Guilt was a terrible emotion; how could sinners stand it? Perhaps that’s why confession worked so well. The demon’s touch still boiled on him. If he could stand to be less honest with himself, he would blame that lingering stroke of Shadow for his doubts.
For all his faults, he wasn’t weak enough for the comfort of self-delusion.
“I was washing out the drains. There was a violet flash and smoke, I thought I was being delivered that instant.” His face tightened on the last word, his curled hand stretching towards Arany. “But it was fire.”
“No one else was there?”
Mattias’ shook his head, single eye wide. “I would have sworn it was a demon. It skipped like lightning, wasn’t natural.”
A demon. Just as they’d feared.
In Saika they said demons smelled of cut ice; here they said tar. But the demon on the road had been old fireplace ash, and the smoke here was rancid linseed.
“Did you notice or smell anything? Powder or spilled oil?” When he was twelve a cousin had brought little tubes of black grains from Mitlosk that exploded green and violet when lit and singed the silverberry leaves. Chemistry could mimic a miracle for a time.
Mattias groaned. “The drains always stink. How was I supposed to smell anything else?”
Fair point. Ilan left to walk around the remnants of the outbuilding to the drains Mattias had claimed lit with unnatural fire. He pulled off the cover, suppressing revulsion at the thin film that coated his finger. Along with cold sludge came traces of white filament.
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?”
