“It’s an old symbol, but more recently seems to be linked to Jewish identity,” said Enrique.

“We call it Magen David,” said Zofia.

The Star of David, though her sister told her it was not an actual star, but was also a symbol on an ancient king’s shield.

Beside her, Enrique fidgeted with his hair, murmuring to himself. “What’s the symbol saying?” he asked, rocking back and forth as he rattled out the history of the symbol, half mumbling to himself. “Encircled, the hexagram represents Solomon’s Seal, which has Jewish and Islamic roots. Hindus called it shatkona, but that’s a representation of the masculine and feminine sides of the divine, not connected at all to what we know about the Fallen House. Maybe if we knew their real name, we’d have a clue, but all we know is that they like gold, but that could be a trap and—”

“Oh gods,” breathed Hypnos.

Zofia looked up and heard Enrique suck in his breath. Ruslan appeared on a bridge not fifteen meters away, his back to them and the lagoon. A pair of hooded guards stood on either side. A hint of gold glinted beneath the cuff of his coat, and Zofia felt a chill remembering that golden hand clenching her arm.

“We have to go!” hissed Hypnos, pedaling forward.

“Not before we figure out the gondola situation!” said Enrique.

The swan boat whirled in a circle, narrowly avoiding colliding with a different gondola.

Zofia flung out her hand for balance, her hand skimming the outside of the Fallen House gondola decorated with the silver star. The moment she touched it, she heard a whisper of metal deep in the boat … gold. I can bend at your will.

“Stop!” she cried out.

“Zofia, what are you doing?” demanded Enrique.

She crouched forward, bracing both hands against the different gondolas. She strained her senses and felt the shiver of metal through her skin. Within seconds, she knew. The gondola with the silver star was actually made of gold that had been Forged to distribute weight differently, while the one on the right with the golden star was solid wood.

“It’s this one,” she said, pointing to the silver.

“He could turn any second,” said Hypnos. “We have to leave now.”

Zofia fumbled with the device, leaning farther out of the gondola. The ends of her coat brushed the lagoon water, and she forced herself not to gag. Zofia shoved her will into the invention: You want to be here; you want to be part of this object. Over and over, she chanted it through her mind until—

The detonating device melted seamlessly into the boat.

“Now get away from it!” said Hypnos. “We’re drawing attention!”

Zofia tried to move back—her hand was stuck.

She moved again, but it was like the metal wanted to pull her into itself. Not me, you don’t want me, she told the metal. It loosened, but she wasn’t strong enough to pull away.

“Start pedaling,” she said, gritting her teeth as she tugged at her right arm with her left hand.

Slowly, it unclasped, and Zofia winced as the skin of her palm scraped.

“I’ve got you, Phoenix,” said Enrique. He wrapped his arms around her waist, tugging hard. Zofia fell back against Enrique, and the movement rocked the boat, nearly crashing them into another gondola—

“Attento!” shouted the gondolier.

Zofia sat up, her hand burning. The canal had grown more crowded. The gondolier had started shouting at them, which made the other boats slow down to watch. Zofia looked up at the bridge. She saw, as if time had slowed down, awareness prickling through the line of Ruslan’s shoulders. He started to turn.

Zofia whirled to face Enrique. “Kiss me.”

His eyes went wide. “Now? Should I—”

Zofia grabbed Enrique’s face and brought it to hers. Instantly, the wings of the swan shivered around them, hiding them from sight. Venice vanished around them. The shouting went mute. All she could feel was the sudden tug of the boat through the water as Hypnos spirited them away from Ruslan’s notice. Zofia was so caught up in the kiss as a distraction that she almost forgot it was a kiss—

Until she didn’t.

It was dark and warm inside the closing of the swan’s wings. Enrique’s lips felt wind-roughened and dry. Zofia broke the kiss. It had all been rather anticlimactic, though she was not sure what she had expected.

“That was not awful,” she offered.

Enrique paused, and she felt her face flaming, something inside her shrinking fast in embarrassment.

“But it could be so much better,” he said.

“How?”

She wanted to know. The next instant, she felt his warm hands sliding up her cheek. Zofia’s eyes were wide open in the dark, not that it let her see any clearer, but it felt important that, for what happened next, her eyes should stay open. She felt the space shift in front of her, the softest gust of warm air against her lips, and then—

Zofia was kissed.

Zofia understood the concept of heat. She knew that it was the result of atoms and molecules colliding, the motion of which generated energy. Warmth—not like a flare, but a slow, rising wave—swept up from her toes to her heart. And yes, there was energy in this … in being kissed and kissing back. She was a participant in the unseen particles spinning in an invisible choreography. Like a dance inside her bones. She leaned forward eagerly into the unexpected warmth of Enrique as her mind registered new sensations: the scratch of his unshaven cheek, his teeth on her lower lip, the wet heat as his mouth opened hers. It was not unpleasant. It was the very opposite, in fact. Enrique held her close, close enough that she could feel her heartbeat on his. And that was when she noticed it—or rather, the absence of it.

Hela’s letter was gone.

16

SÉVERIN

On the night of Carnevale, Séverin stroked the bruised violet bloom of a poisonous larkspur flower and waited.

Almost three years ago, Laila had made a feast of flowers as a special dessert for some prominent guests staying at L’Eden. It was late spring, and the city of Paris seemed like an irritable bride on her wedding day—sulky and sweating at a perceived lack of attention while blooming flowers shone like jewels on the city’s limbs.

Tristan had cleared a space in the gardens, and a Forging artist who specialized in textiles had constructed a silk tent that would keep in the cool air and later stir around the guests as if moved by a mild breeze. On a banquet table absent of any silverware, Laila was nearly finished arranging piles of golden dahlias, crimson roses, cloud-blue hydrangeas, and wreaths of honeysuckles. They looked eerily lifelike. On the rim of a cowslip, a single drop of dew seemed ready to slide down the petal.

And yet, even from where he stood at the head of the banquet table, Séverin could smell the marzipan and vanilla, cocoa and citrus beneath the artfully sculpted flowers. One bloom did not look as though it belonged. It was a long, blue larkspur, each violet petal streaked blue like the sky at twilight.

“You snuck a poisonous flower into the arrangement?” asked Séverin, pointing at it. “I doubt our guests will be brave enough to try it.”

“And what if I told them that it was the sweetest out of all these blooms … that underneath those deadly petals is a thick almond cream with a ripple of spiced plum down the middle?” said Laila, her eyes sparkling with slyness. “Surely such a taste is worth a brush with death, wouldn’t you say? Unless you are not quite as brave as I imagined.”