“That whole nefarious-whilst-looking-into-the-distance thing. What are you hiding, Séverin?”

“Nothing.”

“You and your secrets.”

“Secrets keep my hair lustrous,” said Séverin, running his hand through his curls. “Shall we?”

Enrique nodded. “Room check.”

He tossed a Forged sphere into the air where it hung, suspended. Light burst from the object, sliding down the walls and over the objects to scan them.

“No recording devices.”

At Séverin’s nod, they positioned themselves before the onyx bear of House Nyx. It stood on a raised dais, its jaws parted enough so the red velvet box holding the Chinese compass shone bright as an apple. The moment Séverin touched the box, he had less than eight minutes to return it. Or—his gaze went to the beast’s shining teeth—the creature would take it back forcefully.

He removed the red box. At the same time, Enrique drew out a pair of scales. First, they weighed the box with the original compass, then marked the number before preparing to switch it with the decoy.

Enrique cursed. “Off by a hair. But it should work. The difference is hardly discernible by the scales.”

Séverin’s jaw clenched. It didn’t matter if it was hardly discernible by the scales. It mattered if the difference was discernible to the onyx bear. But he’d come too far to back away now.

Séverin placed the box in the bear’s mouth, pushing it in until his wrist disappeared. Onyx teeth scraped against his arm. The statue’s throat was cool and dry, and entirely too still. His hand shook.

“Are you breathing?” whispered Enrique. “I’m definitely not.”

“Not helping,” growled Séverin.

Now he was up to his elbow. The bear was rigid. It didn’t even blink.

Why hasn’t it accepted the box?

A creaking sound lit up the silence. Séverin jerked his hand back. Too late. The bear’s teeth lengthened in a blink, forming narrow little bars. Enrique took one look at Séverin’s trapped hand, turned pale, and bit out a single word: “Shit.”

2

LAILA

Laila slipped into the hotel room of the House Kore courier.

Her dress, a discarded housekeeper uniform fished out of the dregs of storage, snagged on the doorframe. She grumbled, yanking it, only for a seam to unravel.

“Perfect,” she muttered.

She turned to face the room. Like all the L’Eden guest rooms, the courier’s suite was lavishly appointed and designed. The only piece that looked out of place was the unconscious courier, lying facedown in a pool of his saliva. Laila frowned.

“They could’ve at least left you in your bed, poor thing,” she said, toeing him so he turned over onto his back.

For the next ten minutes, Laila redecorated. From the pockets of her housekeeper’s dress, she threw women’s earrings on the floor, draped torn stockings over lamp fixtures, mussed the bed, and poured champagne over the sheets. When she was done, she knelt beside the courier.

“A parting gift,” she said. “Or apology. However you see fit.”

She took out her official cabaret calling card. Then she lifted the man’s thumb and pressed it to the paper. It shimmered iridescent, words blooming to life. The Palais des Rêves’ calling cards were Forged to recognize a patron’s thumbprint. Only the courier could read what it said, and only when he touched it. She slid the card into the breast pocket of his jacket, scanning the lettering before it melted into the cream paper:

Palais des Rêves

90 boulevard de Clichy

Tell them L’énigme sent you …

A party invitation sounded like a poor consolation prize for getting knocked unconscious, but this was different. The Palais des Rêves was Paris’s most exclusive cabaret, and next week they were throwing a party in honor of the hundredth anniversary of the French Revolution. Invitations currently sold on the black market for the price of diamonds. But it wasn’t just the cabaret that had people excited. In a few weeks’ time, the city would host the 1889 Exposition Universelle, a gigantic world fair celebrating the powers of Europe and the inventions that would pave the way for the new century, which meant that L’Eden H?tel was running at full capacity.

“I doubt you’ll remember this, but do try and order the chocolate-covered strawberries at the Palais,” she said to the courier. “They’re utterly divine.”

Laila checked the grandfather clock: half past eight. Séverin and Enrique weren’t due back for at least an hour, but she couldn’t stop checking the time. Hope flared painfully behind her ribs. She’d spent two years looking for a breakthrough in her search for the ancient book, and this treasure map could be the answer to every prayer. They’ll be fine, she told herself. Acquisitions were hardly new to any of them. When Laila had first started working with Séverin, he was trying to earn back his family’s possessions. In return, he helped in her search for an ancient book. The book had no title she knew of … her only lead was that it belonged to the Order of Babel.

Going after a treasure map hidden inside a compass sounded rather tame in comparison to former trips. Laila still hadn’t forgotten the time she ended up dangling over Nisyros Island’s active volcano in pursuit of an ancient diadem. But this acquisition was different. If Enrique’s research and Séverin’s intelligence reports were correct, that one tiny compass could change the direction of their lives. Or, in Laila’s case, let her keep this life.