Csilla
Csilla knew the doorway Sandor stopped in front of and the worn and thoughtful face of the man who opened it: Tamas.
What business could Tamas have with Sandor? He wasn’t at the riots; Mihály hadn’t even mentioned his name.
‘Inquisitor?’
Surprise coloured Tamas’s voice. Csilla didn’t have the luxury of moving closer to read the nuances of his expression, and the glint of his glasses shadowed his eyes. Sandor looked back at the road, quick glances left and right before stepping close.
‘About your Izir . . .’
Their words faded as they stepped inside, and the door closed with a thud. Csilla slipped close and pressed her ear to the wood, the cracked red paint scratching her cheek. But it was a thick door built to block both heavy snows and the clatter of street traffic, and all she heard was the quick thud of her own pulse, strong under her skin.
She walked around the house, dragging her fingertips against the brick walls, searching for a crack or vent leaking whispers. It was no use. The shutters were already tight against the approaching night. The only sound was a creeping cold air and the shriek of a distant crow. Csilla crossed her arms against a shiver. The last slanting sunlight was disappearing intoviolet dark behind the rooftops, a few scattered stars peeking overhead.
After long minutes, Sandor emerged. The door slammed behind him, and neither spoke a parting blessing.
Csilla counted to one hundred and combed her hair forward so brown waves fell over the tender spot on her jaw. Then she knocked.
‘I don’t want to. Oh, Csilla.’ Tamas stepped back and looked down at her, lips pursed. ‘You’re here now? It’s late, and I hear there’s been trouble.’ He glanced over her shoulder, but Sandor was gone. ‘Where’s Misi?’
‘He wanted to be alone. May I come in?’ She forced her voice to sound small and respectful. Suspicion would get the door slammed.
‘Of course. I thought you’d been ignoring me completely.’ He ushered her in and shut the door after a final glance at the streets.
Inside, the room smelled like pipe smoke laced with cloves and a strange, sharp tinge she couldn’t place. She furrowed her brow.
‘Ignoring you?’
He waved her over to the small table in the middle of the room where stubby candles were burning and gestured for her to sit. Yellowed wax dripped onto stale crumbs and what looked like spilled sugar, oddly rich in the humble surroundings.
‘I’d sent a note to Mihály asking about you. Perhaps with all the trouble he’s causing he didn’t have time to pass the message along. Is he well?’ The urgency in his voice worried at her.
‘Well enough.’ She didn’t want to tell Tamas she’d gotten his precious student punched if Sandor hadn’t mentioned it. Tamas arched an eyebrow.
‘And his spells? Have you seen anything?’
‘Mmm. He drinks a lot – I’m sure it doesn’t help.’ Her mind darkened, remembering the salt-sharp fever in him as he slept, long fingers crushing her wrist. ‘But it’s not his fault.’
Tamas sighed.
‘So he keeps his own faith and drowns himself in a weak man’s baptism. Well. I can’t say I haven’t had a part in that, though I wasn’t expecting him to be in the well so long. And I wasn’t expecting you to stay with him.’ The accusatory note in his tone was the sting of a lash. ‘I did warn you to leave.’
Csilla laced her hands and rested them on the table in front of her. She wasn’t here to talk about Mihály.
‘What did the new High Inquisitor want? I saw him.’
‘He thinks I can take responsibility for Mihály. As if anyone could.’ He tapped his fingers against his lips, the creases in his forehead deepening. ‘How is he treating you?’
‘Mihály? Fine.’ Better than fine when he forgot she was Csilla and not Evie. The echoes of his desperate touches lingered on her shoulders and in her hair, the clinging remains of love with nowhere to go.
‘And has he managed to get you a soul?’ Tamas gave her a pointed look. ‘Or save the city, or whatever it was you thought would save you in turn?’
She shook her head, pulling her hope around her. She wouldn’t let his needling hurt.
‘We haven’t had any luck at all.’ Whatever evil was lurking, it was well hidden.
Tamas sighed, then picked up his pipe and lit it. He took a deep drag as a thicker smoke haze danced above them.
