Somewhere, a bell tolled, startling her from her thoughts. It was nearly midnight, and the others would be wondering where she had gone. There was work to be done. Objects that needed reading, plans that required finalizing.

But for that moment, Laila wished she could unfasten herself. She wanted to let in the moon and the clouds, the roofs of the cathedral and dim stars, and let it all burn and scrape inside her.

Around her, the sky deepened to shadows and velvet. Her mother used to tell her the oncoming night was the god Krishna wrapping them up in his arms, for his skin was the color of midnight. Laila used to love hearing tales of Krishna, the god of preservation reborn as a mischievous, human child.

One day Krishna’s human mother suspected he had eaten something he should not, and told the boy to open his mouth. Eventually, she convinced him. Behind Krishna’s teeth—in the lightless dark of his throat—burned suns and moons, dying stars and ice-rimed planets. His mother did not ask him to open his mouth again.

Laila knew some people could carry such things inside them.

Some people could walk with galaxies tilting at their heart, planets grinding against their ribs, whole worlds dragging in their wake and never stealing their balance.

Her mother used to say Laila was one of those people. She was born to carry more than herself. She could hold up, and cherish, the weight of others—their worries, their mistakes, their hopes of who they might be.

All this time, she had tried not to think of Séverin, but that foolish daydream had summoned his face to her thoughts. Now she knew for certain that he was the one person she could never hold.

She didn’t doubt that he cared for his friends in his own way. She didn’t even doubt that he felt deeply for her, or that it must have hurt him to forsake her and pretend to kill the others just to keep them safe.

But they would forever want different futures, and she could not hide that from herself anymore.

Laila wanted safety. A home. A dining table groaning with food, always set for friends and family.

And Séverin? Séverin wanted godhood. Holding on to him would be like trying to wrestle down the moon. Already, Laila’s death was a needy, cloying thing, so heavy it felt as if she were carrying the night and all its stars. Already, a nonexistence—that blankness she’d felt on Isola di San Michele—mushroomed through her body.

She had no room left for Séverin.

Not anymore.

In the distance, a sleek gondola cut through the onyx water, as if heading straight to the Bridge of Sighs. Laila took one last look at the bouquet of snowdrops, then dropped the bouquet. The ribbon broke, the bells tolled midnight. The white petals scattering into the lagoon looked like a broken star.

11

SÉVERIN

Séverin had once imagined that gods had no weaknesses, but now he knew he was wrong.

Even gods had a secret, soft throat. To wound them, you must not want them. You must turn your face and laugh at their riches. Rejection was a mortal blade that would always find purchase.

From his vantage point on the gondola, the stark face of the nearby clock tower announcing that it was half past midnight confirmed what he already knew: They weren’t coming.

At first, he told himself that something had gone wrong. But that was impossible—he had left the Mnemo bug beside Laila. There was no way it could have been misplaced. Then he wondered if some ill had befallen them, if the Order had somehow found them … but surely Ruslan would have crowed about such a finding. For nearly twenty minutes, Séverin had stood in the gondola and stared up at the Bridge of Sighs. He kept imagining them in every stray laugh or distant sound of feet. When he had first neared the meeting point, he even convinced himself that he’d seen a slender figure stealing into the shadows.

They did not want him.

They had chosen not to come.

Dimly, he knew he had to go back.

If he stayed away any longer, Ruslan would punish him for it.

Séverin felt as though he couldn’t breathe. He sank into the gondola cushioning, an unfamiliar tightness constricting his chest as Eva’s words floated back to him.

How do you know they will come for you, Monsieur? You may not have killed them, but even I could see that how you treated them was a death of its own.

Séverin felt ill. He gripped the edge of the gondola, nausea roiling through him. He had done this to himself. He leaned over the boat, on the verge of vomiting, and it was then that he saw the white petals float past him.

For the first time in years, he heard his mother’s voice. He had blocked out the smokey sound for so long, but now it had found him. He remembered one of the last times he saw her: He had cried out for her after a nightmare, and his father had allowed Kahina to sleep beside him, though he grumbled that Séverin would become soft from such coddling.

“Listen, habibi, and I will tell you the tale of the rich king and the most beautiful flower in the world,” Kahina had said, smoothing his hair away from his forehead.

“How beautiful was the flower?” asked Séverin, for it had seemed very important, if the bloom was worthy of a king.

Kahina smiled. “The flower’s petals were white as milk, and its fragrance like something stolen out of paradise. The king asked the flower if he might take it to his kingdom, and the bloom agreed, but only if the king promised to care for it.”

Séverin had frowned at this. None of the flowers on his father’s estate had ever spoken to him. Perhaps they did not imagine him a king. He would have to wear his best clothes tomorrow and inform them otherwise.

“The flower asked for sunshine, and the king declared that he had something better than sunlight—he offered the flower golden coins rinsed in milk and honey. The flower cried out, for the hard, gold coins bruised its petals. The flower then asked for water, and the king declared that he had something better than water, and he poured upon the flower all the rarest wines from the corners of his kingdom,” said Kahina. “The flower cried out, for the wine was sour and its roots shriveled at its touch. Slowly, it began to die. The king was furious, and he demanded an explanation. ‘I have given you all the best things in the world,’ he said. ‘You must flourish!’ But the flower declared, ‘That was never what I needed,’ and then defied the king by dying.”

Séverin did not like the story. Couldn’t the silly king see that all the flower wanted was water and sun?

“Why didn’t he listen?” Séverin had asked.

Kahina was quiet. Her hands stilled on his forehead. “Sometimes those with too much power think they know best … they forget how to listen. But you will not be like that will you, habibi?”

Séverin shook his head.

“Good,” said his mother. She lifted his hands and kissed his knuckles one by one. “Because you are far more powerful than any king.”

Now, Séverin watched the white petals float past him.

Look at what you’ve done. You hurt them. You did not listen. And now you are alone.

He was a fool. All his powers, all his wealth … it meant nothing.

Séverin sat back in the gondola, something crystallizing in his thoughts.

Laila, Enrique, Hypnos, and Zofia didn’t need him to get to Poveglia, but they would need him to play the lyre. If he got to them fast enough, then maybe he could apologize. He could beg them for another chance …