Zofia shrugged. “The pose is identical.”

“Focus,” Séverin had said. “We need to think about this next acquisition—”

“Thinking requires better incentive than an apple.”

“Like cake?” suggested Laila.

Séverin remembered how she had reclined on her favorite green settee. She’d plucked an apple from the bowl and stroked its shiny peel, and his mouth had gone oddly dry at the sight.

“Definitely cake,” said Enrique.

“And cookies,” added Zofia.

Séverin had given up. He shook his head, and such began the tradition of Laila baking, pushing in a cart piled high with sugary treats every time they started to plan a project.

Now, Séverin stared at the apple, bemused. He wanted to annoy Enrique with the fruit. He wanted to hold it up to Laila’s lips and compare their colors. Temptation, indeed, he thought, lowering the apple. When Tristan had died, Séverin had tried to isolate himself from his friends, and he thought he’d succeeded.

But he was wrong.

Even if he was cruel, even if he was cold … at least they had been near. At least he could catch the ghost of Laila’s perfume in the hallways, hear the clanging of Zofia’s Forging, smell the ink from Enrique’s endless letters to the Ilustrados, stare out at the gardens where Tristan had once walked.

One more day, thought Séverin.

One more day until he could see them … and tell them what?

He had made a mistake with Ruslan, and now he was bleeding time … time that Laila couldn’t afford to lose. Séverin felt the loss of every hour as if it had been forcibly ripped from him.

Without the Forged map, they could wander Poveglia for years and never find the hidden entrance to the temple. And even if there was some other way to discover it, Séverin had not found a way to be rid of him. The patriarch of the Fallen House was never alone. No food passed his lips without a Fallen House member confirming its safety. Daily draws from Eva rendered him immune from blood Forging.

Séverin was turning over those thoughts when he heard the shuffle of small feet some distance away. The orphaned boy from yesterday stepped out of the shadows. Behind him stood a smaller, even more ragged child. His hair was dirty blond, and his hazel eyes looked like dimmed lanterns in his face. The first boy held out his arm, as if shielding the other one.

“Un altro,” said the first boy, sticking out his hand.

Another one.

Séverin grinned. He tossed an apple to the child, who caught it one-handed, then he removed another from his pocket and tossed it over too. The first boy immediately bit into it, before offering the second to his companion. After a moment of glaring at Séverin from the shadows, he muttered a quick “grazi” and fled.

Séverin watched them go, before stepping back into Casa d’Oro.

Inside, Eva waited beside the door in a high-necked scarlet gown the color of blood. The silver ballerina pendant was tucked away. Around her waist she kept a jeweled knife. Three members of the Fallen House in their volto masks stood against the walls, their Mnemo honeybees whirring and watching.

“Here,” said Eva, thrusting out a box. “But before it can be used, it is missing something.”

“Which is?” asked Séverin.

Eva reached for his hand. Her taloned pinky ring winked in the light before she slashed it down the top of his hand. Séverin sucked in his breath, glaring at her, but Eva didn’t seem to notice. She traced a complicated sigil in blood over the box, whispering something.

At first glance, the box seemed delicate, like something from a children’s book. Forged of ice roses and twisting vines. A thorn jutted out from its clasp. A faint blush tinge rose from its base.

“Now it will know you by your blood,” said Eva. “Try it.”

Séverin took the box. He pulled at the edges, but it wouldn’t budge. Atop the clasp was a little thorn. When he dragged his thumb across it, he felt a sharp sting as the metal broke skin and drew blood. One drop was all it took. The thorn accepted it readily, and that faint blush spread across the box as it sprang open to reveal the divine lyre nesting on a blue velvet pillow.

Séverin removed the lyre gently. The plan he had been turning over in his head all night slowly took shape. He met Eva’s eyes. “You look very beautiful today.”

Eva startled. Behind her, the Mnemo honeybees on the masks whirred louder. Good. He had caught Ruslan’s attention. Eva’s face was shrouded from view, but Séverin was fully visible.

He looked at Eva’s green eyes, imagining a pair of cygnet-black eyes in their place. When her lips flattened, Séverin conjured a different image—a lush mouth shaped to drive poets to distraction. Eva tugged at her red hair, and Séverin pretended it was a fall of ink flecked with sugar.

He reached out, his knuckles brushing against her jawline. “Very beautiful indeed.”

* * *

BEFORE SÉVERIN ENTERED the formal dining hall, he nibbled on the edge of the skullcap bloom he had stolen from the poison garden. After yesterday’s breakfast, Ruslan had avoided him completely. Séverin knew why. His own eagerness had betrayed him. Ruslan might be unhinged, but he was no fool, and perhaps he suspected that even now, Séverin was only acting in the interests of his friends. He must be careful. He needed to hide his intentions and change Ruslan’s ridiculous timeline to act in ten days … otherwise Laila would be dead.

Séverin took a deep breath, then walked through the Tezcat door camouflaged as a painting of an old god with a melting face. On the other side, the formal dining room looked like a vision of blood and honey. A long, black marble table rose like a solid block from the middle of the room. The walls were a lattice of interlocking golden stars against red velvet fabric. Candles shaped like long-stemmed, black roses burned and melted on the table. At the center, a carafe of red wine stood beside a plate of cut fruits and thin slices of marbled meat. Usually, the golden plates were already heaped with food, but this time they were empty. At the center of the table he noticed a slender, glass vial no taller than his pinky. Séverin picked it up. A smokey, clouded substance moved freely within the glass.

“An added sensory experience for our dining,” said Ruslan, stepping into the room. He wore a dark suit that only made the golden skin of his arm gleam brighter. “Do try it.”

Séverin hesitated. It was obviously mind Forged, but to what purpose? Conjure nightmares to force out the truth or—

“Oh, come now!” Ruslan pouted. “We are friends. And friendship requires trust. Surely you trust me?”

Séverin forced a smile and then unstoppered the glass. Wisps of smoke emptied out of the bottle, dissolving into the air. Séverin braced himself, but even then, he was unprepared for what awaited him. It was an art form of mind Forging, the likes of which he had never known. He was familiar with exquisite illusions, but this place was real. And old. Séverin was dimly aware that he was standing in a dining room in Venice …

But his senses claimed otherwise.

Before him, he saw the lush foliage of an ancient jungle. The ground beneath his feet squelched. All around him, the jungle boasted exotic blooms the color of melted jewels. Moths the size of dinner plates with dappled wings flitted around him. That sharp smell of grass filled his lungs, and the lullabies of jewel-bright birds engulfed him. Séverin reached out to touch a flower. He could see the dew beading on the leaf. He could almost feel the satiny petal against his skin when the vision vanished—