‘I think you should go.’ Go, before she started crying. Though it didn’t seem she could lose any more of his respect.
‘Csilla.’ His face was near to pleading.
She wanted to imagine there was an apology on his tongue, but the odds of that were slim. She raised her chin before he could speak again.
‘Do you know what I was doing when the two of you were out?’
‘Writing letters, no?’ Ilan said, and Mihály nodded behind her. She looked between them, frustration rising. They really didn’t understand.
‘Writing letters to the family of a man who was brutally killed, a man I’ve known since I was six. Someone I’d promised to take care of, in life and in death.’ She held up her cross-marked palm. ‘Someone I won’t be allowed to sit with, or wash, or speak for. The only family I have are the people I’ve cared for.’
Ilan’s expression sharpened. ‘When you’re Varga Evaline, do you think you’re going to care?’
Tamas had said the same thing. It was like a flexing grip around her heart, doing its best to squeeze out every stubborn hope. She couldn’t allow that.
‘I have all the information I need, anyway,’ he continued, no longer meeting her eyes. ‘The pair of you stay inside. The city will be locked down by tonight.’
‘But don’t you still need our...’ She was drowning, grasping for a buoy and finding only water passing through her fingers.
‘Help? I know what we’re facing. And now I know where to look next. Your cooperation is no longer needed.’
He was going to take everything from her. ‘But you know we need the killer. We need the blood of whoever is directing this to...’To complete the ritual. To get me a soul.He’d seen the way Mihály had used the dead rabbit to make shed blood dancewith spirit. He knew it was possible. Did he not care for her at all?
‘You’re really not going to help . . .’
‘Csilla, Iamhelping you. I’m telling you to stay inside; this district is the most dangerous at the moment. And I’m telling you to forget everything the fucking Izir has ever told you.’
She stepped further back against Mihály, curling against him like a wounded animal. She wanted to snarl, but the only thing that came out was a whimper.
‘Fine. Go.’
?
The streets quickly became filthy with the lockdown; people threw waste out windows that no nightsoil men were out to collect, and bored children screamed just to hear the echo. But there hadn’t been any new bells tolling death, and even though Ilan had said this district was a target, there was no sign of anyone out. Csilla would know; she spent the nights walking from window to window, watching for candlefire or shadows where they shouldn’t be.
All it left her was ever more despairing and exhausted, and now she was being put to work.
Mihály sat across from Csilla in the parlour, pretending to be absorbed in a book, occasionally glowering at the mess of brocade and thread in her lap. That was fine. She was frustrated, too. Ilan hadn’t returned, not that she’d expected it, but even Mihály was quiet. Which meant he didn’t have any better ideas than she did.
It shouldn’t matter. Ilan had solved his puzzle and would likely find whoever had orchestrated the deaths, and barring a miraclethat was the best they could hope for. It was selfish to resent that she wasn’t getting anything out of it.
She stabbed the fabric and nearly pricked her thumb. The task was mostly busywork. Madame Varga had seen her wandering and deemed it aimless, then set her to altering a vest, one fitted for Mihály that could be hidden under a coat if it ended up a mess.
She didn’t sew badly. Pride and a need to think about anything other than her own misery had her focused on the little stitches, the golden fabric smooth on her palms. It caught the lamplight with the sheen of a sunrise.
He was still in mourning blacks and their host would have him dressed in forest green and gold. She bit the inside of her cheek.
‘Come here, and let me check this,’ she said, motioning for him to stand so she could hold the fabric up to him.
He did so, slow and quiet. She found herself missing his easy smiles and sweet words, even as Ilan’s angry warning heated her blood every time she remembered it.
‘You sew well,’ Mihály praised, forced lightness in his tone.
‘I had a lot of practice growing up.’
Sewing habits, altar cloths, and skin had made her fingers dexterous. Another task she wouldn’t be going back to. She placed two more pins, clamped another between her teeth, then set back to work.
But he was staring, and her stitches were suffering for it. She tied off the last thread with a flourishing loop. ‘There.’
