Enrique sighed. “I think out of all of us, he must feel the worst … I mean, he…”

“Loved her?”

Zofia’s head snapped up to see Séverin looking at them. His hands were in his pockets. His expression was inscrutable.

Beside her, Enrique blushed. “Séverin, I—”

“It’s the truth,” said Séverin. “It hurts, but, c’est la vie.”

Everyone stared at him in silence.

“You realize I purchased this entire cabin for us, and yet the three of you are cramped into one booth that hardly has room for two people,” said Séverin.

“Even so … we could squeeze a fourth?” said Hypnos, scooting against the wall with the window. “If you wish to join?”

Séverin regarded the small seat. At first, Zofia thought he would turn and go, but he didn’t. Slowly, he took a seat beside Hypnos.

“This was what she would have wanted, wasn’t it?” asked Séverin.

They fell quiet for a moment before Enrique said: “You think Laila would wish to be squished in a train compartment with Hypnos’s odious cologne? I doubt it.”

Hypnos gasped. “How dare you? Eau du Diable Doux is a rare, coveted fragrance sold to a select few—”

“Perhaps because in large quantities it would singe the nose hairs off the general population.”

Zofia laughed. A smile tugged even at Séverin’s mouth. It was brief, but it was still there. The four of them watched the rain outside the window. Zofia could not say she was happy. Laila was gone, and Hela’s fate still weighed heavily on her thoughts … but Zofia was hopeful for the future. That future was unclear, but it was, as Enrique had said, something to be figured out day by day.

* * *

THE DAY AFTER Zofia had settled once more into her suites at L’Eden, she found a note waiting for her in her laboratory.

URGENT ATTENTION REQUIRED

TELEGRAM WAITING FOR MME. ZOFIA BOGUSKA

FROM MR. AND MRS. IZAAK KOWALSKI

Kowalski?

Zofia did not recognize the name. She swayed a little on the spot, feeling that dark panic of the unknown fluttering at the edge of her thoughts.

No, she told herself.

She took a deep breath, opening her eyes and counting the familiar alembics and bottles all around her. Then, with her shoulders thrown back, Zofia left her laboratory for the main lobby.

In the past few days, L’Eden had transformed. Ever since the news about Forged objects failing around the world—some of which had exploded and even injured people—L’Eden had removed nearly all of its Forged decoration. Now, the grand lobby was austere, lit with dozens of candles. Black marble had replaced the polished wooden floors so that it almost seemed as though the guests stepped onto the night sky itself. Above, Séverin had removed the chandeliers, and an expanse of lush greenery carpeted the ceiling. Pale flowers grew upside down, and thick vines clambered around the pillars that supported the ornate staircase.

As Zofia crossed the lobby and moved past the finely dressed guests, her heart began to race. What was the telegram about? And who was it from?

Séverin’s factotum greeted her with a small bow. “Mademoiselle Boguska, how may I assist?”

“There is a telegram for me,” said Zofia.

“Ah yes,” he said, reaching into his jacket. “Is that all I may assist you with?”

Zofia took the telegram with trembling hands. “Will you send Monsieur Mercado-Lopez to meet me here?”

“Of course.”

The factotum left with a small nod, leaving Zofia with the telegram in her hand.

Zofia almost wished she could pretend she never saw the note on her laboratory desk, but that would be like losing Hela’s letter all over again … and she was done hiding from the things she could not control.

Perhaps it was fitting that the night before, Zofia had dreamed of Laila. In her dream, they were sitting at the high stools in the L’Eden kitchen and dunking perfectly pale sugar cookies into hot milk.

Do you know what will happen next? Zofia had asked.

Laila shook her head. It’s as unknown to me as it is to you.

You do not seem scared, Zofia had said.

All I can do is hope for unexpected joy … and if it turns out to be dark, well, nothing can keep the light away forever.

Zofia held her breath as she ripped the envelope open. Inside, was a little square of cream paper.

Did you receive my letter about our elopement? I have not heard from you. We are coming to visit in a month.

All my love,

Hela

Zofia exhaled loudly, her shoulders slumping forward. Behind her, she heard the sharp slap of footsteps.

“What happened?” asked Enrique, rushing toward her. He stopped only to kiss her cheek, a practice which Zofia had very much come to look forward to. “Is it bad news?”

“No,” said Zofia, smiling and looking up at him. Laila’s words from her dream flitted through her thoughts. “It’s … unexpected joy.”

40

ENRIQUE

Two months later

Enrique walked the long gallery halls of L’Eden, taking stock of the artifacts they had acquired: a bronze kinnari statue from the Kingdom of Siam, three canopic jars filled with the internal organs of an unnamed pharoah, and one jade carving of a horse from the Yuan dynasty. There were far more treasures in the halls, but these were the only objects that still needed to be packed off. The rest lay quietly in wooden crates filled with straw, waiting for the day when they would be sent back to the countries to which they belonged.

In a way, Enrique was right back where he had started.

Once more, they were stealing artifacts from the Order of Babel. Again, he was cataloguing make, material, history. Again, he was interviewing and corresponding with prospective native collectors who considered themselves cultural custodians and guardians of both history and heritage. They were different from the members of the Order who would have kept these treasures for themselves. Instead, these were people who promised to take care of the artifacts until the time of political and civic unrest passed, and they could once more be put on proud display for the benefit of all.

And yet for all the familiarity of his current tasks, it was the new quiet that made these halls feel alien to Enrique.

Once, these Forged objects would have been—in their own way—alive.

Now, they were perfectly still.

All over the world, the phenomenon of ancient, Forged objects losing their animation was now known as the Great Silence. Some people blamed God. Others, industrial pollutants. But no matter where the blame was placed, the consequence was the same: Forging would soon be a flourish of the past.

Even popular Forging artistry—floating chandeliers and illusions that muddled the senses—had become suspect. For the first time in all the years Enrique had worked at L’Eden, the lamp fixtures had been bolted into the walls instead of serenely floating through the foyers. It made the whole place feel oddly hollow.

“What are you doing? I’m not used to seeing you standing alone in the dark.”

Enrique turned to see Séverin at the entrance of the hallway. He waved, and Séverin made his way over to him.