The Silvered Serpents

by Roshani Chokshi

  The Forged diamonds seemed to glint knowingly, as if sneering to her: What did you expect?

  He lifted the choker, letting it dangle from his fingers. “I assume you have no objections.”

  Ice snuck up her veins. Objections? No. She wanted to live, to savor existence. And so all she felt was disbelief at this stranger before her. The longer she stared at him, the more it felt like watching night creep toward her, her eyes adjusting to the dark.

  “None whatsoever,” she said, swiping the diamond necklace from him. She nearly closed the distance between them, and felt a sharp stab of pleasure when he flinched from her. “The difference between a diamond necklace and a diamond dog collar depends on the bitch. And they both have teeth, Monsieur.”

  7

  ENRIQUE

  St. Petersburg, Russia

  Enrique pulled his scarf tighter, as if it might keep out the Russian winter. Snowflakes whipped around his steps, pressing cold kisses to his neck. St. Petersburg was a city suspended between old and new magic—electric streetlamps cast wide pools of golden light and bridges arched like the outspread wings of angels, and yet the shadows looked too sharp and the winter air smelled of warm copper, like old blood.

  Beside Enrique and Zofia, the Neva River gleamed like a black mirror. The lights of palatial homes along the English Embankment—one of the grandest streets of St. Petersburg—had abandoned their windows for the lustrous water. Unstirred by the wind, the Neva’s reflection looked as if a different, parallel St. Petersburg had been poured into the water.

  Enrique believed in it sometimes—other worlds crafted from the choices he had not made, paths he had not followed. He stared at the water, at the wavering image of the other icy St. Petersburg. Maybe in that world, Tristan was alive. Maybe they were drinking cocoa, and making an ugly tinsel crown for Séverin, and thinking of how to make off with a barrel of imported champagne for the annual New Year’s party at L’Eden. Maybe Laila hadn’t given up baking, and L’Eden still always smelled of sugar, and he and Zofia would fight over cake slices. Maybe Séverin had accepted his inheritance, instead of throwing it away, and maybe that other Enrique was not only a member of the Ilustrados but the toast of Paris, surrounded by a gaggle of wide-eyed admirers hanging on his every word.

  Maybe.

  Not far off, the heavy clang of the clocks of St. Petersburg marked the eighth hour of the night. Enrique paused, and then heard it: silvery wedding bells in the distance. In two hours, the couple newly wed at Our Lady of Kazan Cathedral would hold their wedding procession down these streets in a flurry of wintry, horse-drawn carriages. Which meant they were still on time. They weren’t expected at the art dealer’s waterfront mansion until a quarter after eight, and the walk was long. At the second chime of the clocks, Enrique shuddered. Only one hour until Séverin and Laila would meet at the Mariinsky Theatre, laying a trap for the art dealer to secure the lens of the Tezcat spectacles. God could’ve promised Enrique salvation on the spot and there was still no way he’d want to be there, stuck in the middle of Laila and Séverin. Vaguely concerned that he’d just committed blasphemy with this thought, Enrique crossed himself.

  Beside him, Zofia matched him stride for stride.

  For tonight, she’d disguised herself as a slight, young man. Her candlelight hair was tucked into a broad hat, her lithe frame hidden by a padded coat, and her diminutive height bolstered by a pair of clever shoes. Her design, naturally. A fake beard stuck out the front pocket of her greatcoat on account of Zofia declaring it far too itchy to wear until necessary. She didn’t shiver as she walked. If anything, she seemed to luxuriate in the cold, as if it ran through her blood.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” asked Zofia.

  “I like looking at you,” he said. Horrified at how that came out, he quickly added, “I mean, you look almost convincing, and I appreciate it merely on an aesthetic level.”

  “Almost convincing,” repeated Zofia. “What’s lacking?”

  Enrique pointed at his mouth. Her voice gave her away entirely.

  Zofia scowled. “I knew it. It must be a genetic predisposition from my mother.” She pursed her mouth. “I thought the cold would help, but my lips always look too red.”

  Enrique opened and closed his mouth, struggling to find his next words.

  “Was that what you meant?” she asked.

  “I … yes. Of course.”

  Now that she’d mentioned her mouth, of course he had to look at it. Now he was thinking of how red her lips were, like a winter apple, and what they might taste like. And then he realized what he’d just thought and shook himself. Zofia disquieted him. It had snuck up on him unawares, and now made its presence known at the damndest of times. Enrique forced his thoughts to Hypnos. Hypnos understood him. The other boy knew from experience what it was like to live with a fissure in one’s soul, never quite knowing which side of oneself would reign sovereign—Spanish or Filipino, the son of the colonized or the son of the colonizer. For now, their arrangement was casual, which suited Enrique just fine, but he wanted more. He wanted someone who would enter a room and look for him first, to behold him as though the secrets of the world lay somewhere in his gaze, to finish his sentences. Someone to share cake with.

  Maybe he could find that with Hypnos.

  To live a full life would have made Tristan happy. Lightly, Enrique touched the flower peeking out of his lapel and murmured a prayer. It was a dried moonlight flower, one of the last ones Tristan had ever Forged. When the flowers were fresh, they could absorb moonlight and hold on to its glow for several hours. Dried, it was nothing but a ghost of its former luster.

  “That’s Tristan’s,” said Zofia.

  Enrique dropped his hand from the flower. He didn’t think she’d seen him. When he glanced down at her, he saw that her hand was in her pocket … an identical Forged flower stem poking out … and he knew Tristan was with them.

  * * *

  THE WATERFRONT MANSION ROSE like a moon before them. Snow caught in the ribbons of tinsel wrapped around hundreds of stately pillars. Delicate bells hidden in the Christmas pines lining the entryway chimed as they walked past. The mansion itself looked like a child’s dollhouse brought to life—candy-colored mosaics beveled its domes, and the frosted panes looked more like sugar than glass.

  “Remember our roles?” asked Enrique.

  “You’re playing an eccentric and easily distracted human—”

  “—A writer, yes,” said Enrique.

  “And I’m the photographer.”

  “The very silent photographer.”

  Zofia nodded.

  “Only distract the butler for a few minutes,” said Enrique. “That should give me enough time to scope for any recording devices before we enter the Chamber of Goddesses.”

  He adjusted the lapels of the bright emerald velvet jacket that he’d borrowed from Hypnos, and then pulled the enormous door knocker shaped like a roaring lion. The Forged knocker narrowed its eyes, feigned a yawn, and then let out a huge, metallic roar that shook the small icicles from the threshold. Enrique screamed.

  Zofia did not, and merely raised one eyebrow once he regained composure.

  “What?” said Enrique.

  “That was loud.”

  “I know. That Forged lion—”

  “I meant you,” said Zofia.

  Enrique scowled, just as the butler opened the door and greeted them with a broad grin. He was light-skinned, with a trim black beard, and wore a heavily embroidered blue-and-silver coat over billowing pants.

  “Dobriy vyecher,” he said warmly. “Mister Vasiliev sends his apologies for being unable to join you, but he is most delighted by the coverage on his collection, especially by such an esteemed art critic as yourself.”

  Enrique puffed out his chest and smiled. The fake documents he’d cobbled together had seemed remarkably impressive. He and Zofia stepped into the wide vestibule of the mansion. So far, the blueprints matched. Crisscrossing star-and-lozenge patte
rns formed the mahogany floor. Floating lanterns lit the halls, and all along were portraits of women in movement—some mythological, some modern. Enrique recognized Salomé’s Dance of the Seven Veils, and a depiction of the Indian nymph, Urvashi, performing before the Hindu gods. But the painting that dominated the wall was that of a beautiful woman he didn’t recognize. Her bloodred hair curled down her white neck. Judging by the slippers in her hand, she was a ballerina.

  The butler extended his hand in greeting. “We are most—”

  Enrique flourished his hand, then yanked it back before the butler could attempt to shake it. “I do not … savor the touch of flesh. It reminds me of my mortality.”

  The butler looked faintly disturbed. “My deepest apologies.”

  “I prefer shallow ones.” Enrique sniffed, examining his fingernails. “Now—”

  “—did our photography equipment arrive?” cut in Zofia.

  Enrique had a split second to hide his frown. Zofia must have been distracted because she’d never once messed up her lines in the past. Now that he looked at her, he noticed her mustache lifting slightly at the edges.

  “Yes, it did,” said the butler. A slight furrow appeared between his eyebrows. “They were locked inside a massive traveling cabinet.” He paused, and Enrique watched his eyes flick to Zofia’s lifting mustache. “… I must inquire, is everything quite all right—”

  Enrique let out a loud, hysterical laugh.

  “Ah, my dear man! So thoughtful, is he not?” he said, grabbing Zofia’s face and pressing his thumb over the lifting mustache. “What a piece of work is man! How noble in reason, how infinite in faculty … uh…”

  Enrique stalled. That was about all he knew of Hamlet, honestly, but then Zofia spoke.

  “—In form and moving how express and admirable,” she said, her voice pitched low.

  Enrique stared at her.

  “You must forgive the eccentricities of my friend,” she said smoothly to the butler, remembering her lines. “Would you be so good as to show me some of the rooms? A short tour is all that is necessary, but I want to ascertain whether any other photographs will be required for the article.”

  The butler, still wide-eyed, nodded slowly. “Right this way…”

  “I will stay here,” said Enrique, turning in a slow circle. He tapped his temples and took a loud, deep breath. “I want to soak in the art. Feel it, before I may be so bold as to write about it. You understand.”

  The butler flashed a strained smile. “I leave you to what you do best.”

  And with that, he led Zofia to a different part of the house.

  Once they were out of sight, Enrique drew a Forged sphere from his pocket and threw it into the air, watching as it slowly scanned the room for any detection devices. The butler’s words curdled in his gut. What you do best. He thought of standing in the atrium of the National Library, his damp fingerprints smudging his notes for the presentation that no one attended … and, later, the letter from the Ilustrados.

  … Write your inspiring articles on history. It is what you do best …

  It still stung. Enrique’s references hadn’t mattered at all. He had expected the weight of his professors’ and advisor’s words might not mean much to them, but he was shocked Séverin’s influence had done nothing. Séverin’s public support meant a universally appreciated influence: money. But maybe his ideas were so foolish that no amount of money made them worth listening to. Maybe he simply wasn’t enough.

  What you do best.

  Enrique clenched his jaw. By now the spherical detection device had settled on the floor. The room was safe. Footsteps resounded on the other side of the hall. Zofia and the butler were returning. In a moment, they’d enter the Chamber of Goddesses where they would find the Tezcat spectacles and with it, The Divine Lyrics. The Ilustrados thought he did nothing but master dead languages and pore over dusty books, that his ideas were worthless, but there was so much more to him. Getting The Divine Lyrics was all the proof he needed. They wouldn’t be able to deny, then, that his skills could procure power.

  Now all he had to do was get it.

  * * *

  THE CHAMBER OF GODDESSES nearly brought Enrique to his knees.

  It was like the foyer of some forgotten temple. Life-size goddesses leaned forward from recessed niches. Above stretched an elaborate cerulean ceiling, mechanized so the stars rotated slowly, and the planets spun as if on an invisible axis. The artwork made him feel small, but gloriously so, as if he were part of something greater than himself. It was how he used to feel every Sunday when he went to mass, drinking up the reminder that he was surrounded by a divine love. This room was the first time he had felt like this in years.

  “The chamber is truly overwhelming,” said the butler in reverent tones. “Though it does not last.”

  That sharpened Enrique’s attention. “What? What do you mean?”

  “The Chamber of Goddesses has a unique function, one that we don’t fully understand but that we hope will become more clear once your article publishes. You see, the Chamber of Goddesses … disappears.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Every hour,” said the butler. “The goddesses sink into the walls, and all these gilded trappings turn white.” He consulted his watch. “By my estimate, you have about twenty minutes left of this before it disappears and returns at the next hour. But I figured that would be sufficient time to take your photos and take notes. Besides, it becomes nearly freezing in here once the door is shut. We believe the original artist installed a Forged temperature-control mechanism, perhaps for the preservation of the stone and paint. Anyway, do let me know if I can be of any assistance.”

  And with that, the butler left, shutting the door behind him. Enrique suspected his heartbeat had changed to: Oh no oh no oh no.

  “Where’s Hypnos?” asked Zofia.

  A muffled sound caught his attention. Nearly hidden by a pillar and propped against one of the gilded chamber walls stood a large, black luggage piece marked: photography equipment. Zofia quickly unlocked the cabinet hinges. The door swung open and a very annoyed-looking Hypnos stepped out and shook himself.

  “That was … awful,” he said, heaving a dramatic sigh. He blinked against the sudden light and beauty of the room. A naked wonder lit up his face, but it faded when he turned to the two of them. “Zofia, you’re a charming man, but I much prefer you without a beard … and why is it so cold in here? What did I miss?”

  “We only have twenty minutes before this whole art installation of goddesses disappears,” said Zofia.

  “What?”

  While Zofia explained the situation, Enrique focused on the actual statues inside the room. There was something strangely unifying about the goddess statues around them. He thought the goddesses would be from different pantheons around the world … and yet all ten of them wore the same flowing, marble tunics common to Hellenic-era deities … except for one. They looked almost identical, save for a distinguishing object here and there: a lyre or a mask, an astronomical device or a sprig of herbs.

  “These goddesses strike me as odd,” said Enrique. “I thought they’d be varied. I thought we’d see Parvati and Ishtar, Freya and Isis … but they’re all so similar?”

  “Spare us the art lecture for now, mon cher,” said Hypnos, reaching out to touch his cheek. “Focus only on where the Tezcat spectacles might be.”

  “In a goddess?” asked Zofia.

  “No,” said Enrique, eyeing the collection. “I know how Fallen House safety boxes work … they always hide a riddle. And they wouldn’t have done anything that required destruction of the property itself.”

  “Cold is the baseline temperature,” said Zofia, almost to herself.

  “I think we know that, ma ch-chère,” said Hypnos, shivering.

  “So change the factor. Add heat.”

  Zofia pulled off her jacket, and, with one smooth move, she ripped out the lining. Hypnos shrieked. “That’s silk!”

  “It’s
soie de Chardonnet,” said Zofia. She reached for a match behind her ear. “A highly flammable silk substitute that was displayed at the Exhibition in May. Not good for mass production. But excellent for a torch.”

  Zofia struck the match and dropped it, then held up the flaming cloth, warming the air in a bright rush. She cast the flame around, but nothing on the walls or the faces of the statues changed. The Chardonnet silk burned fast. In a minute, it would hit her hands, and she’d have no choice but to drop it to the floor.

  “Zofia, I think you were wrong,” said Enrique. “Maybe heat doesn’t work—”

  “Or…” said Hypnos, grabbing his chin and pointing it to the floor. The thin layer of frost on the marble floor began to melt. When Enrique leaned closer, a mirror-bright shape caught his eye, like the outline of a letter. “Perhaps you have not debased yourself enough to a room full of goddesses.”

  “Of course,” said Enrique, sinking to his knees. “The floor.”

  Zofia drew her torch closer. There, a riddle took shape:

  THE NOSE KNOWS NOT THE SCENT OF SECRETS BUT HOLDS THE SHAPE.

  8

  SÉVERIN

  Séverin had seven fathers, but only one brother.

  His seventh father—his favorite father—was Gluttony. Gluttony was a kind man, with many debts, and that made him dangerous to love. Tristan used to count the minutes he left them alone, terrified Gluttony would abandon them, no matter what Séverin said to calm him. After Gluttony’s funeral, Séverin found a letter shoved under his desk and streaked with dirt:

  My dear boys, I am so sorry, but I must relinquish my role as your guardian. I have offered my hand in marriage to a rich and lovely widow with no desire for children.

  Séverin held the letter tightly. If Gluttony was to marry, then why had he taken his life with rat poison? A poison that was only kept in the greenhouse to ward off pests, a greenhouse that Gluttony never entered, but that Tristan loved.