The Silvered Serpents

by Roshani Chokshi

  “No one came,” he said, but his words were drowned out by the sound of the carriage lurching onto the gravelly streets.

  In the end, no one heard him.

  4

  ZOFIA

  Over the past months, Zofia Boguska had learned how to lie.

  In December, she told the others she was celebrating Chanukah in Glowno, Poland, where her sister, Hela, worked as a governess to their uncle’s family. But that was not the truth. The truth was that Hela was dying.

  Zofia stood outside Séverin’s study in Hotel L’Eden. She still had her travel bag at her side, and she had not removed her outer coat or the violet hat that Laila said “brought out her eyes”—a statement that horrified Zofia and made her anxiously touch her eyelids. She had not meant to return so soon. There was no point when Séverin had not accepted any acquisition assignments, and her skill set had gotten them no closer to finding The Divine Lyrics. But two days ago, she had received an urgent letter from Séverin, instructing her to return to L’Eden, though he did not say why.

  “Go, Zosia, I will be well,” Hela had insisted, pressing her lips to Zofia’s hand. “And what about your studies? Won’t you be in trouble for taking off so much time from university?”

  Zofia had lost count of how many lies she’d told. In the end, she had no choice but to return. She was out of money. And Hela was right about one thing—she did seem better. Just days ago, Hela’s fever raged through her body. Once she slipped into unconsciousness, her uncle had sent word to a rabbi for burial rituals. But then a new doctor visited her uncle’s home. The man insisted Zofia had paid for his services, and though she did not remember doing so, she admitted him anyway. Hope provided flimsy statistics, but it was better than nothing. That night, he injected Hela with a pharmaceutical compound he claimed was available nowhere else, and promised she would live.

  And so she had.

  The next morning, Séverin’s letter arrived. Even though Hela might be recovering, Zofia had decided not to stay in Paris. She would return to Poland, to take care of her sister … but she needed more money. Her savings had gone to Hela’s care and her uncle’s charges—compensation he demanded for the time Hela had not been able to instruct his children. Though if she died, of course, he would “generously” forgive the debt.

  After all, they were family.

  Zofia needed to go back to Paris. She needed to say goodbye. And she needed to sell her laboratory for parts. What money she received would go to Hela’s care.

  In L’Eden, Zofia rapped on the door to Séverin’s study. Behind her, she could hear the hurried footsteps of Séverin’s butler. He hissed under his breath, “Mademoiselle Boguska, are you sure this cannot wait? Monsieur Montagnet-Alarie has been very—”

  The door swung open, and Séverin stood in the doorway. He glanced wordlessly at his butler, and the man quickly fled down the hall. Distantly, Zofia wondered how Séverin could do such things, command without articulating. She would never have that kind of power. But at least, she thought, holding her resignation letter tightly … at least she might save someone she loved.

  “How was your journey?” asked Séverin, stepping aside to admit her.

  “Long.”

  But not as bad as it might have been. When Séverin sent for her, he had included a first-class train ticket with a compartment to herself so that she need never speak to another person. She liked that the compartment had lamps with many tassels, and a rug that was one color, and she’d spent the whole trip counting things aloud … calming herself for what she had to do.

  Zofia thrust the resignation letter to him.

  “I have to go back,” she said. “My sister needs me. I’m resigning. I came back to say goodbye to everyone.”

  Séverin stared at the paper without taking it.

  “My understanding upon your employment was that you were building an income to supplement your sister’s tuition at a medical university. Is that no longer your wish?”

  “It … it still is, but—”

  “Then why would you need to leave?”

  Zofia searched for the right words. When she had reviewed the order of events, she had not anticipated an outcome of him not accepting her resignation on the spot. After all, it was not as though she had any work to do in L’Eden. He had ceased pursuing all acquisitions when the hunt for the Sleeping Palace had failed. Zofia had no work.

  “My sister is dying.”

  Séverin’s expression did not change.

  “And that is the reason you returned to Glowno?”

  She nodded.

  “Why did you lie to me?”

  Zofia hesitated. She thought of Tristan’s last laugh, and Hela’s fevered murmurings of how their family used to spend Chanukah, crowded around the table as their mother ladled out stew and the smell of candle wax burning in the chanukia.

  “Because I did not want it to be true.”

  There was another reason, though. When Zofia had started writing a letter to Enrique and Laila, Hela had told her to stop: “Oh, don’t make them worry, Zosia. They might start fretting over who would have to take care of you when I’m gone.” What if her sister was right? The shame of not knowing whether she was an imposition or not stayed her hand.

  Zofia watched as a small muscle twitched in Séverin’s jaw. Still, he did not take the letter. New words found Zofia, plucked from every time she had watched Séverin turn Tristan’s old penknife over and over in his hands, or stand at the door to his room and never open it, or stare out the window to what had once been the Seven Sins Garden.

  “You understand,” she said.

  Séverin flinched. He turned sharply from her.

  “Your sister will not die,” he said. “And though she might need you, I need you more. There’s work to be done.”

  Zofia frowned. One moment she was wondering how Séverin could be so sure about Hela’s recovery, the next moment, the thought of work jolted her with a small rush of joy. Without work, she had felt restless. And she was not cut out to take Hela’s place in their uncle’s home, where all her wages would go toward Hela’s remaining debt.

  “I checked your savings this morning. You have no money left, Zofia.”

  Zofia opened her mouth. Closed it. Anger warmed her cheeks.

  “That … that is not for you to see. That is private.”

  “Not to me,” he said. “Stay until this next job is done, and I will double your income. Your sister will not have to work as a governess. You could provide comfortably enough for the two of you for years to come. I will start sending her portions of your income now … but you cannot go back to Poland. And any doubled income will be given to you upon completion of the job.”

  “And I … I am to keep none of my earnings in the meantime?” asked Zofia.

  She did not like that. Already, she had to rely so much on others.

  “I will take care of your living and laboratory expenses.”

  “What about Goliath?”

  Séverin turned around sharply, his mouth a flat line. “What about him?”

  Zofia raised her chin. Ever since Tristan’s death, she had kept his venomous tarantula warm and safe in her lab. The only time she hadn’t watched the animal was during her trip away when she had asked Enrique. At the time, Enrique declared, “I would rather set myself on fire.” This turned out to be an exaggeration for he eventually, despite grudgingly, agreed. She imagined it would have made Tristan happy.

  “He needs money for food and bedding.”

  Séverin looked away. “I will take care of it. Do you accept the terms?”

  Zofia searched his face, looking for the familiar patterns in his expression. She used to be able to decipher him, but perhaps he had only let her. Now, he was a stranger. Zofia wondered if this was the effect of death, but that could not be true. She and Hela had seen their parents’ death. They had watched their home and all of their possessions burn. But they had not become strangers. Zofia closed her eyes. They. They had each other.
Séverin—for all that he could command men without words—had no one. Her anger faded.

  When she opened her eyes, she thought of Hela’s weak smile. Because of her, her sister would survive. For the first time, Zofia felt a touch of pride. She had always relied on Hela and so many others. This time, she was repaying that debt. Maybe one day, she would not need to rely on anyone.

  “Every week, I will personally send for two letters of health written in your sister’s hand,” added Séverin. “At my own expense.”

  Zofia remembered her sister’s kiss on her hand. Go, Zosia.

  “I accept,” she said.

  Séverin nodded, then glanced at the clock. “Then head downstairs. The others will be here any minute now.”

  5

  SÉVERIN

  Séverin knew that to become a god required divorcing oneself from all the elements that made one human. When he looked at Zofia, he extinguished whatever kernel of warmth lay inside him, and he felt a little less human. He could have given her the money to go home, and he hadn’t. He’d thought, briefly, that if she had no sister, then she’d have no reason to return to Poland … but some vestige of himself recoiled. Instead, he’d sent a physician to her uncle’s home. He told himself it was smarter, colder. That it meant nothing. And yet, even as he repeated this to himself he remembered their first meeting.

  Two years ago, he had heard rumors of a brilliant Jewish student, expelled and imprisoned for arson and abusing her Forging affinity. The story hadn’t sat right with him, so he’d taken his carriage to the women’s prison. Zofia was skittish as a colt, her striking blue eyes more creature than girl. He couldn’t bring himself to leave her there, so he took her to L’Eden. Days later, his staff reported that every night she slept on the floor with blankets rather than in the swansdown bed.

  When he heard that, something in him warmed.

  He’d done the same thing at every foster father’s home. He and Tristan never stayed with one father for long, and so it was too dangerous to get attached to anything. Even to a bed. Séverin removed every object from Zofia’s room, gave her a catalogue, and told her to select what she wanted, informing her that each item she picked would be deducted from her salary, but at least every item would be hers.

  “I understand,” he’d said quietly.

  That was the first time Zofia smiled at him.

  * * *

  THE FIRST THING he heard when he approached the stargazing room was piano music. Soaring notes rich with hope sank through him, freezing him into place. The music overwhelmed his senses, and for one bright moment of wonder, it seemed as if the sounds drifted down from the stars themselves, like the mythical Music of the Spheres that moved the planets in a solemn rhythm. When the music stopped, he let out his breath, his lungs aching from holding it too long.

  “Again, Hypnos!” said Laila.

  Séverin knew her well enough to hear the smile in her voice. The sound of his pulse drowned out the memory of music. How easy it was for her to smile. After all, she’d lost nothing. She might have been disappointed they could not find The Divine Lyrics, but she merely wanted the book to satisfy a curiosity of her own past.

  “Since when do you play the piano so well?” asked Laila.

  “He’s not that good,” grumbled Enrique.

  Two years ago, Enrique had tried—much to everyone’s chagrin—to learn the piano. Soon, his “playing” infected the hallways. Tristan declared his music was killing the plants, and afterwards Zofia had “accidentally” spilled a wood-decaying solvent on the instrument, thus ending his lessons for good.

  Once more, the music swelled and with it, his memories. Séverin dug his nails into his palms. Leave me, he begged of his ghosts. The recollections faded. But in their wake, he caught the scent of Tristan’s roses.

  The phantom perfume made him stumble. Séverin flung out a hand to steady himself, only to catch the heavy doorframe. Abruptly, the music stopped.

  When he looked up, Hypnos was crouched over the piano, hands hovering above the keys. Laila sat stiff-backed on her favorite green couch. Zofia perched on her stool, an unopened matchbox in her lap. Enrique halted in his pacing, right in front of his research on The Divine Lyrics that hung against the bookshelves.

  Two images superimposed onto his vision.

  Before. After.

  Before, there would have been tea and sugar cookies. Laughter.

  Slowly, Séverin righted himself. He released his grip on the doorframe and straightened his cuffs, daring all of them to meet his gaze.

  None of them did except Hypnos.

  Hypnos lowered his hands from the piano.

  “I hear you have good news for us, mon cher.”

  Séverin forced himself to nod, and then he gestured to the research hanging against the bookshelves.

  “Before I begin, let’s review what we know—”

  Hypnos sighed. “Must we?”

  “It’s been some time,” said Séverin.

  “Two months, I believe,” said Laila sharply.

  Séverin didn’t look at her. Instead, he gestured to Enrique. For a moment, Enrique stared blankly at him, and then he seemed to remember himself. Enrique cleared his throat, then pointed to the sketch behind him showing the hexagram symbol of the Fallen House, a golden honeybee, and the Biblical Tower of Babel.

  “These past few months, we’ve been trying to locate The Divine Lyrics, the ancient book that holds the secret of Forging, the knowledge of how to rejoin the Babel Fragments and—in the eyes of the Fallen House—how to access the power of God,” said Enrique. His eyes darted to Séverin, as if checking to see if that was correct. Séverin raised his eyebrows.

  “Um, there’s very little information existing on the book itself,” said Enrique hurriedly. “Most of it is legend. Our only known record of the book is a faded inscription from one of the original Knights Templar, written on a piece of vellum where the letters have been cut off—”

  Enrique held up an illustration of the vellum:

  T H E D I V I N E L Y R

  “As far as the lore of the book is concerned, it dates back to the fall of the Babel Tower,” he said. A familiar excited shine crept into Enrique’s eyes. “Supposedly, there was a group of women near the original site who had touched the topmost bricks of the Tower, and thus absorbed some of the divine language. They wrote down their knowledge in a book. From there, they tasked the women of their lineage to guard the book’s secrets so that no one could use the language to rebuild the Babel Tower. Isn’t that amazing?”

  Grinning, Enrique flailed a hand to a different sketch, this one showing an illustration of nine women.

  “They were called the Lost Muses, which, presumably, is a nod to the Greek goddesses of divine arts and inspiration. Seems fitting since Forging itself is considered a divine art. There used to be sites all over the ancient world dedicated to them,” said Enrique, staring wistfully at the images. “It was said that The Divine Lyrics was not just a book anyone could pick up and read, but required a skill inherited through the bloodline of the original Lost Muses.”

  “What a silly myth,” scoffed Hypnos, plinking one of the piano keys. “The ability to read a book based on a bloodline? Forging doesn’t work that way. It’s not passed down through the blood, or I would possess Forging affinity of the mind.”

  “I wouldn’t dismiss myths,” said Enrique quietly. “Most myths are just truths covered in cobwebs.”

  Hypnos’s face softened. “Ah, but of course, mon cher. I did not mean to insult your craft.”

  He blew him a kiss, and Enrique … blushed? Séverin scowled, looking between the two of them. Hypnos caught his eye, and a corner of his mouth lifted.

  When did this happen?

  But Séverin’s attention quickly returned to Enrique, who had pulled down a yellowing map showing the southern tip of the Indian subcontinent. Out the corner of his eye, he saw Laila lean forward as if in longing, and Séverin tasted bitterness on his tongue.

  �
�The last known location of The Divine Lyrics was Pondicherry, India,” said Enrique. “According to the Order of Babel documents, the Order went to retrieve it, but by the time they arrived, they discovered that someone had already taken the artifact in their name—”

  “—and then kept quiet about the theft for nearly twenty years, claiming it was lost,” added Hypnos.

  Enrique nodded. “Thanks to Roux-Joubert, our best lead for finding The Divine Lyrics is inside the Sleeping Palace … which is where our search ended.” He looked up at Séverin. “Unless … unless you really do know how to find the Palace?”

  Séverin used to love this moment—the moment where he could reveal something new and watch wonder transfix their expressions. He used to love hiding hints about their future acquisitions … like asking Laila to bake a cake full of golden roses for the time they went after the Midas’s Hand in Greece. This time, he didn’t look at their faces.

  “Yes,” he said, not moving from the doorway. “The coordinates to the Sleeping Palace are concealed by a pair of Tezcat spectacles, and I know where they can be found.”

  Zofia leaned forward, interested. “Spectacles?”

  Laila’s voice cut through the air: “How do you know this?” she asked, her voice cold.

  She didn’t look at him, and he didn’t look at her.

  “An informant,” said Séverin, with equal coldness. “He also told me the Sleeping Palace is somewhere in Siberia.”

  “Siberia?” repeated Hypnos. “That place … it’s full of ghosts.”

  Hypnos looked around the room, perhaps expecting someone to agree with him. The others stared at him blankly.