One man kicked his chair, the sharp, angry rattle drawing a momentary silence.
‘It doesn’t matter if we’re angry or not.’ He pulled up his shirt, where the skin across his back was bruised in a lash line of mottled brown and yellow. The mark was human-made, and all the uglier for it. ‘The Church isn’t protecting us anymore. This is what they give us for keeping the Faith.’
Mihály flinched like he’d been struck, and Csilla pressed her hands to her heart. It was likely Ilan’s work.
‘I know. I’m only trying to provide comfort.’ He offered them his glorious smile, but it was hazy around the edges.
‘Comfort doesn’t bring back the dead.’ The man who spoke next was dressed in fresh mourning blacks. ‘Comfort doesn’t stop my children from panicking every time a rat scutters through the beams.’
‘I’m sorry,’ was all Mihály could say, over and over, until it became its own kind of intercessory prayer smoothing the edge of violence.
Csilla looked between the faces; blotchy, pained, and feral. She couldn’t see anyone she would pin as a killer. This snap-jaw anger was only the instinctual reaction of the hunted, not intentional violence. It was all painfully human.
‘Please. Listen,’ Mihály pleaded.
‘Listen to what, Izir?’ A person in front of him hissed. ‘We came because we thought you’d have answers. Why are things only getting worse? Are you going to tell us it doesn’t matter, we should happily die and let our souls know peace? You’re the one telling us ghost stories. Where is the peace in that?’ A few people spat at the statement, the air growing rotten.
Csilla edged her way to the front of the room, dodging splayed feet and cocked elbows. Mihály caught her gaze, and she put her hands together.Pray, she mouthed. If his own words werefailing him, the saints that had come before had left them plenty to use.
Mihály closed his eyes a moment, lashes falling over his cheeks, still and perfect. His voice deepened and took on a resonant tone like the bells chiming through the square.
He began to pray.
Csilla’s lips moved along with the old words to the litany of peace Ágnes used to use in place of a lullaby, set down by Blessed Imre, said to have been whispered to him in Arany’s arms. As Mihály spoke, he seemed to glow from within, holiness radiating. Everything around him seemed brighter, more perfect, and Csilla squashed an urge to go to him, to see if standing next to him would let her share the blessing.
The crowd softened as surely as if they’d taken a dose of Mihály’s sweetest drug, violence charmed away by his beauty. Csilla looked over the gathered again, searching for any sign of a killer’s appetite and claws. But all of them seemed ordinary people. Scared, hopeful, faithful people, now under the angel’s sway.
Sweat glistened on Mihály’s brow, and his words tripped, slurred with nerves.
Dismiss them, she mouthed. They’d done their job. But he wasn’t looking at her now, and he continued to speak until his throat grew parched and the words became hoarse exhalations.
Even an angel’s voice couldn’t last forever. He coughed, shoulders wracking, and slumped forward.
One man stood in the broken pause, face flushed and eyes wild.
‘We believed in you. I closed my ears to the rumours. But this city was safer before you showed up.’
His punch caught Mihály square in the stomach. The Izir doubled over, holding out an ineffective hand to try to protect himself.
Csilla scrambled as chairs were overturned, passionate faith turned into violent fear in an instant. Mihály brought up an arm to block a second punch, but other fists landed.
Not every hit fell on target, and there was another crash as someone brought an arm around a man’s neck, and others tripped and set off new waves of flailing and retaliation.
Csilla squeezed through the bodies, tugging her skirts away from grasping hands, sucking down the pain as a booted heel crushed her toes. Others pushed around her, stealing the air as they went for the door, but tangling and tripping her as she tried to get to Mihály. Her head snapped back as her chin was cracked by a glancing elbow.
She shook off the dizziness and squeezed through and got there first, bracing herself in the doorframe against the shove at her back.
‘Ilan!’ He stepped out, sword in hand, and the pushing people behind her stilled. It didn’t calm the chaos deeper inside.
From inside his cloak, Ilan pulled out a silver whistle and blew three shrill blasts, piercing the quiet of the night. She started to turn back, but Ilan grabbed her arm and pulled her firmly out. She jerked her arm, but he didn’t let go. There was something dark and worried in his eyes, deeper than the worries of the moment, and it gnawed at her.
‘You’re just going to get yourself knocked out. Stay back.’
Inside there was another crack and shout, another heart-straining moment of Mihály’s pleading. Two people pushed past, shoving Csilla to the dirty stone, and Ilan cursed and kicked at a third trying to escape.
Csilla picked herself up, her palms now scraped by the gravel. This was supposed to be the way they made sure no one got hurt. She was achingly glad Elmere had left before he could see Mihály turned into a scapegoat for his people’s fear.
It took too many minutes for three inquisitorial priests to appear running towards them and calling questions in breathless voices.
