He? The question haunted Séverin, but there was no surviving record of the last Fallen House patriarch, and though the Order seemed disappointed the Sleeping Palace could not be found … at least they felt reassurance in the knowledge the Fallen House could not find it either.
Only he and Hypnos, the patriarch of House Nyx, had continued searching, scouring records and receipts, hunting for any inconsistencies which eventually led them to the man who sat in front of Séverin. An old, shriveled man who had managed to hide for a very long time.
“I have paid my dues,” said the man. “I was not even part of the Fallen House, merely one of its many solicitors. And I told the Order before that when the House fell, they gave me a draught, and I remember nothing of its secrets. Why drag me here? I have no information worth knowing.”
Séverin set down his teacup. “I believe you can lead me to the Sleeping Palace.”
The man scoffed. “No one has seen it in—”
“Fifty years, I know,” said Séverin. “It’s well hidden, I understand. But my contacts tell me the Fallen House created a special pair of lenses. Tezcat spectacles, to be precise, which reveal the location of the Sleeping Palace and all its delicious treasures.” Séverin smiled. “However, they entrusted these spectacles to a unique person, someone who does not know what they guard.”
The man gaped at him.
“H-how—” He caught himself, then cleared his throat. “The Tezcat spectacles are mere rumor. I certainly don’t possess them. I know nothing, Monsieur. I swear on my life.”
“Poor choice of words,” said Séverin.
He removed Tristan’s penknife from his pocket, tracing the initials on it: T.M.A. Tristan had lost his surname, and so Séverin had shared his. At the base of the knife was an ouroboros, a snake biting its tail. It was once the symbol of House Vanth, the House he might have been patriarch of—if things had gone according to plan … if that dream of inheritance had not killed the person closest to him. Now it was a symbol of all he would change.
He knew that even if they found The Divine Lyrics, it would not be enough to protect the others … They’d wear targets on their backs for the rest of their lives, and that was unacceptable. And so, Séverin had nurtured a new dream. He dreamt of that night in the catacombs, when Roux-Joubert had smeared golden blood over his mouth; the sensation of his spine elongating, making room for sudden wings. He dreamt of the pressure in his forehead, the horns that bloomed and arced, lacquered tips brushing the tops of his ears.
We could be gods.
That was what The Divine Lyrics promised. If he had the book, he could be a god. A god did not know human pain or loss or guilt. A god could resurrect. He could share the book’s powers with the others, turn them invincible … protect them forever. And when they left him—as he knew they’d always planned to—he wouldn’t feel a thing.
For he would not be human.
“Are you going to stab me with that?” demanded the man, pushing back violently from the table. “How old are you, Monsieur? In your twenties? Don’t you think think that is too young to have such blood on your hands?”
“I’ve never known blood to discriminate between ages,” said Séverin, tilting the blade. “But I won’t stab you. What’s the point when I’ve already poisoned you?”
The man’s eyes flew to the tea. Sweat beaded on his brow. “You’re lying. If you poisoned the tea, then you’d be poisoned too.”
“Most assuredly,” said Séverin. “But the poison wasn’t the tea. It was your cup’s porcelain coating. Now.” From his pocket, he withdrew a clear vial and placed it on the table. “The antidote is right here. Is there really nothing you wish to tell me?”
* * *
TWO HOURS LATER, Séverin poured sealing wax onto several envelopes—one to be sent out immediately, the others to be sent out in two days. A small part of him hesitated, but he steeled himself. He was doing this for them. For his friends. The more he cared about their feelings, the harder his task became. And so he endeavored to feel nothing at all.
2
LAILA
Laila stared at the letter her maid had just delivered. When she took the envelope, she thought it would be a note from Zofia that she’d returned from her visit to Poland. Or Enrique, letting her know how his meeting with the Ilustrados had gone. Or Hypnos, wondering when they could dine together. But instead, it was from the last person … and held the last words … she ever expected:
I know how to find The Divine Lyrics.
Meeting at 12 o’clock.
—SÉVERIN
The sound of rustling sheets in her bedroom startled her.
“Come back to bed,” said a groggy voice.
Cold December light streamed through the bay windows of her suite in the Palais des Rêves, the cabaret where she performed as the dancer L’Énigme. With the light trickled in the memories of last night. She had brought someone to her suite, which was not unusual lately. Last night was a diplomat’s son who had bought her champagne and strawberries after her performance. She had liked him on the spot. His body was not sleek, but broad; his eyes not deep violet, but pale as a young wine; his hair not plum-black, but golden.
She liked who he wasn’t.
Because of that, she could tell him the secret that ate her alive every day. The secret that had made her own father call her an abomination. The secret she couldn’t bear to tell her closest friends.
“I’m dying,” she’d whispered when she drew him down to her.
“You’re dying?” The diplomat’s son had grinned. “That eager, are we?”
Every time she uttered those words to a lover, the truth felt smaller, as if she might someday wrangle it down to a manageable size and hold it in the palm of her hand rather than let it swallow her up entirely. The jaadugar had said her body—built rather than born—would not last past her twentieth birthday. She would not last, which left her with little over a month of life. Her only hope of survival was The Divine Lyrics, a book that held the secret to the power of Forging, the art of controlling mind or matter depending on one’s affinity. With it, her own Forged body might find a way to hold itself together for longer. But months had passed, and the trail to find it had gone cold despite everyone’s efforts. There was no option but to savor the time she had left … and so she had.
Now, a sharp pang bloomed in her chest. She placed the letter on her vanity. Her fingers trembled from reading it. Truly reading it. The object’s memories flooded her head: Séverin pouring black sealing wax onto the paper, his violet eyes aglow.
Laila looked over her shoulder to the boy in her bed.
“I’m afraid you have to leave.”
* * *
A FEW HOURS LATER, Laila walked onto the frigid streets of Montmartre. Christmas had passed, but winter was not yet robbed of its holiday magic. Colorful lights winked behind frosted panes. Warm steam drifted from the bakeries, carrying the aroma of pain d’épices, deep golden spice bread glossed over with amber honey. The world leaned hungrily over the cusp of a new year, and every moment, Laila wondered how much of it she would live to see.