All this time, he had been stepping daintily around Ruslan’s whims. But there was nothing left the patriarch of the Fallen House could take from him. He had lost all that mattered, and in that way, he was finally as powerful as he could be. Only by having nothing to lose could he finally force the patriarch’s hand. They would not be waiting ten days to reach Poveglia. They would be leaving immediately.

* * *

SÉVERIN THREW OPEN the doors of Casa d’Oro, walking past the dozen members of the Fallen House.

The moment he entered, their Mnemo honeybees whirred loudly.

“Where is my lyre?” he asked quietly.

A guard stepped out of his room, holding the ice and glass box. In the shadows of the hallway, Séverin caught sight of Eva’s red hair. She must have been waiting for him, expecting confirmation that the others were alive. But he had no proof, which meant she was no help to him any longer. Séverin pressed his thumb to the thorn, taking out the lyre.

“Bring your master,” he said to the guards. “Now.”

“Monsieur Montagnet-Alarie—” started Eva, moving toward him.

He strode toward her. Her green eyes went wide in panic, and she moved to run, but he was too fast. He caught her around the waist, dragging her back to his chest. She thrashed, clawing at him, but he didn’t care. He was only after one thing. A moment later, and he had removed the jeweled knife Eva kept around her waist. She sprang away from him, breathing hard.

“Where is Ruslan?” he yelled.

Eva cowered against the wall. “What are you doing?” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “What happened to them? You promised me—”

“Get the hell away from me,” he snarled. “This is no longer about you.”

Eva blanched. Fury stole into her face, and her hand reached for the pendant around her throat before she fled into the hall.

The Fallen House members stepped toward him. They were less than three meters away from him now. As one, they drew out pairs of knives from inside their black sleeves. Séverin laughed. He felt wondrously drunk on this new power.

He raised the jeweled knife to his throat, smiling lazily at all of them. “Ruslan has bored me. I no longer wish to find godhood with him.”

He watched the words sink into the atmosphere.

“In fact, I would rather be dead,” said Séverin. He pressed the knife harder against his skin. “He is welcome to the use of my limbs afterwards. I care not—”

Someone had begun to clap. Séverin looked up to see Ruslan stepping out of the red-brocade wall that had been nothing more than a Tezcat portal in disguise. A wide smile spread across his face.

“I knew it!” said Ruslan. “I knew you would not be so dull!”

Séverin jerked his head to where the patriarch stood. The movement made the blade sting on his skin.

“Oh no no no,” pleaded Ruslan. “Stop that, my friend, you have made your point.”

“And what point is that?” asked Séverin coldly.

“That I have been a poor host,” said Ruslan. “Forgive me … I wanted to see who you were if I were to peel back that placid veneer of yours. I wanted to see how sharp your teeth could be. And oh … you did not disappoint.”

Séverin did not move his hand.

“Come, my friend,” said Ruslan, stepping toward him. “It is time to prepare for a Carnevale celebration.”

“I have no desire for parties,” said Séverin.

“The celebration is held in a place that contains the map to the temple beneath Poveglia,” said Ruslan, speaking quickly.

Slowly, Séverin lowered the knife. He felt the hot slide of blood down his throat. In his other hand, the lyre seemed to hum.

Ruslan smiled. His golden hand caught the light. “We must celebrate, for one last night, what it means to be mortal. It will be a little souvenir we can take with us when we become gods.”

PART II

12

SÉVERIN

When Séverin touched the lyre, he heard impossible things. He heard his soul stirring sleepily under his bones. He heard stars creaking overhead.

But he could not hear her, the voice of the woman he had not been allowed to call “mother.” Her voice alone meant all hope was not lost.

He stared at his hands. They looked raw and chafed from hours spent gliding his fingers over the instrument, careful to press hard enough that he could hear the dim pulse of the universe in his skull, but not so hard that he bled.

“Where are you?” he asked. “Speak to me.”

He had been begging the lyre for a sign for two days straight. Ever since he had returned from the Bridge of Sighs, and Ruslan had finally begun preparations for Poveglia: explosives and goggles, scraps of research and plans to fetch a mind Forged mask. Séverin should have been pleased with the progress, but instead, his thoughts kept returning to the empty Bridge of Sighs.

They had left him. He had fallen too far in their eyes.

He did not blame them.

Enrique, Hypnos, Zofia … Laila. He was broken. In the new cracks of himself, he thought he could hear the lyre whispering to him. Sometimes, the voice was dark and sensuous. Other times, it was a voice of caution. He felt split and ragged, and he wondered if this was how Tristan had felt all those years. As if he were just pushing back the tide of something far worse that always lurked within him. Maybe Séverin was the same. Maybe there was some inexorable wrongness about him that drove away all the people he loved, no matter what he did.

His friends had offered grace and kindness, and he had repaid them with cruelty and sabotage. He told himself that what he was pursuing would excuse any pain, but that was false. He had pursued his plans without once letting in his friends, and in the end, he would have the power he sought. But at what cost?

Séverin thought of the myth of King Midas, whose wish for gold had given him a godlike touch. His food turned to gold. Then his drink. Eventually, his daughter. In the end, when he had washed his curse into a stream and sprouted the ears of a donkey, his reflection revealed what he really was: an unequivocal jackass.

Séverin knew how the old king must have felt. All that power, and still—he’d ended up alone.

Outside Séverin’s chamber door came the shuffle of boots and muffled voices. Though there were no windows in his room, he knew the hour had grown late. Soon, Eva would fetch him.

He couldn’t make himself move. For a moment, he toyed with smashing the lyre against the wall, but his hands stilled. Was the instrument even a gift of the gods … or was it a Midas curse, doomed to destroy him?

“I am begging you,” he whispered to the instrument. “Give me a sign. Show me this power is real. Show me I’m on the right path … speak to me.”

For the hundredth time that day, Séverin dragged his thumb down the shining string. He winced.

One last time, he told himself.

At the back of his skull came the dim, warning pulse of the universe. Stop now, it said. Stop. Séverin pushed harder. In the Sleeping Palace, he had merely cut his hand and smeared the blood on the strings. That mere vibration of the strings had been enough to feel the divine wisp through him.