‘Have you heard anything like this from the people who come to you?’
Mihály scanned her writing without recognition.
‘Just that they’re scared. They ask for intercessions I can’t give, prayers to spare them and their loved ones. But there is someone who might know more.’
‘Close?’
‘Not far. But we can rest a little longer if you need. I know I put you out.’
He offered his hand, clearly expecting hers to follow. It wouldn’t be so bad, perhaps, to offer him the comfort, though he seemed to think he was offering it to her.
Waiting any longer would make it more awkward. She put her palm lightly against his, though with the alertness of a bird ready to take flight. His thumb brushed the back of her knuckles, and she stiffened, now caught as his fingers closed.
‘Your hands are quite cold. I’ll buy you some gloves.’
He took another sip of tea as if this were ordinary. Perhaps for him it was. And yes, her hands were cold, because she was sure all the heat in her had fled to her cheeks.
‘We have the victims’ names.’ She spoke because even the terrible business of the murders seemed better to focus on than the gentle warmth of his hand around hers. ‘And I know roughly where and when they were killed. That’s somewhere to start.’
‘And you think we’ll be able to find some clue the inquisitors missed?’
‘I think people will be more willing to talk to you.’ It was true, though it seemed blasphemous to say.
‘Or to you.’ Mihály smiled. ‘You have a very calming presence. Has anyone told you that?’
She glanced down, freshly flustered. ‘Not in so many words.’
‘The Church was very foolish to let you go.’
He gave her hand a squeeze and withdrew before she even realised she’d started to welcome it.
13
Csilla
Walking with Mihály in the evening air, dressed in more borrowed finery and a coat of wool with soft fur around her throat and wrists, was like walking through a new city. He drew light wherever he went, illuminating her to the eyes of the people whether she wanted it or not. She’d never been one to be envied, but now people watched as he slowed his steps to match hers or stopped to convince a street vendor to give Csilla a taste of whatever was on offer, sometimes from his hand to her lips, smothering any objection. It was difficult to form questions while reeling from the fact that his finger had almost been in her mouth.
And no one ignored her.
They came to a row of shed houses, pressed one against the other, what had once been something larger pressed and portioned to fit in more of the Faithful. He knocked on the door, and his posture shifted. He drew himself up, folded his hands, and Csilla did likewise.
The door was opened by an older man, his thin nose pinched by wire-rim glasses and his beard shot through with goose-feather grey. His face softened in recognition, but a flutter of hesitation shot over his features as he noticed Csilla.
She smiled anyway. It didn’t help.
‘I was waiting for you. You alone.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘I recognise you, girl. You were there in the square.’
The night she’d chosen to disobey.
The man leaned on the doorway, blocking any view of the interior. ‘Misi, you usually don’t indulge your lovesick little doves.’
Mihály raised his hand in a placating gesture before Csilla could interject.
‘Please, let us in before you start making assumptions.’
It was at least warmer inside as they stepped into a single large room serving as both a kitchen and sitting area, a ladder leading to a loft above. Coughs sounded from the house next door where wall pressed against wall.
‘My name is Csilla.’
