‘Ilan?’ His eyes darted as if unsure that this wasn’t some prank.
A man pushed into Ilan’s side as he jostled towards Mihály.
‘Izir, I’ve beenwaiting.’
‘I’ll say a blessing for your family,’ he said, waving him off and taking Ilan by the arm instead. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Where is Csilla?’ He’d keep the conversation as short as he could. From the corner of his eye he could see his mother waiting, poised with the perfect stillness of a hunter with quarryin sight. If he didn’t hurry, he was going to be cornered and hugged again.
‘She’s at home. And I’m sure she doesn’t want to see you.’ Mihály’s expression became a hairsbreadth more measured. Ilan knew it for what it was now – a quick calculation, gauging which version of himself would get the most favourable result. Ilan, however, hated every face he had.
‘She left already?’ He’d congratulate her for her good sense, but he also wanted to hit something.
Mihály frowned. ‘She was never here. She wasn’t feeling well.’
A prickle slid down Ilan’s spine. ‘I was told that everyone had gone. If she is here and you just want her to yourself, I need you to think beyond your own ego for a moment. Ágnes is going into anchorage. Csilla should know.’
‘Told by who?’
The music was starting up again, and with it came people with outstretched hands, reaching for Mihály, asking to be granted the next turn. With a graceless tug, Mihály had Ilan on the dance floor.
‘Talk here, otherwise people will keep interrupting. I’ll let you lead.’
For fuck’s sake.As if they needed this to be more ridiculous. He could smell the brandy on the other man’s breath. ‘Someone is dying, and you want to dance?’
‘Someone’s always dying,’ Mihály countered. ‘Why shouldn’t we dance?’
‘I know this might be hard to get through your head,’ Ilan said as he yanked Mihály in rough steps that at least effectively kept them from getting run into, and prayed his parents weren’t watching what he did with his years of dancing instruction, ‘but you owe something to her. Whether you like her or not.’
‘You don’t know the first thing about what I owe her...’
Ilan’s heel dug into Mihály’s toes, and though he knew the crack was shoe leather, he dearly wished it was bone. The stumble sent them too close to another couple, and Ilan pushed Mihály out of the way, off the floor, with a palm in his ribs to match the verbal jab.
‘For the virtues, the one redeeming trait youhaveis that you seemed to care about the people you served. Or was that a lie, too? You like the worship, not the good that would earn it? And when Csilla asks you to be the least bit accountable, you disappear?’
Mihály’s eyes flashed dark. ‘I told you, she’s sick. I left my mentor with her.’
Wellthatwas comforting.
‘And you’re here, drinking and swanning about like there’s nothing else that could possibly require your attention. Is she not even worth the tiniest bit of the power you get your worship from? Whether you like her or not, you didn’t have to leave her ill.’ If there was anything that could crack Ilan’s faith, it was this: that Asten had let such a selfish man wield divine power.
There was something stricken in Mihály’s gaze, the look of a bird stunned by a sun-blinded collision with a window. The song ended, the last crying violin notes fading among a smattering of applause and rising chatter.
‘What’s this?’ Madame Varga appeared at Mihály’s shoulder. ‘Come, Misi, it’s my turn.’
Mihály looked between the woman and Ilan, jaw clamped tight. Ilan’s lip curled.
‘By all means, stay and dance, Izir. This is probably the best place for you. I’ll figure out the miscommunication on my own.’
‘No,’ Mihály said. ‘You’re right. I’ll go with you.’
The woman went a shade paler than her powder.
‘Nemes Mihály, how dare you take my hospitality and repay it with this humiliation,’ the woman hissed. ‘Youcannotleave me in front of everyone like this. I’ll have to leave too, and I’m not—’
Mihály cringed, but when he spoke his voice was firm. ‘I have to get Csilla.’
‘It can wait—’
