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."
Csilla shuddered. Her bones were close enough to the skin as it was; he'd whip her to ribbons.
"That is ridiculous," Ilan spat, voice rising. "She doesn't have a soul. It doesn't matter what she does."
To her surprise, Sandor didn't even look askance at that. She narrowed her eyes. Someone had told him about her, even though she'd left the church before he came.
Pray that Sandor didn't see fit to test whether she was still soulless after all.
"Even if she can't sin, attempted murder is a crime. She's our only witness, and you know what to do with witnesses who won't talk." Sandor grinned, flecks of spittle on his teeth as he held out the whip from his belt, a coiled and braided lash that would make a nasty crack. "Even the best hound can't have two masters. If you won't do it, perhaps the Prelate would also like to know how you have been leaving the city with the heretic, spending time you should have been with me chasing fancies and this girl. Is she the reason you wanted the whole place to yourself? Certainly clever, though I don't think the Prelate will think much of you whoring in the church."
Ilan turned a sick shade of pale, breath short like he'd been punched. Csilla took a deep breath and thought of Arany laying herself out for the world and pouring her blood into the earth. This wouldn't even kill her. She’d seen Ilan’s kindness, she could bear his cruelty. "You're right. I have listened to heresy. Perhaps I don't belong here. But you're not going to get anything out of me but the truth." Whatever was done to her wouldn't be any worse than what she'd already been through, and they still needed him to be above suspicion. They had to stay in the church a little longer. She still needed to touch the seal. Raising her chin, she glanced at Ilan and prayed he could read her gaze. "Beat me, then, if you think it will set this right."
Sandor looked surprised, a look that deepened as Ilan snatched the whip from his hand.
The inside of the torture chamber was as awful as Csilla had always pictured it, dark and claustrophobic, with a lingering reek of copper and old leather. There were tables and instruments of twisted metal whose purpose she didn't desire to know. While prayer halls and places of shelter had burned, this room was pristine. What that said about Asten's inscrutable will was nothing good.
Ilan tossed the whip on a table, and for a moment the fear that had stolen Csilla's moment of bravery dissolved. He wasn't going to harm her. Then Sandor walked in, shutting the door like the sealing of a tomb.
Ilan took a light wooden cane from the wall, swinging it with easy grace. It whistled as it stung the air.
