Had Mihály run?
It was the only question that mattered. If he’d been wise and left the city, she might have a prayer of staying. She would have at least gotten the trouble out, and that had been the result they’d wanted. Even if every second of her continued service was a lie.
The cat, Erzsébet, batted at her skirt hem, catching a dangling string and rolling, fiercely defeating the cloth. As Csilla glanced down with a sigh for the new fabric now fraying, the cat gave a hungry and hopeful yowl.
‘You can’t even eat these. Bad for cats,’ Csilla cautioned, leaning over to scratch the tabby between her ears and earning a swat at her hand. At least Erzsébet pulled her claws this time.
When she looked up, Ágnes was in the doorway.
Csilla’s smile fell at the sorrow in Ágnes’s expression. The woman had aged a dozen years in the span of as many hours.
‘Oh, my Csilla.’
All the weight of the world was in those soft notes. Csilla’s throat closed, and she set her knife down.
‘Show me your hand.’ Ágnes gestured, and Csilla had the immediate urge to shove it in her apron pocket like a child insisting her fist wasn’t full of sweets. But she wasn’t a child, and she couldn’t lie. She uncurled her fingers one by one and offered her palm.
The truth of where she’d been and who she’d let touch her was undeniable on her skin.
‘So it’s true.’ Ágnes’s voice quivered.
Csilla’s breath quickened as apologies, excuses and confessions all struggled to come out at once.I showed mercy. I made a kind judgement.She needed Ágnes to see how well she’d paid attention to everything she’d been taught, but her nerves failed, and she stayed silent, back pressed against the counter.
‘I don’t blame you,’ Ágnes said as she squeezed the blasphemous hand, the words so quiet it was as if she were afraid of even their god overhearing. ‘But I’d hoped they were wrong.’
‘They?’
For a dizzy moment Csilla thought she was referring to Blessed Asten. Had her weakness been so wicked They’d sent Ágnes a personal vision to torment her? But Asten could never be wrong.
Ágnes didn’t let her go. ‘The Church knows you didn’t do it.’
How?The question scratched, but it was smothered by the older woman’s sudden cough. Sharp worry seized Csilla, and she swallowed down the lump in her throat.
‘Mihály heals. If you talk to him . . .’
Ágnes caught her breath.
‘Mihály? You speak of him like a friend now?’ The disappointment in her tone was worse than any childhood slap. ‘We taught you Mercy, but perhaps you drank too deeply. Obedience is an equal virtue. As is Justice.’
Everything in creation was balanced. Even Mercy had counterweights.
Csilla’s answer was cut off as Prelate Abe and Ilan entered. Her eyebrows knitted together at the grim procession. Of course the Inquisitor had been the one to turn her in. He should have taken her directly to the gates and thrown her out if this was how it was going to end. Why even pretend to care whether she returned safely? Why pretend he hadn’t known?
‘Csilla,’ Abe said, and she stepped into the cat, who gave an indignant hiss that nearly made her laugh; Erzsébet wouldn’t understand the gravity. She looked from face to face – sorrowful, judgemental, indifferent. ‘The Izir showed up at our gates asking about you. How is that, assuming you did the task we entrusted to you?’
Mihály. Here. Even after what she’d done, he’d come for her. The thought gave her a kernel of heart. He’d known her an hour and offered her more grace than those who had raised her.
‘Was there some intervention?’ the Prelate continued. ‘A reason it didn’t work, perhaps?’
He was trying to excuse her, Ágnes nodding at the gentle question. It was kind, but futile.
‘I gave him a tainted bottle.’ She was always careful with her words, but she could never resist adding a little extra truth to lay herself bare. ‘After telling him it was poisoned.’
‘Csilla.’ Ágnes sagged against the countertop, and Csilla blinked away new tears. It was horrible enough that her only family had to hurt, but it was hot-iron agony to be the cause of the pain. She should shut her mouth to anything except apologies, and pray they were enough of a balm.
But there were more truths she had to say, lest they choke her where she stood.
‘The taking of a life is reserved for Asten and Asten alone. I won’t make myself a murderess or him a martyr.’ Her voiceshook, but the words made it out. She loved the Church, and the Church was wrong to ask for a death, and both those things could be true even if it ripped her apart inside.
