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 grey 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 alright?’
He knelt next to her, and she studied his face for any hint of understanding of the horror she’d been through. All she could see was concern, and exhaustion. And for some reason he smelled like smoke.
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?’
‘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.
