"There might not be," Ilan said quietly as the little star burned cold in her palm and his skin warmed the back of her hand beneath. "But you're our best hope."

When he said it like that, she could breathe again and almost believe she was.

They'd searched the cracked eastern walls, turned over what was left in the library— all the most important papers had been moved out with the clergy for safekeeping— until the both of them were voiceless with exhaustion. There was no way to know what was happening on the streets while wrapped in the walls of the church, not with the demon or Mihály. Sound was muffled, the sky still dark, and it was very like being the only people left alive.

She cupped Ilan's mark like a child holding fireflies, the glow hazy against the folds of her palms. When she closed her eyes, she could feel the filaments of divinity still woven through the church, a web tattered to the center. They whispered to her like the call of water washing over rock, cleansing and wearing it down at once. She glanced to mention it to Ilan, and saw him leaning against the wall. His head had dropped forward, a fan of blonde hair obscuring his face. She had half a mind to find a cushion to and attempt to make him comfortable; it wasn't like anyone else would get any more use out of it. But he'd only wake up and be cross with her.

The thought was strangely tender. He could be cross with her all he liked as long as he stayed honest.

He opened his eyes, and she flushed to be caught staring.

"Did you find something?" he asked, wincing at the crack of a joint as he straightened his neck.

She shook her head. Maybe they should both go to sleep, but trying to sleep only meant thinking of death and loss. In the liminal space before drifting off it would be easy for her mind to forget everything but the familiar walls of the church building and make her think Ágnes was alive, only for the crash of reality seconds later. It was sharply painful every time.

"It's almost morning. I don't know how much time we'll have before they start sending acolytes to collect the bodies."

Ilan nodded. "It's not just acolytes we have to worry about. Whoever sabotaged the church wanted everyone out for a reason. Mihály might get Tamas, but I doubt he was working alone. There could already be an infestation."

They both paused at his words, but the air was empty of other breaths or footfalls. The cathedral might as well have been a crypt.

"You think they'll go after the seal themselves? They've already ruined the city."

"If they can find it?" His lips thinned. "I have no doubt. We keep going."

But the western walls seemed equally unwilling to give up any secrets, with no catches for searching fingers.

"Can't you sense it?" Ilan complained as she slapped her palms flat against stone in frustration.

He certainly thought a lot of this supposed new divinity. "I'm sorry, I can feel it's there, but I don't have the ability to dissolve layers of rock. Perhaps ask your dog."

He raised an eyebrow at her testiness, and she forced back another apology.

"If he were as good at scenting holiness as he is at corpses, we'd be set. But he doesn't even seem to like Mihály."

Mihály. The fact that the Izir wasn't back was worrying in itself. They didn't know where the demon was or what else Tamas might have planned.

This wasn't how the church was meant to be. Stripped of the human element it was cold, only stone and wood and glass. Csilla swallowed a lump in her throat. Maybe she'd been alone in finding it a place of hope. Maybe there had never been more to it at all.

"Did you hear that?" Ilan asked, catching her arm and pulling her behind him. She hadn't, too wrapped up in her own thoughts.

Ordinarily the footsteps would have been covered by voices and song, but in the silence they were clear. A door at the end of the hall creaked open, and two long shadows fell across the aisle.

Sandor. And Madame Varga behind him. The woman's eyes were triumphant, but there was a tiny note of fear.

"That's the girl," the woman said. "The one who attacked me."

Csilla's mouth fell open. "But you're fine, and we said..."

Sandor shook his head. "You said you were going to the church to get help, and then you actually came here. Stupid. She had to find me herself and tell the story."

"There is no story," Ilan spat.

"No story in a woman waking up surrounded by blood? A knife in the room?" Sandor stepped closer. "Show me your hands, girl."

Csilla clenched her fists. She'd washed, but she couldn't have caught every drop. There would still be signs of blood in her nailbeds or in her hair.

"The woman is alive." Ilan didn't move from his place between Csilla and Sandor. "She clearly drank too much. Perhaps she cut herself, or maybe she's yet to have her courses stopped. Blood alone is not evidence."

Sandor's teeth were the grin of a trap closed on a fox's leg. "Still, we have some questions. Come, Ilan. If you're so concerned with the truth, you can help."

Csilla was unable to speak. Any truth would be punishment, a lie unacceptable. Sandor examined her face, her hands that weren't quite clean enough. At least her cheek was better, only faint whitish lines where there had been inflamed scarlet.

"And you say you had nothing to do with this? The woman was soaked in blood. The prints around her body were little feet."

And if they removed Csilla's boots they'd see the stains between her toes.

Ilan stepped in front of her. "The woman was able to call for help and tell you about it herself. There was clearly some accident, but not a crime."

I did it. The confession was hot in her mouth. She could tell Sandor everything, about the demon, why the glass went dark, the murders and her own hand in them. She could touch his mark right now and show the lingering miracle.

But her confession would only make things worse, at least until they had Tamas. And if Ilan was right, she couldn't trust anyone in the church. "Mihály came to get me. The woman was sleeping when I left." Not a confession, but still the truth.

"Ah yes, our local heretic. You seem closer to him than anyone."

"Suspiciously so," Madame Varga interjected, and hot anger bolted through Csilla. To have her of all people making accusations.

"He stopped the heresy. At my request." She thought the admission would emphasize how good she'd been. Sandor only grimaced.

"I was wrong to let you go the first time. Ilan, see if she'll give you a better answer after twenty lashes."

Csilla's head swam, her breath freezing in anticipation of the pain.

"That's excessive," Ilan snapped. "She's tiny."

Csilla glared. None would be sufficient.

"Inquisitor." Ilan gave the title like a curse. "If Csilla says she doesn't know anything, I believe her. Just talking to a former heretic is not a crime."

Sandor gave him a measured look. "Lucky for you."

The blood drained from Ilan's face as the man continued.

"You enjoyed hurting his other followers well enough. She's no more innocent than they were. And if she won't talk, you either make her or make her wish she had."