She stiffened, touching her kerchief as embarrassment dragged back the truth of what she was. "You can see those? The scars are from when I was a baby. Rat or cat bites." Unsightly as they were, they were all she had from before.

"Hmm." Then he picked up her right hand, the one she hadn't offered, and peeled her fingers from the fresh scab of the slice from her vows. "And I see you're from the church. Or a very clumsy cook."

Csilla gritted her teeth, unsure of the safest answer.

"Don't worry, you're not the only one." He cradled her palm in his larger one, and Csilla went very still. "Though I think you might be the first one who ran directly from vows to me. Does it hurt?"

"Of course," Csilla said before recognizing it for a lie. It had hurt right up until he'd touched her. Now what had been an inflamed wound was a pale scar. She flexed her hand and found none of the tension that marred the grip of poorly-healed clergy.

The pain was meant to remind the sworn of the gravity of their choice and the care required when using hands for holy work. Her stomach turned, threatening to reject the sweets and tea. "I need to go."

Mihály held up his hands, backing away. "I'm sorry. I understand. I have scars myself."

She raised an eyebrow. He appeared flawless from where she sat, even the shadows laying like adornment on his high cheekbones and soft lips.

"I want to show you my research," he continued. "I think you'll find it interesting. And I think you could be of great help to me."

"Help?" She tilted her head, the word catching her like a fish on a line. What help did he think she could possibly give him?

"I research souls."

Her flare of interest only increased her agitation. Listening to any of this was pointless when she'd already as good as killed him. "But you said you can't make one."

"I can't," he admitted. "It's hard to explain here. As you may have guessed, it's not exactly in line with Silgard's...ethics." He spoke quickly and settled on the final word as if it were a compromise.

Her brows drew together. Something more outlandish than what he was already preaching? "You're a cultist."

There were pockets of them throughout the Immaculate Union, preaching corruptions of doctrine, making their own invocations and pretending they were the same as good work. They were little spots of blight doctored by the Servants of the Road.

"No, by the saints, though I certainly have a large enough flock." He looked more amused than offended. "I'll show you tomorrow if you'll let me. Trust me, it's something you'll want to see."

A shiver of curiosity went through her. This was the closest she'd ever had to divinity speaking directly to her, filtered as it was.

But then the words hit. "Tomorrow?" It had to be today. She wouldn't have the guts to leave and come back, now that she'd sat in his home and spoken to him as a man and not a target. A warning sat in the back of her mouth, coming closer to escaping with every second she absorbed his kindness. She'd had so little in her life she'd taken to it like drought-baked dirt welcoming rain. "I'm sorry, but I have to go."

"Surely you weren't thinking of walking back alone? The lamps will be dark by now."

Arany's seal was dark too. The reminder of the dying magic set her shoulders back.

He was damnedly right about the threat, but her part in Asten's plan for him was done. She could go back to the church and no one would ever question her faith and place again.

That was what the pain in her hand had meant. What this new ache in her chest was. They were as good as words from above telling her it was time to return with her head held high.

And she didn't want to watch something so beautiful die.

"I'll be fine. I'm warm already. I was born in this city." She stood, brushing off her skirts as she made a wall between them with her protests. "If I don't go, the church will wonder where I am." That was true enough.

His eyes narrowed. "A girl was murdered by the river, and she wasn't the only body. Do you even know what the people are saying? There's a devil stalking the streets."

She reflexively glanced outside at his words. Even an Izir shouldn't call ill luck so openly. "You're the only trouble I've heard of. And this city is protected from devils."

"I was speaking figuratively." The teasing lilt to his voice died. "You really don't know about the deaths?"

She had seen the strange bodies leaving the city, but that wasn't the same as knowing. She shook her head. "I know there have been deaths, that's all. But people make bad choices, even in Silgard."

"Some are saying the same person made the same bad choice four times."

Csilla shook her head, keeping her gaze down so his worry wouldn't sway her. That she wasn't inclined to believe. Silgard was still a holy city, and people didn't plan to sin, even if their shadow natures sometimes got the better of them. "I'll be fine." She would say it until it was true.

"At least join me for the wine. Sleep will come more easily to me, and if you're so convinced you have to leave, it'll keep you warm on your walk."

He took the bottle again, and Csilla winced at the sudden shine. After a moment it dulled to a tarnished silver, and he popped off the cork.

Csilla's breath caught in her throat as he raised the bottle to his lips. There it was. Her truest moment of service.

"Stop!" She stepped forward, hands out and shaking.

He did, lowering the bottle and giving her a quizzical look. She squeezed her eyes shut to force back frustrated tears. She thought she'd be strong enough.

"It's… Don't drink it. Please." Her voice was dull even to her own ears. He'd shared his home and hospitality, and she couldn't let him die. Not even if it assured his place in the blessed ether and hers in the brilliant city.

Asten would be as indifferent to her failure as to her life, but the church, less so. She squeezed her eyes shut, haunted as she imagined Ágnes' disappointed face. All the good she could have done dissolved in a moment of weakness. All those people damned because she couldn't obey.

Shame filled her chest. She wasn't a good servant after all.

"What, is it poisoned?" His amused expression hardened with the realization. "You were going to poison me?"

Csilla spun and charged to the window. Wind slapped her face as she sat on the ledge, preparing to swing down.

"Who wants me dead? What's going on?" Mihály's voice rose as he reached for her.

The urge to run converged with pity in her chest at his stricken expression. "The church. You're not safe here, Izir."

His hand caught the curve of her cheek, forcing her to look fully into his eyes, and she froze at the touch. "And what will happen to you when you tell them you failed? Will you be safe?"

Csilla swallowed, unable to control her tremble at his concern, and the knowledge that he was right about the threat. She was hoping to not have to tell them anything.

"Stay here tonight, then come with me. It's not that far past the gates." His eyes were shining, convincing, that lulling voice so tempting until the words themselves registered.

"Outside Silgard?" She jerked her head away. "Be glad I warned you."

"Oh, I am." Mihály looked at the bottle. "What is the poison?"

"Why?"

He swirled the contents, a black whirlpool in green glass. "When you tell them, they might want details of how I met my demise."

Csilla swallowed. "Scorn's Friend."