“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.”
What if she never woke up at all?
Mihály’s expression softened into something painfully tender. “I can only help one of you at the moment. I’ll pick you. There’s nothing worse than being too late.”
Csilla shook her head, heavy as it was. “I can’t leave her. It’s my fault. I did this.” The hollow in her was back, and stained.
“Did what, exactly?” Mihály’s lips thinned. “You look a sight, but there’s not a single scratch on either of you that I can see. Surely Tamas wasn’t trying something after yelling my ear off about how stupid it is?”
“I...” He had been there, talking to her. Talking to something in her. A dark understanding dawned. “Oh no.”
“Oh no what? Csilla?”
She ran a hand through a curl of hair, sticky with drying blood. “Yes. Let’s go back to the church. But we can’t just leave her. Find the maid. Tell her we’re getting help.”
She turned up the stairs, back to her room, and stripped off her dress. The bright stains on her skin looked all the more stark against pale, uncovered flesh, and she poured water quickly into the washbasin, sticking her hands in until the water seeped in pink.
It was wrong that her reflection looked no different than it always had as she rinsed her hair as best she could, careless splashes puddling on the dresser wood. She’d held evil, given it her heart and hands.
But you also held light. She tried to pick up a comb, her hand shaking too much to hold it.
A high scream echoed from downstairs, followed by the muffled cadence of Mihály’s comfort. For now they had to get back to the church. She’d see to the breaking of her own heart, then worry about his.
The damaged sanctuary was a makeshift vigil, candles dripping beads of wax and incense that couldn’t cover the bitter smell of powders sprinkled between corpses and those near to, keeping insects away. Those well enough to be moved had been taken to nearby homes. Ágnes wasn’t among them. Wrapped in blankets, she looked like a baby born too early. Fragile. Gray. Strange how Asten brought everyone back to infancy at the end of life.
The fresh linen lying across her stained body was a lie, making everything seem peaceful as it rose and fell too slowly. Csilla knelt beside her, folding her hands and looking back up at Mihály. “Did you heal her?”
He shook his head. Fear rose in Csilla’s throat at the hopelessness of the gesture. “Her lungs were already damaged. The smoke ruined what was left. She’s suffocating.”
Ágnes opened her rheumy eyes. “Csilla.”
“You have to let Mihály help you.” She wiped the woman’s forehead with a damp rag, the cloth already rank.
Ágnes’ voice was weak, but firm. “Stay away from him.” The movement set off a spasming cough. Csilla grabbed for water that had been left for later mercy and tried to force some between her lips, but it dribbled down her chin and wet the blankets.
The helplessness of not being able to care for the person she loved was worse than the loneliness of no care at all. She stroked the woman’s thin hair and hummed softly, a lullaby she’d been sung as a child, not trusting herself to get the words out. The comfort was short-lived. Ágnes’ dry lips were flecked with blood.
“He’s an Izir,” Csilla reminded her. “I’ve seen him heal.” For me, if not for you. It was pure selfishness, and she grasped it. What was one more sin for the night?
