“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.
His hand came to rest on her chest, the heel of his palm against her breastbone. “This is the best place for you. This vessel is disposable.”
“What?” She forced herself to sit up, wrenching her arms behind her to push up, shaking his hand off her and swallowing away the crawling under her skin. Tamas froze, hand suspended midair.
“Csilla. You need rest.”
“Who were you talking to?” Because it didn’t sound like he was talking to her, even as he touched her. Even though she was the only person here.
She looked beyond him, but even the gray specter had faded.
“You, of course. Who else is here? You’re not well. You might be hearing things.”
Her arms were already shaking from supporting her. Something else. The words sat on her lips, something stopping them. The more she pushed, the more something inside gripped her by the throat.
“Don’t worry, little Csilla,” he soothed as she lay back down. “You’re fine. Rest.”
Rest. Whatever was inside her echoed the order. You’re serving your purpose.
When she opened her eyes again, he was gone. But the knife on the bedside table was new. She picked it up, her sallow face a reflected ghost in the blade, and her blood went dark and slow like chilled syrup in the vein. Her skin prickled with gooseflesh and her vision dimmed around the edges. She slipped out of bed, each barefoot step cold on the floor. A deep thudding surrounded her; a heartbeat, pounding steadily against her skin. It wasn’t hers.
