Why was the man closing his eyes?
Mihály touched the glass, and Csilla winced as it flared white, then settled to a silvery sheen that faded as he removed his hand.
‘And you, miss?’
Csilla kept her hands at her sides, though her curled fingers tapped against her palms.
‘You let me out yesterday morning, don’t you remember? I live here.’
The man gave a little laugh. ‘And who knows what you were up to while you were away. No offence.’ His smile was much warmer than Csilla’s strained one.
She reached out and pressed her index finger to the glass, a divot worn down by the fingerprints of thousands.
No reaction.
The guard frowned. ‘I’ve never seen that before. Try the other one, and I’ll turn it over.’
Csilla hesitated. He would see her cut palm, and know her shame.
‘It won’t help,’ Mihály said, gently moving in front of Csilla in a protective gesture that warmed her. ‘But she’s no demon. She’s working with me.’
‘I’m not supposed to... I mean, we have to be careful.’ The man’s lips were pressed white-thin. ‘We have rules. Especially now.’
Csilla’s heart lodged in her throat as anger bloomed in her chest. She’d told Mihály this would happen. This was her home. She could see the spires of the cathedral from where they were standing, smell the muck of the river on the breeze. It was choking after the crisp pine of the forest, but it was hers, and though she’d never voiced it, in her bones she’d thought the city knew it, too.
That bit of hope fizzled, the blackened end of a snuffed match.
‘You’re not supposed to let anyone with a Shadowed soul through. And did the glass turn black?’
‘Well, no...’ The guard removed his glove and touched the glass himself, brow furrowing all the more as it glowed pale gold, with a hint of greying around the bottom, like wisps of incense smoke. He needed to say a few prayers and perhaps make a confession, but the problem wasn’t the glass.
‘Then let us pass. Helping me is a blessing to you. Look for yourself.’
Mihály walked through the gate, beckoning for Csilla to follow. As she stepped over the rune-marked entrance, the dim spots in the glass on the guard’s hand vanished, his kindness to Mihály instantly reflected in the state of his soul.
They were back in Silgard. The clack of her steps on the cobblestone hadn’t changed, but somehow everything else had.
?
They were swiftly turned away from every type of lodging. Being an Izir didn’t stop the raised eyebrows and suspicious eyes when it became clear Mihály was asking for himself and a woman not sworn to him, and Csilla refused to play along and pretend to be his wife to get a room. He may have felt secure enough to ignore custom and talk his way around rites and lie, but there had to be some kind of propriety in all this. Every time he got too close or turned those sincere eyes onto her, it was like the thin squeeze of apron strings being tightened and she wasn’t sure how many ‘no’s she had left in her.
‘Let’s say you’re my ward, then,’ he sighed as they stood outside of the fifth building that had refused them. ‘You’re short enough to pass for a child if no one looks too closely, and you’re already an orphan. I’ll tell them you’re...’ He paused and looked her up and down, and she crossed her arms over her chest, not that there was much to cover. ‘Fourteen?’
‘That is just going to make you lookworse.’
The blisters were back to full-on wounds now, Csilla’s stomach was protesting the lack of lunch and her bladder was aching. Her miserable body begged her to give in and make it easy. The city wasn’t so large that there were endless options. If they couldn’t rent somewhere legitimate, they were going to end up in thattomb Mihály was so fond of, snuggling with the ashes of the dead.
‘Can’t we go back to the place you were leasing before? We’re wasting time.’
He snorted. ‘You were up there – there was barely room for me. We need at least room for three of us.’
‘Three...?’ Her voice trailed off as she caught his meaning. Somewhere large enough for slaughter and magic.
‘I do know someone who would help,’ he conceded. ‘But you’ll absolutely have to pretend to be my ward.’ He sighed. ‘Maybe we should look somewhere further downriver. The rooms are cheaper, though I hate the smells by the pig yards.’
‘Mihály,’ Csilla groaned. ‘If you know someone, why aren’t we there already?’
He scratched at his chin and shifted their bags. ‘I don’t mind being seen,’ he conceded, ‘but there’s a world between that and having one’s presence flaunted.’
