Séverin blinked, and imagined Tristan’s cool, gray eyes crinkling in a smile. He felt Tante FeeFee’s warm hand cupping his chin.

Another step, just one more, he told himself, lifting his leg up a shining, stone stair.

The divine lyre strings pressed against his heart, and for the third time in ten days, Séverin heard his mother’s voice reaching to him across the years. When he breathed, he caught the sharp, bright scent of orange rinds that Kahina used to perfume her hair.

Shall I tell you a tale, habibi? Shall I tell you the tale of the orange trees?

Séverin told himself that he was hallucinating, but that only made the fragrance of orange trees grow stronger.

It starts with a king on his deathbed … you know how that is, my love. Death must have his seat at the table of tales, and he always sits first. The king had a son, and with his last breath, he gifted his child a golden key that would open a golden door on the far side of a magnificent garden.

He made him promise not to use the key, no matter what.

Séverin swayed on the spot. He felt his mother’s cool hand on his elbow, pulling him forward. Kahina used to lure him with stories, laying them out like treats. For a bath, he received half the tale. For brushed teeth, he received the end of the story. For a good night kiss, she traded in short fables.

Come, habibi, don’t you want to know what happens?

Now, it seemed, for a step forward, she would give up a sentence.

He took a step.

The prince was overcome with curiosity. You know all about curiosity, don’t you, my love? But there are some things you must not know …

He took another step.

He kept his promise to his father for over a year before, one day, he took the golden key to the golden door on the far side of the magnificent garden … and he opened it.

Séverin stumbled.

Dimly, he heard Ruslan call out behind him, but he ignored him.

And there he found a wondrous orange tree. The fruit gleamed, shining with dew, and the prince knew a terrible hunger. He took his little knife, and split the fruit open, and when the rind parted, a seed fell to the ground and sprouted into the most beautiful woman he had ever seen and—come now, my love, one more step.

“I can’t,” Séverin tried to say, but his legs moved anyway.

The prince begged the woman to marry him, and she agreed, but when he carried her over the golden threshold of the golden door, she fell dead at his feet, turning back into a seedling, which in time became an ordinary orange tree.

Again and again, the prince tried to go back the way he came—or perhaps he was thinking of other trees that might sprout equally beautiful companions—but alas, he had left the key on the other side, and the golden door never opened for him again.

Séverin stopped walking.

Always throw away golden keys to golden doors, habibi. Such knowledge is a hungry creature, and it will swallow you whole. It will dine on your hopes, slurp out your heart, tear away bits and pieces of your imagination until you are nothing but a tough, chewy hide of obsession.

Séverin frowned.

That was not how the story was supposed to end, but before he could argue with his hallucination, he felt a sweaty hand closing on his arm.

“Enough of this,” growled Ruslan.

Séverin turned on the spot.

“We haven’t moved in hours,” said Ruslan.

Séverin gathered the last of his energy, trying to convert it into focus … into words. When he looked at Ruslan, he saw that the patriarch’s eyes were ringed with white. The golden side of his face looked sunken. Ruslan’s face cracked into a strange grin.

“Do you think I haven’t noticed what you’re doing?”

“I’m not doing anything except trying to get us to the top—”

“Then why haven’t we moved?” shrieked Ruslan. “Look at the automatons! We should be past them by now.”

Wearily, Séverin looked to his left where one of the huge automatons stood silently. They had climbed so far that he could no longer see its feet or the Forged floor that had once held the likeness of the night sky. They stood hip height to the statues. Their impassive faces glared down at them, their expressionless eyes and mouths unchanging.

“I’ve counted…” said Ruslan, strain tugging at his voice. “Five hundred steps and we have not moved … we have not crossed any distance. You’re doing it on purpose, aren’t you? Trying to tire me out? To fill my head with this nonsense about playing the lyre at the top of the ziggurat?”

Séverin wet his dry lips, summoning the effort to speak.

“It fits,” he said slowly. “Imagine that you are on a pilgrimage … that’s what all holy spots demand. It wants your desperation … your hopelessness. If you felt otherwise, there would be no need to commune with any higher power. I have every faith the steps will lead us somewhere soon. We just have to keep going—”

Ruslan’s arm swung toward him, and Séverin heard his friends cry out at the same moment that Ruslan’s fist cracked into his jaw. He stumbled back, the dagger point lightly swiping against his throat, drawing blood.

“What are you doing—” he tried to say only for Ruslan to slam his elbow into his neck, knocking him to the ground.

From the corner of his eye, Séverin watched Hypnos and Enrique lunge toward him, only for the dead Fallen House guards to lurch forward, tackling them to the stone ground.

Séverin rolled over. When he looked up, a wind rippled through the branches of the upside-down trees. The divine lyre thudded against his chest. Séverin’s bindings slipped down his wrist, but the moment he could move his fingers, Ruslan’s boot slammed down on his chest, knocking the air out of his lungs.

“Stop!” screamed Enrique. “He can’t play it without risking destruction of everything Forged! Remember what we found in the Sleeping Palace?” He gasped, fighting for breath. “To play at God’s instrument will summon the unmaking. Everything Forged will fall apart! We have to keep walking—”

“No,” said Ruslan, shaking his head. “No, we don’t.”

Too late, Séverin realized what he would do. He curved his body over the lyre only for Ruslan’s molten hand to snap out, catching him around the throat. Séverin kicked out, thrashing against him. He wheezed, gasping for air, but Ruslan’s golden grip was not human.

“I thought we could do this together, Séverin,” said Ruslan, “but I see now that my kindness has gotten the best of me. I don’t need your touch.”

He plucked the knife still hovering above his throat.

No, he thought fiercely.

Séverin tried to turn his head, to demand the sanctum of the lyre to rise up and defend him. Even now, he felt the rhythm of something vast and celestial coursing through his veins the moment he pressed his fingers into the lyre’s strings.

This is mine, Séverin told himself as Ruslan pried the lyre from his jacket. I own this wonder.

Only Séverin knew how the lyre truly looked when it was played—the light catching on the filaments and revealing a prism of colors, the pulse of stars nestled in the shining strings.

Ruslan slashed the knife across Séverin’s hand, smearing the blood on his own golden hand.