“The key was more of a manifestation of the setting he rules over,” said Enrique, waving his hand. “Art is very self-referential and such…”

He sank into the nearest chair, letting his head fall into his palms. Hypnos would be back within the hour, and he would have to admit that he’d been wrong. There was no hint about House Janus here. He would have to watch Hypnos’s smile turn smug and sympathetic, hear him fawn over how Séverin would have known what to do—

“Tell me more about the setting he rules over,” said Zofia loudly.

Enrique looked up, torn between annoyance and the faint flicker of joy at the thought of explaining anything about myths and symbols. None of the others had asked about Janus’s particular role in the Roman pantheon. Leave it to Zofia to question him when he had no wish to discuss further.

“He is said to guard passages of all kinds,” said Enrique. “He was a god of dualities and transitions … oftentimes worshipped in the same breath as Zeus, who they called Iupiter. Janus also went by Ianus, which lent its name to Ianuarius and, thus, the month of January. As the first month of the year, it’s the moment where we may look backwards and forwards at once. It’s why Janus is often depicted presiding over doorways and doorframes. Why, even the Latin word for door is ianus—”

Enrique paused. A faint tingling sensation traveled down his spine. He stood slowly, then turned to face the mirror. He saw his stained bandage and the slight bulge where his ear had once been before Ruslan sliced it off. But beyond that—beyond the way the world had marked him—he saw the threshold of the library.

He had never noticed it before, the wood carved into elaborate shapes and set with gold trimming. It had seemed like another beautiful, decorative thing in a house full of beautiful, decorative ornaments. But now his gaze snagged on a faint, glowing spot set into the wood. At first glance, it seemed like a trick of the light … the flame of a candle or sconce bouncing off the silver mirror. It was situated up high, almost near the joint where the mantel and the frame met. A place no one would have cause to examine too closely.

“Zofia,” said Enrique. “I’m beginning to think you really are a genius.”

“You sound surprised,” said Zofia. “Why?”

Enrique grinned as he walked past her, his hand outstretched to the door … the traditional haunt of the two-faced god.

“Is there a stool?” he asked, casting about.

Zofia picked one up, bringing it to him. Enrique clambered onto it, kneeling. He touched the glimmer set into the wood. It poked out like an innocent splinter.

Enrique pinched it and slowly pulled.

The wood around the glowing splinter yielded with a sound that reminded him of someone riffling through the pages in a book. Enrique held his breath. Whatever he had grabbed hold of gave way with little resistance. Light burst across his vision, and something fell, the sound was like a dish clattering to the ground.

“What is that?” asked Zofia, moving closer.

It was a silver demi-mask. Perhaps there had once been ribbons affixed to the side, but they had long since disintegrated. The mask itself looked plain and unfinished, the metallic paint chipped in some places. And yet, the moment Enrique touched it, he felt a presence invading his thoughts … a glimpse of the inside of a salon, masks dangling from the ceiling, the soft glow of chandeliers. There was only one place it could be, the mascherari salon that hid the location to House Janus.

Maybe it was nothing more than fanciful imagination, but in that moment, Enrique wondered if something of that old Roman god had moved through the room. After all, Janus was the god of change and beginnings. And in that second, Enrique could almost taste the change in the air. It tasted of silver and ghosts, like the resurrection of an abandoned hope that was stirring, once more, to life.

10

LAILA

Laila watched the wedding party approach the bridge. Behind them, a moon as pale as the bride’s neck rose over the cathedral’s sloped roofs. Bleary-eyed stars winked in the sky and bore witness to the lovers. Laila’s throat felt tight as she watched them. She told herself not to look, but she couldn’t help it. Her eyes hungrily roved over every detail of the bride and groom.

They moved in tandem, as if to a song sung only for their ears. The bride’s frost-colored gown trailed over the cloud-white steps of the Bridge of Sighs. She had light brown hair, neatly pinned beneath a capped veil, and pearls wrapped around her forehead. Her groom, a weak-chinned man with wide eyes who became nearly handsome when he smiled, stared at her as if he had never beheld color until this moment. Behind the bride and groom, their friends and family cheered and laughed, throwing rice and petals in the air.

Laila moved back against the railing as they passed. She hadn’t meant to end up at the Bridge of Sighs, but her walking path away from the Piazza San Marco and past the Doge’s Palace had led to her being caught in the rain, and this was the fastest way back to the safe house. Beneath her, the white stones were still rain slick. The bride, unheeding in her joy, tripped and would have sprawled onto the stone if her husband hadn’t caught her. As her bouquet of snowdrops tumbled from her hand, Laila, unthinking, reached out and caught hold of the blue ribbon that held the flowers in place. The wedding party cheered, and she blushed without knowing why.

“You dropped this,” she said, trying to hand it to the bride.

But the girl shook her head, grinning. “No, sua buona fortuna per te.”

Laila had very little grasp of Italian, but she understood buona fortuna. The bride was saying it was good luck for her. Laughing, the bride folded Laila’s hands over the bouquet.

“E tuo,” she said.

It’s yours.

The bouquet’s memories knifed through Laila. She saw the snowdrops bound by a blue ribbon that had once adorned the bride’s blanket as a child. She saw the bride’s mother weeping softly into the flowers, whispering prayers into the petals. She heard the bride laughing as she took it from her sister—

Laila yanked her consciousness back. When she glanced down, her garnet ring looked like a fat bead of blood. Five. Five days were all she had left.

She stared at the snowdrops in her hand.

Laila tried to imagine a future where she was a bride. She tried to picture her mother, still living and weaving jasmine through her hair. She imagined aunts she had never known sliding gold bangles onto her wrists. She conjured the scent of henna, like rain-sweet hay, adorning her hands and feet, her bridegroom’s name hidden in the design as a secret invitation to touch her skin for the first time. Laila imagined the antarpat curtain that separated them slowly falling, her bridegroom’s face concealed behind a sehra of pearls. In her daydream, a pair of violet eyes met hers, and in his gaze, Laila felt that she was all the wonder and color in the world.

Laila nearly dropped the flowers.

“Foolish,” she told herself.

She would never be a bride. With every hour that passed, Laila realized the garnet ring would be the only ring she ever wore. Laila clung to her hope, but every day she felt it collapsing a little more. Every minute, she felt the space between her consciousness and the dark waters of oblivion vanishing. Sometimes, it was as if those dark waters were whispering to her, taunting her that it would be so much easier to let go. To drown.