Zofia was putting the finishing touches on the Forged cloth when Laila knocked at the door.
“Phoenix you might be, but you must subsist on something other than flames,” said Laila, placing a platter before her.
Zofia scanned its contents: meats and cheeses spaced far apart, and a row of tomatoes neatly dividing the plate. On a separate plate was a dish of olive oil and sliced bread. Her stomach growled loudly, and Zofia reached for the bread—
Laila tutted. “Manners.”
Zofia frowned then held out her hand. Laila handed her a napkin. The napkin did nothing to the grease stains on her hands, but Zofia knew Laila liked ceremony.
“You don’t have to eat in here,” said Laila gently.
“I want to,” said Zofia, tearing into the bread. “It maximizes efficiency.”
“Would it be so bad to step outside for some sunlight?” asked Laila.
“It would be unnecessary, as I am not a plant and do not need to photosynthesize to sustain myself,” said Zofia.
“Well, I may partake in some photosynthesizing this afternoon if you care to join me.”
“No,” said Zofia, before adding, “thank you.”
She cared more about other things, like preparing items for whatever awaited them in Poveglia.
“As you wish,” said Laila, smiling.
Zofia noticed her friend’s smile did not reach her eyes. Ever since they had arrived here from Isola di San Michele, Laila had grown more silent. When Zofia had gone to bed last night, she saw Laila standing in the drawing room, rubbing her thumb against her palm over and over. In the mornings when they broke their fast, Laila would stare at the ring on her hand. Zofia glanced at it now: Eight.
Even though she was sitting, Zofia felt as if she had just tripped.
Eight days left, and far too much left unknown.
“I must work,” said Zofia.
She gestured her hands at her workbench, her breaths rising tight and fast inside her.
“Phoenix?” said Laila softly. Zofia looked up and saw her friend’s warm, brown gaze assessing her. “Thank you. I appreciate all that you are doing.”
Zofia ate hurriedly and returned to her work, but no matter what she did, there was still that stumbling sensation. As if she were blindly finding her way in utter darkness. It was not just Laila’s dwindling days that pressed on her thoughts. All the time, she felt Hela’s letter against her skin. Seven times a day, Zofia allowed herself to take out the letter and smooth her hands over the creased envelope. It felt worn and soft to the touch, not unlike the grisly pelt in the cellar. The only difference between them was that this time Zofia chose not to know whether it held death.
“Why aren’t you scared of the dark?” Zofia had once asked her sister.
Hela turned toward her in the night. Even though she could not see Hela’s gray eyes, Zofia knew they were open.
“Because I know I just have to wait a little while, and then the light will come back,” said Hela, reaching out to stroke her hair. “It always comes back.”
“What if you get lost in the dark?” Zofia had asked, curling closer to her.
She did not like to be touched, but Hela was soft and warm and knew not to hold her too closely.
“I would do the same thing, sister … I would wait for the light to show me the paths before me. And then I would not be so lost.”
Alone, Zofia pressed her hands to her heart, thinking of Hela and Laila. Whatever lay inside the envelope held a variable that could not be changed. But Laila’s fate was dependent upon elements Zofia could still control. It was not unlike being lost in the dark. All she had to do was work and wait, and eventually, when the light came … she would be able to see the path before her.
* * *
“PHOENIX.”
Bleary-eyed, Zofia looked up from her workbench to see Enrique standing in the archway. A low thrum of heat coursed through her belly at the sight of him. He had lost an ear, but his effect on her when she was unguarded remained the same. Zofia studied him, annoyed. Was it the curious sheen of iridescence to his black hair? The inky depth of his eyes or the prominence of his cheekbones?
For the past two days, she had caught glimpses of Enrique working in the library. Enrique was never still. He hummed. He tapped his foot. He thrummed his fingers along the spines of books.
All of this should have annoyed her, but instead, it made her feel less lonely.
“Phoenix … did I disturb you?” asked Enrique, stepping inside. He surveyed her workbench, his eyes widening. “You have enough for a small army.”
Zofia regarded her inventions. “I have enough for, perhaps, fifteen people.”
“You do realize we are a company of five individuals.”
Zofia frowned. “We do not know what waits for us in Poveglia.”
Enrique smiled. “Precisely what I wished to talk to you about. Would you mind waiting in the library? I’ll fetch Laila and join you in a moment.”
Zofia nodded, pushing her chair. Her back ached, and her eyes burned as she stepped from the dimly lit laboratory and walked across the hall to the library. Hypnos met her by promptly bursting into song.
“Ah, my fair and feral muse!” he sang, before speaking: “How goes your cultivation of destruction?”
Zofia remembered Enrique’s wide eyes.
“Productive,” she said. “Potentially excessive.”
She found herself smiling as she took a seat on a high stool beside him. Hypnos always seemed able to make people smile. Although, lately, Enrique did not seem to smile at him. It was different from how they had been at the Sleeping Palace, which only added to the confusing darkness of her thoughts. She remembered watching them kiss, and the way they had melted against each other. There were moments when she imagined herself in Hypnos’s place. But simply because they were no longer attached did not mean that Enrique would ever want to do that with her. Ideas had no physical mass, but Zofia felt the thought like a stone thudding in her stomach.
“You and Enrique have been so preoccupied,” said Hypnos. “Meanwhile, I’ve tuned a piano and sang bawdy songs to the shadows. They are a very cold sort of audience. No applause whatsoever.”
Zofia looked around the library. It was a small room with low ceilings, four chairs for sitting, and two long tables. The only illumination came from eight rose-shaped sconces in the joints where the ceiling met the wall. All across the walls stood shelves crowded with books or paintings, statue busts, and maps. On one wall stood a large, gilded mirror. Zofia glanced down at her necklace, but her two remaining Tezcat pendants did not light up, which meant it was probably nothing more than a mirror. On one of the tables stood a teetering stack of papers that could only belong to Enrique. A still-dripping quill lay balanced across an unstoppered jar of ink. Beside it stood a small, ivory bust of a god with two heads, one facing in either direction. Zofia remembered the deity from the graveyard. Janus, he was called. The god of time.
“Good,” said Enrique, walking into the room with Laila on his arm. “We’re all here.”
Laila was oddly still as she settled into a nearby chair. Her brows were pulled down, her mouth looked thin. Zofia recognized that she was concerned.
“What’s the good news, mon cher?” asked Hypnos.