Enrique inhaled sharply. Zofia looked at him, but he didn’t seem hurt. When she looked at Laila, her friend seemed to hold herself taller, and she placed her hand gently on Séverin’s cheek.
“Mistress,” said Laila. “You might know me better by my stage name at the Palais des Rêves in Paris: L’Énigme.”
Though Laila had stopped hiding her other job once she left L’Eden, Zofia never remembered her talking about it and sounding quite so chilly. Perhaps she was cold and Zofia should return her scarf.
Eva shrugged. “Never heard of such an establishment. But well done, I suppose?”
Zofia began to lift up the layers of what she’d packed. So far, most of her belongings were intact.
“I’ve heard all about your exotic tastes, Monsieur,” said Eva to Séverin. “Concerning all of your … objects. I hope you don’t find my question impertinent, but may I ask why you would allow your mistress on such dangerous ordeals? My understanding was that mistresses have a rather distinct place.”
Oh no, thought Zofia. Her suspicion was right. She was out of saltpeter. She looked up just as Eva grasped Laila’s hand.
“Truly, my dear, this work is dangerous.”
Séverin opened his mouth to respond, but Laila lifted her chin and took a step in front of him. Séverin closed his mouth and took one step back.
“My place, Mademoiselle Yefremovna, is wherever I damn well please,” said Laila. She flipped her grip, so now it looked as though she was holding Eva’s gloved hand with her bare one.
Zofia sank back on her heels. “I’m out of saltpeter.”
The rest of them glanced down at her as if they’d only just noticed she was there.
“Peter? Who’s Peter?” asked Hypnos, looking interested.
“Potassium nitrate,” said Laila. “Not a person.”
“How exquisitely boring.”
“Surely Irkutsk will have what you’re looking for?” asked Eva.
A low frantic buzz started to gather at the base of her skull. Zofia didn’t know the Siberian city of Irkutsk. She didn’t know how many trees grew next to the sidewalks. She had not prepared for how it would smell, whether there would be crowds or nobody at all.
“I’ll come with you,” said Enrique. “If that suits you?”
Zofia nodded, grateful. She’d seen Enrique walk into a crowd of strangers and walk out with a group of friends. It was one of the things she liked about him. She also liked how the light played across his skin and seemed, somehow, to get caught in his dark eyes. She liked how the panic in her chest eased when he was near. Although sometimes, in his company, she felt as if she’d been turned around blindfolded in a room. It made her head feel a little light, but it wasn’t unpleasant.
Enrique glanced at her quizzically, and she realized she hadn’t answered him out loud:
“Yes,” she said. “That suits me.”
* * *
THE CITY OF IRKUTSK was nothing like Paris.
Here, the buildings looked as if they had been cut from lace. Homes painted in shades of cream, blue, and yellow and bearing intricate wooden carvings crowded the wintry streets. Sunlight bounced off the gilded domes of cathedrals, and beyond the city’s borders, Zofia caught sight of the snow-dusted taiga with its pine and spruce trees dotting the slopes of the surrounding Ural Mountains. Her footsteps crunched on the ice, and when she breathed deep, the air carried familiar scents—warm honey cake and smoked fish, berries mixed with malt, and even the earthen, sugary scent of borscht, a rich sweet-and-sour soup made from beets that her mother used to serve over mushroom-filled dumplings. There was a bluntness to Irkutsk that reminded Zofia of her home in Glowno. If she returned home, she would find nothing: no family, friends, job, or even home. Besides, she couldn’t leave Goliath behind. It was too cold in Poland for tarantulas.
“Do you think Laila and Eva have killed each other yet?” asked Enrique.
“Why would they do that?”
Enrique made an exasperated sound. “You were right there! I could have cut through that tension with a butter knife!”
“That’s not physically possible.”
“What’s going through your head, then, phoenix?”
“Tarantula environmental preferences.”
“I regret asking.”
“Poland would be too cold for Goliath.”
“All of Poland mourns.”
Zofia hoped the caretakers at L’Eden were looking after him. Goliath reminded her of different times. Happier times. And even if they no longer existed, she liked the reminders that they had ever been there in the first place.
“I miss him,” said Enrique.
Zofia suspected he wasn’t talking about Goliath.
“So do I.”
Up ahead, Zofia caught sight of an alchemical and pharmacy store painted a pale green. Crouched beside a broken window was a man wearing a kippah. Her father, who had not been Jewish, had never worn one, but many of the men and boys in Glowno had. The fabric stretched over the top of the man’s skull, a gesture of his faith.
“Gutn tog,” said Zofia.
The man looked up, startled. His eyes darted across the street before looking at her.
“Gutn tog.” He rose to a stand, before pointing at his broken window and saying tiredly, “Third time this year … You’d think Alexander II was only just murdered.” He sighed. “How may I help you?”
“I need saltpeter,” said Zofia.
The man frowned and hesitated, but then he gestured her inside. Enrique, he said, had to wait outside. Alone in the store, Zofia counted the neat wooden rows and the shining, green bottles lined up: twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three. When the shopkeeper refilled her bag, he lowered his voice as he slid the bag across the counter. “It’s not safe for us,” he said. “Every year it is getting harder.”
“I am safe.”
The man shook his head sadly. “We never are, my dear. The pogroms may have stopped for now, but the hate has not. Kol tuv.”
Zofia took the package uneasily. The hate has not. Her mother had lost family in those pogroms, the anti-Jewish riots that trampled homes and families, blaming them for the assassination of Tsar Alexander II. When she was thirteen years old, she found her mother kneeling in their home before the cold fire, sobbing. Zofia had gone still. Her sister and father always knew how to comfort, but they were asleep. And so, Zofia had done the only thing she could do—make light. She had crouched by the dead fire, reached for some flint, and coaxed the metal to blaze with heat. Only then did her mother look up and smile, before pulling her close and saying: “Be a light in this world, my Zosia, for it can be very dark.”
Zofia’s throat tightened to think of them now. The world seemed too dark to navigate, no matter what light she tried to bring to it. Outside, Zofia turned slowly on the sidewalk. The city no longer felt familiar like Glowno. Now, her eyes leapt from the shuttered windows and the people in too-bright coats, to the dirty snow trampled by carriage wheels, and the paved streets that seemed to weave together. It was too much—
“Phoenix!”
Enrique rounded the corner, holding up a paper bag and grinning. When he caught sight of her face, his smile dropped and he jogged faster to her side.
“Didn’t you see me pointing around the corner before you went inside?”
Zofia shook her head.
“Oh,” he said. “Well, I figured what with all the burning carriages, ghost stories, and brooding, we might as well eat cookies.”
From the paper bag, he pulled out two, pale sugar cookies covered in a smooth, thick frosting. He handed one to her.
“Took me a bit longer than I thought because originally the cookie had sprinkles, but I know you don’t like the texture, so I had them scrape it off and asked the baker to add another layer for smoothness,” he said. “I’d savor them because you don’t—”
Zofia shoved the entire cookie in her mouth. Enrique stared at her, then laughed and followed suit. On the walk back, Zofia savored t
he taste of sugar lingering on her tongue. It wasn’t until they neared the entrance that Enrique spoke again.
“No thanks for me?” he asked. “I risked my hand giving you a sugar cookie. You ate it so fast, I thought you’d take my hand by accident.”
“I wouldn’t mistake your hand for a cookie.”
Enrique mimicked being wounded. “And here I thought I was sweet.”
It was a terrible joke, which Zofia was shocked that she recognized. And yet, she laughed. She laughed until the sides of her stomach hurt, and only then did she realize how she had completely forgotten about the frigid, unfamiliar city surrounding them. Enrique had brought her a cookie and made her laugh, and it felt like sitting beside a fire in one’s own home, knowing exactly where everything was and who would come to the door.
“Thank you,” she said.
“A laugh from the phoenix herself?” Enrique grinned, pressing his hand to his heart and saying dramatically, “A man would pit himself against any challenge to hear such an elusive sound. Worth a mangled hand. Certainly better than any trite thanks.”
Zofia’s smile faltered. She knew it was a joke and that he often said grand things he did not mean. Right before she stepped into the train depot, she wanted for such a thing to be true.
That the sound of her laugh might someday mean so much to someone that it was worth any challenge.
* * *
THEY HEADED FOR THE lake at dusk, when the world looked blue and the ice held onto the light. A team of twelve dogsleds fitted with Forged reins to muffle the sound of their paws awaited them on the other side of the train station’s Tezcat door. There were no direct portal roads to their location. The local Buryats had erected Forged barriers against such roads long ago. The five of them piled into a sled, operated by an elderly Buryat man wearing thick boots lined with fur, and a long sash across his coat strung with small, copper ornaments. Delphine was already seated in one of the sleds near the head of the operation, while Ruslan and Eva sat in another sled. Laila sidled in beside Zofia on the sled bench.
“Did you hear the translator?” she asked, shuddering. “He keeps talking about ‘distressed spirits’ nearby.”
Zofia did not believe in spirits. But the wind made the howling sound that had frightened her as a child, and a small part of her thought of the stories that Hela had whispered in the dark. Tales of dybbuks with their disjointed souls and blue lips, of drowned ghost girls forced to guard treasure, of lands between the space of midnight and dawn where the dead walked and the light ran cold and thin. Zofia neither liked nor believed in those tales.
But she did remember them.
“I never had a chance to apologize,” said Laila.
Zofia frowned. What did Laila have to apologize for? Laila turned to look at her, and Zofia searched her features.
“I should have told you the truth about me, but I didn’t want you to see me any differently. Or, I don’t know, not as human anymore.”
Anatomically, the body was a machine whether it was born or built. What lay inside was no different, thought Zofia. It was like physics. The transference of energy did not make the energy less real. Therefore, Laila was real, and the chance of her dying was all the more real if they didn’t find The Divine Lyrics and ensure she could stay this way.
“If there’s anything you want to tell me, you can,” said Laila. “You don’t have to … but you can.”
Zofia wasn’t sure what to say to that. She wanted to tell her about Hela, and the panic she felt at whether or not the way she processed the world made her a burden to others … but would such observations then make her a burden?
Laila held out her hand. Zofia caught sight of the garnet ring Laila had asked her to make. She thought the numbered days counted down to the day of Laila’s birth. Not her death.
Zofia felt her face heat with fury. She would not be part of her friend’s death. She would not let her die.
Zofia reached out, taking Laila’s hand, and for a moment, she didn’t feel the wind or the ice. Above them, the stars blurred together. The dogsled rumbled over the ice for what felt like hours, even with the Forged runners that allowed them to skid faster over the slick terrain. Just as dawn touched the pale horizon, they came to a stop. Zofia liked it here even though her breath burned in her lungs. She liked how the world looked solemn and cold. She liked the low belt of the Ural Mountains, the way the lake beneath them bore a lacework pattern of ice. She liked that there was nothing here.
But that was the problem.
There was nothing. And yet, according to their compasses, these were the exact coordinates of the Sleeping Palace. Séverin and Ruslan stood apart from the others, with Séverin turning the Tezcat spectacles in his hand. Eva stood between them, peering over Séverin’s shoulder, her hand on his back.
“Do you think it’s underwater?” she asked.
Séverin didn’t answer.
“Did we get the coordinates flipped?” asked Hypnos.
Zofia looked at the spectacles. Then she looked at all the people regarding the instrument without doing the obvious: using it.
“They’re spectacles,” she said loudly.
Séverin glanced up at her, and his mouth curved up. He raised the Tezcat spectacles to his face and held still.
“What is it?” asked Eva. “What do you see?”
Séverin took a few steps to the left, and then he bent toward the ice, reaching for midair while his hand curved as if around a door handle only he could see. Then he pulled. When he did, the light started to waver right in front of him and the air shimmered.
Ruslan laughed and clapped his hands, drawing away Zofia’s attention.
“Zofia,” gasped Laila beside her.
She looked back to the place where the air had started to shimmer, only now the glittering effect stretched to a distance that seemed to equal the entire length of L’Eden. The Ural Mountains behind the lake blurred away as solid ice appeared midair. With every passing second, the shape of a grand building emerged on the frozen Lake Baikal—frozen cupolas and translucent balconies, crystal spires and thick, ice walls. There was no mistaking what was before them.
The Sleeping Palace of the Fallen House.
15
LAILA
The Sleeping Palace reminded Laila of L’Eden, if it had been dreamed up by winter.
When the door opened, slender icicles shattered on the ground. Her stomach swooped at her first step. Snowflakes dusted the translucent floor, and through the striations of ice, Laila could see the movement of sapphire water … as if she might tumble through at any moment. The wide vestibule opened into an expansive, silvery atrium. Forged thuribles of moonstone glided along a vaulted ceiling full of etched crystal and ice. Two snow-bright stairways spiraled up to a balcony that encircled the atrium. The moment they entered the atrium, the Sleeping Palace began to wake. Crystalline sculptures of gargoyles untucked their heads from their wings. Designs of closed blossoms and coiled ivy unfurled slowly, snow falling from their shapes like pollen as they opened and arched toward the ceiling. The sounds echoing through the vast halls reminded Laila of crisp snow broken underfoot.
Her breath feathered before her, and not for the first time, she wondered whether she was supposed to be feeling more … She looked at her hands, flexing her fingers, trying to search her body for some sign that they were closer to The Divine Lyrics. But all she felt was the relentless cold, and all she saw was her garnet ring, wet as a heart, with the number 17 leering at her from inside the jewel.
Delphine stayed at the entrance, turning her attention to the guards and the transport, calling for a retinue to examine the rooms, determine their safety, and get them ready for sleeping. Eva had made her way, of course, to Séverin. Laila ignored the sharp twinge in her heart. Perhaps she was being unfair. Eva had not made the most favorable impression, but Laila could let that go.
She forced her eyes to Ruslan, who stared up at the icy vaulted ceiling. Lightly, he cradled his injured hand i
n its sling. For a moment, something flickered across his face that looked, to Laila, like sorrow.
“Remarkable,” he said excitedly, hopping a little on the spot. “This feels like the start of making history, does it not? Can’t you feel the pulse of the universe speeding up at this discovery? It makes me feel—”
His stomach growled loudly. Ruslan scowled, and whispered hush! to his belly. He opened his mouth to speak again, but then Delphine appeared beside him, and Ruslan fell quiet. She surveyed them through narrowed eyes. When she spoke, Laila saw that she only looked at Séverin. “Well, treasure hunters, we have exactly one week before the Winter Conclave and even less time before we have no choice but to reveal this discovery to the Order,” she said stonily. “Start hunting.”
With that, she and Ruslan left the atrium. Ruslan paused only to glance at Eva with an encouraging smile. Laila thought it was a summons, but Eva did not follow after him. Instead, she walked forward. For the first time, Laila noticed a slight drag to her left leg.
“I wish to stay and help you,” announced Eva, crossing her arms. “For one thing, I’m a gifted blood Forging and ice artist. As Ruslan’s cousin, I’ve grown up hearing the stories about the Sleeping Palace and the Fallen House. You could use me. Finally, I have just as much to offer as anyone else on the team.” She shot a scathing glance at Laila. “Perhaps more than some.
“Well?” prompted Eva, when Séverin said nothing.
He looked to Laila. No one joined them without a thorough reading, and what Laila had found of Eva wasn’t enough to deem her safe. While the matriarch had called for a morning meeting yesterday, Séverin had summoned her to the luggage room where they had opened the patriarch’s and Eva’s possessions, and she had read all that she could. There was nothing out of the ordinary in Ruslan’s belongings. No memories of import. No emotion except the pressure to discover, which she’d felt like a hand pushed on her heart. Eva’s objects, however, were sparse. Nothing but a pair of shoes worn through from work at the blood Forging den in Moscow. That was all.
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