Csilla lowered herself onto the quilt, tucking her skirts tightly around her legs. Now she was sitting where the Izir slept, almost—not even the tiniest secondhand sin, but enough to send a fresh heat to her cheeks and worry across her skin.
He crouched down, forearms draped over his knees, perched like one of the loathsome stone demons that peered over the eves of the cathedral, monstrous reminders of ever-lurking Shadow. "Show me the wine again."
Csilla swallowed and took the bottle from the sack, the surface still dark against her hand. Mihály reached out again, this time only a fingertip. Enough to spark the silver glisten on the glass.
"Why doesn't it react to you?" he asked, tapping the bottle and watching the light shimmer and dim under his touch like the wink of moonlight on water. Each little light was a needle prick in her heart.
"That's personal." Csilla shifted, starting to stand again. Surely leaving the wine with him would be enough; by the number of bottles around he went through troughs of the stuff. "I have to go." Another second and she would confess everything; the fresh rarity of his instant acceptance, like they were equals, had stripped what little resolve she had managed.
"Wait!" He lurched forward, hand outstretched, stopping a hair's breadth away from her arm.
She froze at the panic in his voice. There was a note in that one word more genuine than all the smiles and blessings she'd seen from him.
"I just want to know," he continued. "It's like you don't have a soul."
Csilla swallowed. If he had any knowledge about what she was, she'd better find out before he was dead. "And if I don't?"
His tongue darted to skate his upper lip as he considered. "Is that the blessing you came here for? You think I can miracle you a soul from the ether for the price of a bottle of stolen wine?" His brow arched, and he sat back with a thump that made her wince. "I hate to disappoint you, but I have as little power to make souls as I do to fly. We Izir may have angel blood from those long years back, but we're still mostly human."
She hadn't realized a small part of her had hoped for just that until the idea died at his words. She forced down the lump in her throat. It shouldn't even matter. She'd been given the one way she could serve, and it was with his death.
"My affinity is finding sickness and knowing what treats it, a remnant of Ezüst I'm told," he continued. "But I can't make a soul." He gave a shy smile that made her feel as if she should be the one apologizing for pointing out his weakness, something small and haunted in his gaze.
"Now that you've put it like that, I see that it's foolish. Just…drink the wine. You can keep it as payment for indulging me." Csilla looked down again, heart hammering. There was no way he wouldn't be able to read her guilt, even with her expression half-hidden by the shadows in the room. She felt cracked open, a split fruit ready to be picked through for what was good and useful, the rest thrown by the wayside. There was very little good at the moment.
"I didn't mean to upset you, truly. I'm glad you're here." He stood and dusted off his hands. "I'll make you tea and a snack if you'd like. I've got water left."
She tried to protest, but he wouldn't listen, and her stomach argued that if she was going to kill him, his food would go to waste unless she ate it. The room was soon warm with the heat from their bodies and the wavering steam of the kettle. The tea he put in her hands was a deep rust-red, the aroma spiced and heady. Expensive.
"Another tribute," he smiled. "Go on, drink. I think she left some sweets with it." He rummaged around until he found a white handkerchief of soft linen, far too fine for wiping hands on. She turned it in her hands, stroking the fabric, and examined the two mottled doves embroidered in the corner. The Varga family. Csilla's warmth was replaced by a touch of despair. So even the wealthy were swayed by him now. No wonder the church was worried.
Mihály picked up her hand and plopped two fried lumps of dough onto it. "Ah, here. They're dry but should taste all right."
Csilla's mouth watered as she bit into the dumpling, and she blinked in pleasant surprise at the center of cherries stewed with enough sugar to take the edge off their sourness.
Still chewing, she offered the other one to Mihály, but he held up his hand. "No, go ahead."
She finished the first and choked down the second one quickly—half from hunger, half from embarrassment at the way he watched her. She washed it down with a swallow of tea, all too aware of the money on her tongue. Everything here had been paid for with heresy.
"I'm sorry, but I have so many questions," he said. "In all my studies I've never heard of anything like you. May I touch you?"
"You may not." She didn't have to leave her dignity with her morals. The church couldn't ban touching, but she'd been warned since she was small about the dangers of too much contact. Bodies were shadow-born, and skin had its own appetite. A good servant didn't stoke its cravings.
Mihály laughed. "Nothing indecent, I promise. Please."
She hesitated, mind spinning rationalizations. She touched her patients when caring for them. Him being young and handsome, them being alone in a locked-away attic didn't make it any different. He might not even like women, or anyone. Besides, he wouldn't find anything the church had missed all the times they'd looked for demon marks, and she was old enough now not to cry from the embarrassment of being stripped and prodded. But she still went cold and tense as she offered her hand.
He took her by the wrist, tracing a word across her palm with a delicacy that sent a shiver across her skin. He was surely going to feel how her heart was racing.
"Hm." He pursed his lips and dragged his fingertips over her skin again.
Her whole body lightened, the soaring, beautiful ache of listening to the choir's hymns of praise, every note yearning for something lost before humanity had even finished forming.
It's not real. It's not real.
But it felt like it could be. She pushed herself up and away from him, wordless. If that was anything like what she was missing, she wished she'd never felt it at all.
"You are exceedingly healthy, but what happened on your scalp?" he asked.
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?
