Her face must have betrayed her concern, because he gave a brittle laugh.
‘Don’t look so scared. The Servants of the Road do their work well. We were blastedly lucky Tamas knew the invocation to take care of it. And it didn’tnotwork, exactly. She came back for me. Just as I knew she would. Only as a shade, not fully herself.’
He fished a flask out of his other pocket and took a long sip with a sudden waft of spiced liquorice, eyes closing as he stole a second of intoxicated bliss. No wonder Tamas worried for him. Trauma was its own form of illness.
‘And you want me to be her.’ Even she could hear the reverence evaporating in her voice.
‘You’ll still be you. Just . . . more.’
‘How do you know? Are you just saying that to make me feel better?’ It was a tasty sort of lie, sugar to make the medicine more palatable.
He startled, then deflated, his shoulders sinking. ‘I guess I don’t. And I guess I am.’
The honesty was sweeter.
Csilla was suddenly very aware of the damp hair curling against her neck, the night robes she wore – not that a single sinful sliver of flesh was showing. Standing before him dressed for the bedchamber was scandal enough. Mihály’s lip curled up, and she realised she’d been wordlessly staring.
‘Are you wishing you’d killed me now?’ The words themselves were jagged.
Csilla’s heart seized, the way it always did to see a thing in pain. She sat next to him so gently the bottles didn’t shift or clank.
‘No. But I wish you’d told me before.’ A slight hitch in his breath told her he was listening. It was ridiculous to think anything she could say could help the great Izir. But he was still a man, a young man at that. And his grief was still so fresh.
‘Would you have believed me? Would you have agreed? Wait, no, you would have, wouldn’t you.’
She couldn’t tell if there was admiration or censure in the tone. Maybe there was a measure of correctness in both.
‘Yes,’ she admitted. ‘And I believe you now.’ She drew her knees up, hugging them. ‘Will you hate me if I’m not her?’
If I’m a disappointment to you, too?
Her answer was in the barest shake of his head. ‘I know you won’t be exactly the same; how could you be? Having a soul won’t take your memories, your own dreams. But I will love you. So much.’
She held herself closer, unable to look at him.
‘And if it doesn’t work at all? You’ll still help me save the city?’
‘I said I would.’ He reached over and tapped her lightly on the nose, forcing her to look up. ‘I’m not perfect, but I’m no liar.’
Well. It depended on one’s definition of lies by omission. But his pain was so raw she couldn’t bear to agitate it more.
‘You said you know she’s still here. I’d like to...’ Her voice faltered. She believed, she did, but calling ghosts was more of a prank, the kind of thing older children faked to scare the younger ones on new-moon nights. But they’d never had an actual ghost to try on. And there was more magic in the world than she knew. She’d seen it in those shivering drops of blood. In the fact that Mihály knew his lover was still in the world, even if all Csilla saw was dust kicked in the air of a too-empty house. ‘I’d like to meet her.’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t think you can.’
‘When do you see her?’
He closed his eyes, lips curved in a mocking smile. ‘All the time. She’s almost always there, in the corners, in the shadows. But I don’t know how to make anyone else see.’
The loneliness there was drowning. She put a hand on his arm, though she knew the small anchor wouldn’t help.
‘What about when you sleep? Is that better?’
The slightest shake of his head, then a shiver down his body. ‘Sleep is worse.’
She sighed and settled on the far side of the bed, propping herself on a pillow. They couldn’t help each other in this. She should go.
But he looked so sad.
