When he blinked, it was not a petal he had nearly touched, but Ruslan’s face, now centimeters from his own.

“Boo.” He grinned.

Séverin stumbled backwards.

“Ah, my friend, the wonder transfixing your eyes!” said Ruslan, clapping his hands. “You looked like a hero from a poem. All dashing and mournful and whatnot…”

“What was that?” asked Séverin. His voice came out harsher than he’d planned.

“Mind Forging, as well you know,” said Ruslan, taking his seat.

“That is unlike any mind Forging I have ever come across,” said Séverin.

Even the most beautiful mind Forging illusions always had a tell … a flimsiness to their edges or a fragrance that did not fit. This, however, had been as seamless as knowledge. In fact, Séverin had the uncanny realization that if he were to cross the ocean by several hundred miles, he would know exactly where he would find such a paradise.

“It is a real place,” said Ruslan, taking a long sip of his wine. “And you have now witnessed its exquisite map.”

Séverin’s mind snagged on that word: Map. It was a hint, he was sure of it. Was it possible that the map to the temple beneath Poveglia could appear in such a form? Was it a sign that Ruslan was finally ready to tell him where to go? Or was it just another game?

Séverin sank into his dining chair, reaching for his wine, when Ruslan snatched his hand and turned it over.

“You know … when I impersonated the patriarch of House Dazbog, I cut off his arm and it worked perfectly,” said Ruslan, thoughtful. “Perhaps I could do the same with you, and then the divine lyre would answer to me? I only need your hand. I have no use for the rest of you.”

Séverin kept his hand still. Ruslan’s mind did not function like others. What did he want? Séverin’s mind turned back to all the times Ruslan had shown him a new Forging tool or tried to get his attention. He wants to play, he realized. Séverin grinned, then wiggled his fingers. “Shall we try it?”

Ruslan picked up his Midas Knife, tapping the point on Séverin’s palm. “We could.”

“It would be a boring indulgence, though,” said Séverin. He was careful not to betray a tremble in his fingers.

“Boring?” repeated Ruslan.

“You already remarked at the wonder in my face,” said Séverin. “Wouldn’t you like to see it again when I behold you in all your divine raiments and glory? Wouldn’t you rather we converse than the dull members of your House, who are far more like chattel than companions? If not, then you are not as interesting as I’d hoped. How disappointing. If so, take my arm, cut my throat, and spare me the boredom.”

“That was rude of you, Séverin,” complained Ruslan, withdrawing the knife. “My feelings are wounded.”

Séverin slowly withdrew his hand, watching the patriarch. Upon being called boring, Ruslan’s countenance had changed. He speared a piece of cheese and angrily shoved it in his mouth.

“Forgive my little joke,” said Séverin. “Your conversation is endlessly amusing, as always. I am, however, finding the days a bit tedious … would it not be—”

Ruslan turned his head slowly. He smiled, but it was a closed-mouth grin, like a child on the verge of denying he’d stuffed his face with forbidden sweets. A flash of acidic panic seized Séverin.

“Ten days,” said Ruslan primly. “And don’t forget, Monsier Montagnet-Alarie … I get bored too, and perhaps you will not always like what I find diverting.”

Séverin feigned indifference. Just then, a door near the back of the room opened. Eva entered, holding a vial of blood Forging liquid. Ruslan clapped his hands eagerly.

“Mine, mine, mine,” he sang, then licked his lips. “Juicy, sweet protection, though I do detest the regularity of it all. Once a day keeps the liars away…”

Ruslan held out his wrist. A faint sneer curled on Eva’s lips as she flicked her taloned ring across his skin. Blood beaded at the wound, and she collected it in her vial. She held it tight for a few moments. The blood darkened by a few degrees. When Eva emptied out the vial, the molecules rose into the air, twisting like an image of spilling ink centimeters away from Ruslan’s nose. Ruslan cocked his head, and then he leaned forward, snapping at the Forged blood like a creature eating something out of the air.

Blood spatter flecked his mouth.

He grinned, tonguing the corners of his mouth and cheeks. “It won’t be necessary when we’re gods, will it? No need for protections from deception … I’ll make sure of it.” Ruslan grinned up at Eva. “Though I don’t know what I’ll do with you. Maybe I’ll eat you.”

Eva’s face paled as she set the vial back on its tray. It trembled in her grip. Séverin waited until she was nearly at the door before he spoke.

“Ruslan, I hope you do not take offense when I tell you that I am lately deprived of beauty.”

Ruslan moaned and tapped his bald pate. “I have no delusions regarding my looks, sadly.”

“I fancied I might take the lovely Eva on a gondola ride this evening.”

Eva stilled, looking between Ruslan and Séverin. Ruslan chewed thoughtfully on a piece of fruit before shrugging.

“I have no objections,” said Ruslan.

“I do,” said Eva loudly. “I don’t want to go anywhere with him—”

Ruslan laughed. “Silly Eva. You know how I find your outbursts charming, but if you do it again, I will bring your father and kill him in front of you.” His voice was calm. Warm, even, in a way that brought goose bumps to Séverin’s skin. “And after that, I’ll fill your mouth with burning embers to scald all those fiery outbursts away.”

Eva paled. She turned to Séverin. “I would be honored to accompany you this evening.”

Séverin felt a little ill watching the exchange. Eva had betrayed them, yes, but she was trapped too.

Are you any different? a voice inside him hissed. The things you’ve done to the people you claimed to love …

Séverin pushed aside the voice, summoning a grin. “Excellent.”

* * *

AN HOUR LATER, Séverin sat in the gondola of the Fallen House, a Forged black-lacquered boat that required no gondolier. The sigil of the Fallen House appeared on the side. On the prow, a honeybee clicked its metal wings. It could watch them, but it could not hear them. Even so, Séverin kept his back to it. From the docks, a member of the Fallen House watched him silently. Clutched in his hands lay the lyre within its blood Forged box.

“I thought we could see the famous Ponte dei Sospiri,” said Séverin as the boat glided into the water.

Eva said nothing. She stroked the scabbard that held her jeweled knife. “I promised you company, but—”

“Company is all I expect,” said Séverin. “Conversation is optional.”

They passed the next half hour in silence. The watery thoroughfares of Venice were alive tonight. Lovers cozied up, lost in one another. When they kissed, their Forged boats—carved in the shapes of floating roses or cleverly sculpted hands—closed up around them, hiding them completely from sight.