‘I’ll send my girl over to clean up while we have tea,’ Madame Varga had said, and Csilla looked around the spacious room she’d been placed in. If they failed and she had to leave the city, perhaps she could find work in a grand house like this, polishing the silver flowers that held up thick ribbon-tied curtains and floorboards of dark mahogany that gleamed like cut stones.
A knock on the door drew her up short. She opened it to see a young woman with a pale blue dress draped over one arm, gauzy fabric trailing, and a pitcher in the other.
‘The Izir asked me to find you something. This belonged to the mistress’s daughter when she was younger. It might fit with a bit of adjusting.’
Csilla bit her lip and took the dress. She’d never touched material so fine, with gold embroidery along the neckline and hem, the waist apron tied with a girlish sash of white.
She’d also never dreamed she’d be having someone else help her get dressed, and she was sure she was red from hairline to toes as the maid began removing her clothing.
‘I’ll do it myself,’ she said as she slipped off the rest of her outer dress down to her chemise, thin enough to see the skin beneath. For an instant she was back in the dusty Church hall, young and naked and cold. The click of the door as the girl left barely registered.
She picked up the pitcher for a welcome drink when the smell of vinegar and herbs hit her nose and she saw the sponge floating on top. Of course, the lady of the house expected her tobe clean. At least the maid had left before seeing Csilla try to drink bathwater.
Once refreshed and redressed, Csilla spun, the fabric lifting in the luxury of space. This was a dress made for swaying entrances and graceful dancing. Csilla’s heart pained as she brushed down the skirts. She’d always worn charity clothes, and it was likely some of the original owners were ash, but it was entirely different when she knew where the girl this had been commissioned for was buried. The widow’s whole family had been touched by death.
The hallway swallowed her as she made her way towards the sound of voices. Mihály and the older woman were in a sitting room, both looking up as she entered.
Mihály paled, but Madame Varga’s eyes hardened.
‘Is something wrong?’ Had she spilled something, or stepped on a hem?
Mihály stood to take her arm, face softening. His golden-brown eyes took on a hint of reverence.
‘Sorry. You look very nice.’ He reached out as if he were about to brush his fingers over her uncovered curls but held back at her flinch. ‘It suits you.’
She smiled, but only out of habit. Physical beauty was hardly something the Church saw fit to praise, and she wasn’t sure she liked it.
He moved her to a lounge plush enough that it dimpled under her, and an assortment of foods on the low table welcomed them.
Csilla brightened at the food, mouth already watering. Mihály seemed to think enough cordial made a breakfast in itself; if there’d been food at the cabin, he hadn’t offered.
‘I apologise for the meagreness of all this. I don’t often entertain, and my food needs are simple enough that I don’t even have a designated cook on staff.’
Madame Varga gave a little laugh as if it were the most ridiculous thing that could be imagined. Csilla placed her hands in her lap and crossed her feet at the ankles, eyeing the pickled vegetables and ham beside cups of a weakly distilled herbal concoction. If only one of them would reach for the food so she could eat. Or at least speak and crack the awful tension that settled around like the dust of the hallway. Mihály’s enthusiasm for talking had burned up the hours of the night, and now he’d turned stoic.
She waited, looking on as they watched each other, and finally gave up on being saved.
‘Your house is lovely, Madame,’ Csilla said to break the silence.
Instead of smiling at the compliment, the woman grimaced.
‘What happened to the clock?’ Mihály looked around the room as if seeing it for the first time, then grabbed a cup and drained it.
Madame Varga waved the question away. ‘It’s costly to maintain a household alone, and you would know all about it if you’d bothered to call on me once in all the weeks you’ve been here, or give me more than a word when I come to you. You refused all my offers to talk to the University about taking you back, to provide you a home if you won’t go.’
‘Give your charity to the Church, Madame. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for the difficulty of finding lodging with Csilla in tow.’
Csilla lowered her eyes at the truth of that, a finger sliding around the silver-plated rim of the cup.
‘No, you wouldn’t, would you?’ She rested a hand on his knee and turned to Csilla. ‘How old are you, child?’
‘Twenty. Not a child.’ Though she was starting to feel like one. She didn’t know enough about the world outside Church life. Not even enough to sit here and take tea without feelinglike her heart was going to break through her ribs with nervous pounding.
Mihály’s eyes flashed as the truth slid off her tongue.
‘Old enough to have a vocation, then. Or be a bride.’ She raised an eyebrow at Csilla, her hand not leaving Mihály. ‘Oh, eat if you like. You’re staring at the food like a yard dog.’
Csilla grabbed a hard roll stuffed with potato and ham before Madame Varga had even finished the sentence and took an over-large bite, realising seconds too late she was probably being rude and had just been insulted besides. The old bread scratched as it went down.
