Ilan clenched his teeth as he rolled Csilla onto his bed. She whimpered and buried her face in his pillow. At least she wouldn't see the sick guilt mixing with his gratitude. She shouldn't have offered to submit. He shouldn't have accepted. There hadn't been a choice.

His inner clothes were soaked with sweat, chilling with the fading adrenaline.

"Csilla."

There was no answer. He instinctively reached out to touch her, then hesitated. Perhaps he'd lost the right to touch her kindly.

"I know it hurts, but it's over." He replayed the past minutes, wrist flexing in memory. "You did well. He believes that you don't know anything."

She turned her head slightly with a quiet "oh," an eye and part of her face visible from her curtain of dark hair. She had the look of a deer with an arrow through the throat, awaiting the last seconds before the inevitable.

He sat next to her and brushed the hair away from her face so he could see her better. She tilted her head slightly, a hint of forgiving pressure against his palm that went straight to his traitorous heart.

The part of him that ached to see her desolation was infuriating. He'd never met anyone who tried so hard to be good for so little reward. It was what faith required, but seeing it taken to conclusion was unsettling more than inspiring. Perhaps that was what made Sandor relent and not throw Csilla directly out onto the empty streets in a city too afraid of shadows to open a door of charity to a stranger.

Perhaps he simply wanted Ilan to stew and suffer. If so, that was also fine. Resentment might not nourish, but it was invigorating in its own way.

"Can I look at your back? I'll put something on it." He'd had to poultice Vihar when he'd busted his leg on a fence, and he kept a few things for headaches and monthly pains and the like. With the servants now spread through the city and the remaining mercy priests busy with the burned, there was no one to call for her. There was no one else he'd want to tend to her. It was his responsibility to fix what his hands had done.

She shifted, hand clenching at his blanket as she seemed to weigh the relative pain and modesty. Finally she nodded, and he gently lifted her shift.

He'd struck well, the thought bringing a possessive sense of pride as he sat next to her. There were sharp welts across her upper back, purple blooming out of the red and pale islands of skin between them, but he hadn't broken her, hadn't risked any organs. It was beautifully done, and she'd been brave.

"Well?" The misery in her voice tamped down his admiration of his own handiwork.

"You're fine. Or will be." He rubbed his finger in the mixture until it warmed with his skin and soaked strips of linen. He lay a strip across the first of the marks, the line of flesh hot and swollen. She flinched but didn't ask him to stop.

When he was small, his family church held a painting of Szente Vasya, hung so she caught the sunlight in the layers of paint and gesso, and he'd kept it dusted and lit candles beneath. Her image was still the first thing that came to mind when asked to think on the beauty of holiness.

It was nothing compared to Csilla.

"If we can't find the seal, or if we fail, I need you to leave," Ilan said finally. "My parents are in the city. They can pay enough to get out of lockdown, take you to Saika, away from all this." They would if he asked. For all the trouble he'd made for him, they had always done everything he asked. Too much so, perhaps. Here he was, relying on them again.

She turned with a wince, body going momentarily rigid and sheets falling off her bare shoulder. "What will going to Saika do? All I'll see if I leave is the refugees at the gates, reminding us of how we failed them, and Shadow will come to every remote corner eventually. If I'm needed anywhere, it's here."

"Doing what?" She was holy, yes, but they didn't know how to use her power. "What if we can't get you to the seal, or it doesn't work?"

There was passion in her eyes but no violence. It was the warmth of a hearth fire, just as alive and comforting. "Then I can still help. It's better than running away." She smoothed her hair and shifted, moving gingerly with lingering pain. "They can hardly do anything worse to me than everything they've already done. And I have so much to make up for."

She couldn't possibly believe that. "None of it was your fault."

"Of course it was." Her eyes met his, clouding with quiet despair that cracked his heart. "I said yes."

There was nothing he could say that would take that knowledge from her.

She shifted to cover herself again, tugging her shift over pale thighs and bony knees.

Then she moved to stand.

"What are you doing?" He reached for her arm, but she caught his hand instead, fingers closing around his in a gentle grip as arresting as a vise.

"We can't just stop. We still have to find the seal." The pained set of her jaw undercut the determination in the words, and Ilan pressed his palm more firmly against hers, shifting her back to the bed.

"You're not in a shape to go anywhere."

She frowned but didn't shake him off. Or pull her hand away.

"That doesn't matt—"

"That's the only thing that matters." The divine might be waiting, but they had very human concerns at the moment. Csilla's pain. His own exhaustion. Hunger and filth.

"We can't just give up." But as she tried to get her feet under her, her shoulder twisted forward and she gasped, soft lips pulling back to show teeth.

"If you keep going, you're going to be cold. Tired. In more pain than you are now."

She deflated, sinking into the stuffed mattress. "No good to anyone at all, you mean."

"Not what I said." She was so much more than what she could do for others. "But if that's what gets you to stay here, then yes."

She squeezed his hand, and though there was no shine, the warmth of her fingers kindled a heat. He pulled away, and she looked down, hands bunching in his sheets. "Fine."

"Good. I'll lock the door." She'd be safe while he robbed the dead.

"Where are you going?" Panic colored her voice as she reached for him again, and he forced himself to step out of the grasp of her stretched fingers. There would be no further contamination of her holiness.

"To get things for you. Clothes. Food."

She brightened at that, the first spark he'd seen in far too long. Then she settled on her side, taking his pillow and cradling it against her. He turned to stop looking at the sight she made. "Be quick then, will you?"

"As quick as I can."

"Did you know she was special?"

The corpse didn't answer; of course she didn't. It was a struggle to get the robes over stiff arms, and he apologized silently as a rough tug sent her neck lolling. Church dead were never sent out with even their clothing; cloth was far too dear to waste. That didn't mean Csilla would have appreciated seeing this. He turned them out to the rougher ride of working grays; better to avoid attention.

"You must have known something." He'd never had much cause to speak with Ágnes, save at clergy meetings; he preferred to take care of himself and leave the mercy crews out of it. "Otherwise you wouldn't have spent so much time on her."

But maybe Ágnes had just been better than the rest of them.

There wasn't much in the kitchen, either; they'd taken what was good to the families housing the displaced clergy. The onions and potatoes that had been left were spongy with rot, and the bread that had been missed was stale. It was still better than nothing.

He opened the door quietly when he returned, in case Csilla was sleeping.

By her quiet, even breaths, she was, but there were damp spots on the pillow. She hadn't let him see her cry.

He folded up the robe and placed it by her head when he caught sight of her splayed hand. The chaffing on her wrist, the angry red where he'd tied the leather, was gone. Sucking in a breath he leaned forward, combing back a thick hank of her hair and tugging down the neckline of her shift enough to see what had just been bruise-mottled skin.