.

Nothing came. The running gold was dry.

28

Csilla

The door creaked opened. Footsteps approached, and Csilla couldn’t bear to turn towards them. Punishment or salvation— either would be welcome. Either might loosen the scream that was stuck in her throat.

How could she explain all the blood? Madame Varga was still unconscious, resting but alive, on the splattered couch. Every one of her breaths was over-loud in the room, proclaiming the miracle.

And Csilla, nightgown stained, feet red and face scratched, crouched and shook. All of her mind was clouded gray until the golden moment the woman had sat up with a gasping breath. She’d brought her back, but when she tried to remember why she’d had to, everything fell apart. Her clarity had returned, but the memories were a pile of shattered glass, no way to reconstruct the original shape.

Don’t panic. Try to smile. She’d told those in dire situations to have heart over and over, she shouldn’t ignore her own very good advice.

Tamas. Syrup in her mouth, syrup in her veins, and a cold hand on her back.

And now a miracle, stinking up the room like an open carcass.

She touched her knucklebones, now starting to chafe under the dry and flaking brown. Rubbed them over and over again, until the friction hurt.

Breathe. Remember. Panicking isn’t going to help.

As if saying that ever helped anyone.

“Csilla.” Mihály approached with careful steps, avoiding the worst of the floor. “Are you all right?” He knelt next to her, his solid presence welcome.

Csilla shook her head, tracing her bones again. How had there been starlight where now there was only blood?

“You’re both fine? Where is Tamas?”

“I don’t know.” She forced herself to stand. The sodden night dress clung to her thighs, the hair around her face matted. She dropped her gaze at Mihály’s horror.

“What happened?” He reached to touch her, but stopped short at the crimson smears. “Madame Varga...” He walked around the couch, putting his fingers to the woman's neck then holding up his palm for her breath to warm her skin. “Who did this? Did you see the killer? Your face...”

Even her cheek was stained. I did. I think it was me.

She squeezed her eyes shut. “I was standing at the top of the stairs.” Saying the words brought the memory back. “Tamas was there.”

There and pushing. Insistent. Her body itched all over with grit like ashes.

“I had a knife. I think it’s still on the floor.”

By Mihály’s sound of assent, it was, and she nodded. “I thought I was asleep, but I wasn’t. I was...”

standing, feet in a puddle of blood and hands stained

breaking, something breaking deep below, clean as a snapped wishbone

watching, a carved woman’s skin stitched back together, crackled clay smoothed back by an invisible finger.

For a moment another hand had held her heart and worked through her, and she was complete.

There were no words for the horror and fewer for the ecstasy, and the sharp salt of tears stung the abrasions on her face.

I think I did a miracle.

Bells. Her clarity had returned enough to hear the bells. Of course someone would be coming. It was right that monstrosity be immediately met with punishment. No one would look at all this blood and think that she was innocent. “They’re coming for me.”

“They’re not. The church was burning.”

“Burning?” It couldn’t be an accident. Not when she’d felt the light go out.

He nodded. “And I have to tell you Ágnes was caught up in it. I was coming to bring you to her before...”

Before it was too late. Csilla’s heart clenched.

“Scrub off the blood and change.” Mihály stood and gestured to the stairs with an air of crisp finality. “Be quick about it.”

Csilla’s head snapped up at the coolness in the order. “But you should stay. What if she...” What if she woke up and remembered? “She’s going to need someone here.”