“And how do you plan to do that?” she asked. “By turning yourself into some kind of god?”

His eyes flashed. “If that’s what it takes,” he said.

But there was a caged quality to his voice, and when Laila searched his eyes again, she found the words for what she could not decipher before:

He wanted godhood.

More than that, he believed he would get it. She could see it in his eyes. That ice in his gaze had melted to something shining and zealous.

“You are out of your mind, Séverin.”

“I’ve seen and felt something you wouldn’t understand,” he said fiercely. “And I know there’s power at the end of it. Enough to extend your life. To fix the things I’ve ruined. Maybe even to bring back what was lost. But I will never leave you in the dark again. I want us to go into the light together.”

Laila stared at him. “How can you believe such things?”

His eyes seemed to take on an otherworldly sheen beneath the candlelight. “Laila, there has to be a reason for it all … a reason why I have this ability, why our lives crossed, even how we ended up here. How else do you explain it? How else do you explain how I would be on the other side of that curtain? How I would have known you anywhere even from something as small as your hand—”

“Stop,” she said loudly.

Séverin froze. Whatever light had shone in his eyes retreated, and when he spoke, there was a clipped mechanical quality to it: “You know as well as I do that our best chances to get to Poveglia lie with each other. I assume you will be at Carnevale tomorrow. Let us meet there, find the map, and leave for Poveglia together. Then … then I can show you that I am not some fool … that I am speaking the truth.”

Laila narrowed her gaze. “And Ruslan?”

A muscle in his jaw ticked, as if he were chewing on something invisible. Laila had the bizarre urge to press a tin of cloves into his hands.

“At sunrise tomorrow, I will send word to the piazza with a plan,” he said.

Laila nodded. She was familiar with the famous piazza of Venice. “And tomorrow?”

“I’ll be there at midnight.”

“How will you find us?”

A sad smile touched his mouth. “I would find you anywhere.”

The words moved through Laila. He could be so caring when he wished to. Unbidden came the memory of the time she’d burned her hand on a hot pan, and he had been so panicked that she was in pain that it had taken her nearly twenty minutes to convince him that she did not need a physician. Laila moved away, but he caught her wrist.

“You know we can’t leave like this,” said Séverin, his voice low in her ear. “We’ve been here … in this spot for lovers’ trysts or fate’s machinations, whatever you wish to call it, for nearly half an hour. If we leave as we entered, surely that will draw suspicion.”

“How thoughtless of me,” she said.

Laila pressed her palm deeply against her lips. Then, rather ungently, she swiped her hand across his mouth. Rouge blurred at the edges of his lips and chin. She tugged at the opening of his shirt, relishing the sound of scattered buttons hitting the floor. Her ring had twisted toward her palm, and when she dragged her hand down his chest, she felt him wince at the jewel’s edge scraping down his skin, leaving a red mark.

Last, she tugged at his hair. There was a cruel familiarity to her gestures. It had only been a handful of days since that night in the ice palace when their hearts had beat in sync, and everything seemed awash with hope. But when she pulled back her hand, she saw the dwindled days left to her. That fullness against her ribs ached and said: No more. I can hold no more.

“Is this how you want me, Laila?” Séverin asked. There was no jest in his voice, but a wounded hopefulness. “Bloodied up by your hand?”

“No,” she said, reaching for the curtains. “I don’t want you at all.”

14

ENRIQUE

At dawn, Enrique scrutinized his appearance in the long mirror in the library. He wore a black suit. A white cravat. He had changed his bandage so that it was soot dark and almost—almost—blended into his hair. His scab throbbed a bit as he lowered a black hat over his head and arranged the brim over the nubbed wound. He glanced at himself in the mirror. The hat’s brim was tugged so low, one could no longer see his left eye.

He looked like the incompetent villain in a pantomime.

“Ugh,” said Enrique, dragging the hat down lower.

Ever since Laila had come home last night with the news that Séverin would be joining them at Carnevale and would send word at sunrise to the Piazza San Marco, Enrique could not stop thinking about what he should wear. Though it had only been days, he was not the same Enrique that Séverin had appeared to leave for dead. He wanted Séverin to see that at first glance. He wanted him to be struck by his patina of … manliness? No. Independence. Independence haloing him like an aura. Pigeons flying out from behind him in a maelstrom of feathers.

Perhaps that would be too much.

Besides, no amount of mind Forging had been able to corral the pigeons of Venice.

All night, Enrique couldn’t sleep. He polished his shoes. He washed his hair and neatly set it with wax. He plucked at every stray bit of dust on his suit. He wanted to press the words I don’t need you into every stitched line of his jackets and pants.

At first, Enrique had balked at being given the task to meet with him alone tomorrow.

“Why do I have to see him?” he had asked. “He’ll find us at Carnevale anyway.”

Laila hesitated. Her gaze flicked—there and away—to his wounded ear.

“It’s Ruslan,” she said. “We can’t leave for Poveglia with the Fallen House on our trail. They must be dealt with, and Séverin said he would come up with a plan. So. Who will go to the piazza tomorrow?”

“Me!” said Hypnos, raising his hand.

“And risk a Sphinx authority catching sight of the patriarch of House Nyx?” asked Laila.

Hypnos lowered his hand slowly. “… Not me.”

“I have work,” said Zofia, eyeing the folded up Forged masks that Laila had brought back.

“I already dealt with him last night after I got our masks,” said Laila stiffly. She turned the ring on her hand.

Enrique felt a shudder run down his back when he thought of the four, cruel-looking, mind Forged masks. When Laila had returned and brought them out, he was curious. Each mask looked like a monstrous skull. When he placed it over his face, he wasn’t prepared for the force of its power. It was like his consciousness had been yanked out of him, images flashing of paths through alleyways and past waterfronts, familiar to him as a memory … and yet not a memory he had ever made. The mind Forged visions ended before a mosaic-patterned wall in an alley, which he supposed would be the entrance to Carnevale tomorrow.

“And I still have things I need to read around the safe house,” said Laila. “I want to make sure we don’t miss anything.”

Which left Enrique.

When they had all agreed, Enrique looked to Laila, who hung back while the others exited the room.

“What is it?” she asked.