Laila felt a cold thud in her heart. She recognized that symbol in the blurred images of the necklace chain. In her hands, the pendant felt a touch colder than the rest of the necklace.
“It’s a hexagram,” said Enrique. “We know it as an ancient symbol that’s taken on all kinds of meanings throughout various cultures, but it also—”
“—is the crest of a House in the Order,” said Séverin, staring at the six-pointed star. He absentmindedly rubbed his thumb along the long scar on his palm. “A House that was supposed to be dead.”
Hypnos gripped the armrest. “You don’t think—”
Séverin cut him off with a nod. His eyes looked hollow.
“The Fallen House has risen.”
21
ZOFIA
Zofia could not concentrate. Every time she blinked, she heard Roux-Joubert’s words echoed back to her: “I do love an idiot girl.”
Idiot.
It was just a word. It had no weight, no atomic number, no chemical structure with which it could bind to and thus make it real. But it hurt. Zofia squeezed her eyes shut, gripping the black table in her laboratory so hard her knuckles turned white. She felt the word like a slap to the face. In Glowno, she had once asked a theoretical question about physics. Her teacher told her, “You’d have better luck setting your desk on fire and seeing if the answer appears in the smoke.”
And so Zofia did.
She was ten years old.
When she came to the École des Beaux-Arts, it was much the same. She was too curious, too Jewish, too strange. To the point where no one had pushed back at the idea of locking her in the school laboratory.
But not once had anyone been hurt by how she thought. Or rather, how she didn’t think.
But Tristan? Slumped over in a chair, knives floating at his throat … she had done that to him. Tears stung Zofia’s eyes. She could work her way through mathematical riddles as if it were walking down a street. But a conversation was a labyrinth. And in her effort to navigate it, she had led Roux-Joubert right to their hiding spot in the greenhouse.
Something was wrong with her.
“Zofia?”
She looked up, blinking rapidly. Séverin was standing in the doorway. A silver cloth dangled from his hand.
“May I come in?”
She nodded. This was it. He was going to tell her to leave. That she wasn’t welcome here anymore after what she did. But he didn’t do any of that. Instead, he slid the silver cloth across the black table. Zofia recognized it as the piece that he’d stolen from the library of House Kore. She touched it gently. It felt like cold silk, and it had the strangest heft to it, as if it were pushing back against her hand.
“We have two more days before we have to meet Roux-Joubert in the Forging exhibition with Hypnos’s Ring.”
“You’re giving him the Ring?” she asked.
“I’m showing it to him.”
Zofia frowned. “What’s the difference—”
“Let me worry about that,” said Séverin. “I’ve got the others working on figuring out where the Fallen House headquarters are. But I can promise you that we won’t let them take the Ring. And we won’t let them take Tristan.”
Zofia’s shoulders fell. Everyone else was working on something. Except her.
“But I saved an important job for you,” he said softly.
Zofia stilled. “You did?”
“You’re the only phoenix I’ve got,” he said with a small smile. “Roux-Joubert couldn’t see that. Which is rather advantageous, wouldn’t you agree? He may not know now. But he will soon.”
Zofia’s hand curled into a fist. She felt as if fire had shot through her belly. He will. This must be what vengeance felt like. It made her … hungry.
“What do you need me to do?”
Séverin pointed to the silver cloth. “Can you figure out how this works? I think it could be useful.”
“Yes,” said Zofia breathlessly. “I can.”
The moment she reached for the silver cloth, the rest of the world disappeared. Someone could have set her laboratory on fire, and she wouldn’t have noticed. The moment she gave herself to her work, she gave all of herself. A new cadence seemed to buzz through her blood: She was no idiot; she would bring Tristan home; she would make this right.
It was nearly nighttime when Zofia looked up from her work to hear another knock at her door. Laila walked in carrying a platter of food, a steaming mug of tea, and a single round cookie.
“You haven’t eaten all day.”
Zofia’s stomach grumbled loudly at the sight of food. She patted it absentmindedly. She hadn’t noticed.
Laila placed the platter onto her worktable. “Eat.”
Zofia felt itchy just looking at the worktable now. The corner of the platter hung off the edge. It wasn’t even. And now it looked messy.
“I will take away the platter and put it somewhere else when I see you take five bites. And don’t scowl at me.”
Zofia dutifully shoved five bites of food in her mouth.
Laila pointed with her chin to the teacup. “Drink.”
Zofia drank the tea.
Only then did Laila remove the platter, place it off to the side of a different counter, and position it just so, with none of the corners hanging off the edges and arranged perpendicular to the wall.
“Any progress?”
Zofia eyed the silver cloth on the table. She was beginning to think that for what Séverin had asked of her, she might not be able to do this entirely inside L’Eden.
“It works like a Tezcat door,” said Zofia. “The actual filaments of it are made of obsidian.”
Laila tilted her head to one side. “Is that why it looks like a mirror?”
Zofia nodded. “But it does more than that.” Zofia rummaged through her toolbox and pulled out a sharp knife.
“Um, Zofia—”
Zofia plunged the knife into the cloth. The cloth didn’t tear. Instead, it bent, as if absorbing the impact of the blade.
Laila swore under her breath. “What in the world?”
“It repels matter,” said Zofia. “No solid matter can penetrate it.”
Laila dragged her fingers across the surface of it.
“What does Séverin want with it?”
Zofia chewed her lip. She wasn’t sure that she could answer yet because it depended on something back in the dark halls of the Forging exhibition. A place she was not looking forward to exploring once more.
“Have the others found the headquarters of the Fallen House?”
Laila sighed. “No. They think the answer is in an old bone clock. Apparently, it once held the locations of the Fallen House meetings or something. Don’t get me started. Personally, I think we should use the meeting location and just track who goes in and who leaves.”
Zofia thought back to the man who had been lying in wait for her and Enrique. The detection sphere hadn’t revelead his presence, and at the time both exits had been accounted for, which meant he had entered some other way. She hadn’t noticed anything that might have concealed their assailant, but studying the silver cloth made her think perhaps she had missed something.
“That won’t work.”
“Why not?”
“They’re using a different route.”
“That’s impossible,” said Laila. “There’s only the entrance and exit, and both join at the same road.”
Zofia reached for her box of matches and her necklace with the phosphorous pendants, shoving them into the pockets of her black smock. If the theory churning in her mind was right, then she couldn’t waste any more time. After all, Tristan was counting on her.
Zofia was already headed to the door when Laila blocked her.
“Where are you off to?”
“I have to go to the Exposition Universelle. I have to find a way into the Exhibition on Colonial Superstitions. I can climb over walls or stun guards or whatever I have to do—” she said, even as panic started pushing itself through
her bloodstream.
“Zofia,” soothed Laila. “Let me help. We can get in and get out, and hopefully no one will be jumping over fences.”
Zofia looked up, confused. “We?”
Laila winked. “Oui.”
“How?”
“You have your talents,” said Laila. “I have mine.”
And then she scrutinized Zofia’s outfit. “But you are not wearing that.”
“Why not?”
“Because, my dear, we are without armor. And beauty is its own armor. Trust me.”
* * *
ZOFIA WAS EXTREMELY itchy.
“I hate this,” she declared, plucking at one of the outfits Laila had shoved her into.
It was a nice enough color. Pale pink. With frills around the bodice and a neckline that felt at once scratchy and ticklish.
“Garments are an art,” said Laila, walking briskly.
“I’ll never get out of it.”
“As it so happens, some would consider disrobing an art too.”
Zofia grumbled, but kept up her pace. It was nearly nighttime. Lights spilled out across the Seine River. Up ahead loomed the Eiffel Tower, the entrance to the Exposition. Zofia had watched the Tower being built, growing from scaffolding to spire. It was a bold, staggering lattice of rivets and steel bolts. No one would call it beautiful, but that hardly mattered to Zofia. Beauty did not move her. But the Eiffel Tower did. It was immensely awkward. If the streets looked sewn together with a neat hand, la Tour Eiffel was the ungainly needle pinning it all into place. It lanced through the grand boulevards, elegant cupolas, and buildings draped in sculpted gods. It would never blend in, but always demand witnessing. Zofia suspected that if la Tour Eiffel could talk, they would understand each other perfectly.
Past the Eiffel Tower stretched out the Esplanade des Invalides. Even in the dark, Zofia felt her breath catch. It was as if she were no longer in Paris. Gone were the familiar boulevards and docile cafés with their wicker chairs. Now, sprawling tents covered the streets. On the sidewalk were low tables crowded with water pipes. Men in robes and women with their heads covered walked briskly down the cobbled lanes.
Laila pointed out the water fountain, the bell-shaped minaret, and the mosque paneled with bright blue tiles. Around it were salons and restaurants. The tang of unfamiliar food coated the air so thickly that Zofia was tempted to stick out her tongue.
“We’re on Cairo Street,” said Laila, keeping her voice low.
Although Paris was full of tourists, the Exposition had not yet officially opened, and the streets were empty, save for the very wealthy who had procured tickets early. Small units of guards carefully patrolled the spaces, making sure no one had snuck in before it was open to the public. On the other side of the street, Zofia spied a handful of guards walking toward them.
“Act calm,” said Laila under her breath. “You look like anyone else. As if you belong here, so there’s no reason for them to feel alarmed. And under no circumstances should you take off running.”
A guard strolled up to them. Zofia thought he would direct his questions to Laila, but he didn’t. He acted as if she wasn’t there at all.
“I’m afraid you and your maid can’t be here, Mademoiselle,” he said to Zofia. “We have been having some troubles with security—there was a disturbance here a week ago. We will have to ask you to remove yourself to a different sector of the Exposition Universelle.”
Beside Zofia, Laila stiffened.
“She isn’t my maid,” said Zofia automatically.
Laila winced. And Zofia realized that was not what she was supposed to say. “I mean—”
Another guard started walking toward them. His eyebrows were slanted down.
“Mademoiselle, what’s your name?” asked the first guard.
“I … I…”
Zofia tugged nervously at the silken sheath cover on her dress. Hidden in her sleeve was a box of matches. There were sharp spurs concealed in the heels of her shoes. But she didn’t want to use them.
Laila jumped in. “My mistress does not simply hand over her name like some common token!”
The first guard looked taken aback. “I meant no offense—”
“You should apologize anyway!” scolded Laila.
“It’s just that she seems to match a description for a person involved with the recent disturbance. A girl, of about her height. With white-blond hair. It’s not a very common coloring.”
“She is a rare and exquisite flower,” said Laila, tugging on Zofia’s arm. “Let us go, Madame. We were lost, is all—”
“If she could but stay a moment longer, my colleague will be able to confirm that she is not the woman we seek. I am dreadfully sorry, but protocol is quite strict before opening day.”
Zofia recognized the second guard approaching them. He was the one who had cradled his friend who died at the hands of the man with the blade-brimmed hat. The man stopped short when he saw her. His hand went to the Forged device at his hip.
Zofia grabbed Laila’s arm.
“Run!” she cried, sprinting down the road.
Laila took off after her. Zofia’s heart pounded in her ears. She could hear the guards shouting. Behind her, tents crashed and tables were overturned as Laila threw them to the ground, blocking their path.
“This way!” said Laila, pulling Zofia through one of the twisting streets.
Shouts erupted behind them. Zofia flew past a spice table, overturning cinnamon and pepper in heaps onto the ground. A slew of foreign curses chased her shadow, but there wasn’t time to apologize. Zofia followed Laila through the twisting streets of the colonial pavilions until they arrived at a corner that plunged into the dark.
On the other side of the alley, the streets changed once more. From Cairo to an Annamite village, where the wooden thatched peaks of pointed huts unfurled in front of them. A colorful rickshaw streaming ribbons sped past in the direction of a large theater outfitted with palm fronds. Down the street, Zofia could see the darkened archway of the Exhibition on Colonial Superstitions.
And just behind her, she could hear the pounding footsteps of the guards.
Laila started waving her hands wildly. “I can’t get the rickshaw driver’s attention!” she called.
The footsteps were gaining on them. Zofia had an idea. From her sleeves, she pulled out the matches, struck one against her teeth, and set it to the outer sheath of her dress before jumping in the middle of the road. She tore off the first, burning layer, which now flared into a long column of fire.
The rickshaw driver braked hard.
“I got his attention,” announced Zofia, stomping the fire out with her foot. The rest of her dress, made of Forged flame-retardant silk, gleamed, completely unsullied.
Laila’s mouth fell open, but then it pulled into a wide grin. She waved a bag full of coins.
“For your services. And your silence.”
The driver, a boy no older than thirteen, beamed a gap-toothed smile. The two of them hopped into the rickshaw just as the guards appeared.
“Get down!” said Laila.
Zofia slid farther down in her seat. The rickshaw itself was little more than a covered tricycle. But at least it could get them to the exhibition.
Laila whispered directions to the driver. Once they sped away down the road, she flopped backward in her seat, breathing hard.
“See?” said. “What did I tell you earlier?”
Zofia gripped the edge of her seat. “That some people consider disrobing an art?”
“No, not that!” said Laila, as the driver blushed. “I said that beauty was its own armor.”
Zofia considered this. “I still don’t like dresses.”
Laila merely smiled.
* * *
INSIDE THE FORGING exhibition, the lights had been kept dim. The only pinpoints of luminescence were beneath each of the podiums. Zofia kept herself near the wall.
“What are we looking for, Zofia? Another entrance? A hidden door?”
She reached for the phosphorous pendant from her necklace, remembering how it had revealed the Tezcat door at House Kore. That mirror had been a gift from the Fallen House. And if the Fallen House was behind the theft of the House Kore Ring, then what if she and Enrique had missed something the last time they were here? What if the whole time they had been walking through the exhibition, thinking they were unseen, someone had been watching them from behind a concealed mirror?
With Forging, detecting the presence of a Tezcat required a burning phosphorous formula. Zofia snapped her phosphorous pendant. She held it out where it looked like a piece of chipped-off blue flame.
“Don’t walk in front of the flame,” instructed Zofia.
Laila nodded. The two of them made their way slowly through the exhibit. Zofia let the light of the phosphorous pendant climb up the brocade walls. On the left, nothing moved. Zofia held out the pendant as she made her way to the place in the wall where the man with the honeybee pendant had been waiting as if he had slid out of the wallpaper itself. The light climbed over the brocade slowly, glittering over the golden embroidery, and then—
Laila sucked in her breath.
The wall changed. At first, it showed nothing but cloth, but then the surface of it rippled, turning liquid and silver. A Tezcat door, exposed. In its reflection, Zofia caught Laila’s eye.
“They’re coming through here.”
22
ENRIQUE
Enrique was hanging upside down from his armchair.
He groaned aloud. “It makes no sense.”
Hypnos, seated on the black-cherry chair beneath him, raised his nearly emptied wineglass. His third such glass, if memory served Enrique.
“Try wine.”
“I doubt that will help.”
“True, but at least you won’t remember.” Hypnos drained his glass, then set it aside. “How come you have an armchair? I want one.”
“Because I live here.”
“Hmpf.”
Sometimes Enrique found his thoughts worked better when he was dangling upside down. It helped that he could see the floor beneath him, all the documents they’d found on the Fallen House fanned out across the carpet. And in the middle of it all, encased in a thin quartz terrarium: the bone clock.
The Gilded Wolves Page 23
