When she returned to the room, apologies already on her dry lips, Ilan was standing over the pile of dresses, examining the lace on the sleeves of a delicate goldenrod day dress accented with fawn-brown velvet leaves. She couldn’t read his expression – disapproval at the styles, some of which were not modest enough for Silgard’s tastes, or surprise such things would be given to someone like her?
‘They belonged to Madame Varga’s daughter,’ she explained as he smoothed out a crease in a rose-pink skirt.
‘The dead one?’
Well, he wasn’t known for tact. Csilla nodded.
He tilted his head. ‘Must be strange for her to see them on you.’
Csilla scowled, though he was right. ‘It would be a waste if no one used them.’
Ilan looked doubtful but made no further comment, so Csilla continued. ‘It seems Mihály is still out.’
Ilan returned to the chair and leaned back, seeming perfectly content to wait in silence. He was not overly large in height or breadth, but the drape of his black cassock and the dreadful stillness of his presence was like one of the statues that peered from the cathedral facade. They didn’t have to move to make one feel watched and small.
Unsettled panic fluttered in Csilla’s ribcage. It could be hours before Mihály returned, and Ilan was apparently just going to sit and stare at her. It would have been too much to hope that he could sit ten minutes without judging someone. She’d always tried not to think about those who were drawn to Mercy’s opposite, knowing that the sick and helpless guilt she felt at seeing people split open for the Faith was her own weakness. After all, the Church had deemed his service far more acceptable than hers.
Seconds crawled by. Csilla folded the dresses, then refolded them. She sat on one side of the bed, then the other, then finally moved to the window and pretended to be absorbed in watching the nightsoil carts making their morning stops.
Ilan continued to sit, an occasional foot-tap the only sign of any impatience.
‘Are you thirsty?’ she finally asked in desperation. The gnawing in her stomach and scratching weight of the silencetrumped the awkwardness of possibly explaining to the madame why she’d brought Ilan into her home. ‘I’m sure I can find something.’
He inclined his head slightly, and she jumped on it as agreement, motioning for him to follow her. Down in the sitting parlour, Csilla stared at the tarnished bell chains, her hand half-raised to pull. It was so early that even though there were likely servants up, they were also likely busy.
‘That one should call the kitchen,’ Ilan said, pointing to the right-most chain, ‘if it’s like most other houses.’ He didn’t meet her eyes as he said it.
There was no reason for embarrassment; it wasn’t surprising he spent time in well-off homes. Everyone sinned; it was just a matter of which sins you could afford and how you bought back your Brilliance.
Csilla grimaced and pulled. Within a few minutes, a maid came to the door, her breath huffing and kitchen cap askew. A smudge of white flour on her chin and egg yolk on her sleeve showed how they’d interrupted the breakfast preparation.
‘Yes?’ She caught her breath and bowed slightly, though there was well-deserved annoyance in her eyes.
‘Could you bring us something?’ Ilan interrupted before the woman could ask why she was being called. ‘Water, at least.’
The woman gestured to her dusted state. ‘I’ve just got to baking, but I can find something I’m sure...’
‘Please do,’ Ilan said, turning to the low lounge.
‘Thank you!’ Csilla called after.
Ilan was already sitting, one foot resting on his knee and looking strangely at home despite the incongruity of his plain cassock against wine-dark velvet. Csilla settled across from him, arranging her skirts.
‘Did you grow up with servants?’ she asked. He did have a certain commanding air.
His narrowed eyes told her he wasn’t going to answer. She sighed.
‘Inquisitor,’ she squared her shoulders, trying to appear like the lady she wasn’t, ‘if we can’t speak to each other, we won’t be able to work together.’ He’d seemed, if not kind, at least tolerant when he’d come to her rescue, and when they’d spoken in the library. But clearly that had only been a measure of professional respect when he still thought her a fellow servant of the Church.
‘We can certainly speak to each other,’ he said, ‘about things that matter.’
She swallowed down another attempt to be conciliatory. No one could say she hadn’t attempted to show him graciousness.
The door opened again and the servant reappeared with a tray with two cups of tea steeped to burnt umber, day-old hard bread with crumbling cheese and brown-speckled potato she hadn’t bothered slicing evenly.
‘This is all I could manage. Breakfast won’t be for hours, I really apologise—’
‘It’s fine.’ Ilan picked up the teacup and inspected the dark tea, tilting the cup so the liquid rested just under the lip.
