“Well, he should be. Someone stole the verit stone lion at the entrance. Not that he knows, so don’t tell him.” The man shuddered. “He’s hard enough to be around these days.”

Séverin smiled into his champagne flute.

The first guard picked up the bottle of champagne sweating in its ice bucket.

“At least the Mariinsky Theatre saw fit to send a bubbly apology.”

The second one only grunted.

The two guards headed back outside, no doubt to assure Vasiliev that everything was safe. On the curtain, the embroidered koi fish swam into an elaborate number 5.

Five minutes until curtain.

Vasiliev’s door opened once more, and Séverin dug his nails into the armrest. It was only when the door shut that he realized it was not Vasiliev’s box entrance. But his. The scent of roses and sugar filled the air.

“You’re late,” he said.

“I’m sorry I kept you pining, Séverin,” she said smoothly.

Before, she would have called him Majnun, but that was lifetimes ago.

He turned his head and saw Laila. Tonight, she wore a magnificent golden gown. A thousand tempting bows embellished her waist. Her hair was pulled up, and an artful gold-feathered fascinator sat in her curls like a small sun. His eyes went to her neck—her throat was bare.

“Where’s your necklace?”

“A diamond choker with a metallic gown looks rather tacky,” she said, making a tsk sound. “Our arrangement allows you to—supposedly—lay claim to my bed, not my sense of taste. Besides, this is our first public appearance together. A gaudy diamond necklace loudly proclaims I do your bidding for money, when the world already knows that a woman like me can’t possibly exist outside the cabaret without the excuse of a wealthy lover. Your collar would have been an exaggeration for tonight.”

She added this last part bitterly, for it was true. Women like Laila could not move freely through the world, and the world was only poorer for it.

“Unless you believe my outfit is overplaying my role?” she asked, raising her eyebrow. “Would you have preferred the diamond necklace with a less eye-catching gown?”

“It’s not about the outfit. It’s about the appearance,” he said tightly. “I expected you to enter with me, and I expected you to wear that necklace as I wear my oath to you.”

Just then, the curtain was called, and ballerinas in delicate white tulle twirled across the stage. The Forged lights caught the edge of Laila’s dress, turning her molten. Séverin scanned the audience’s expressions, annoyed to see several of them had turned in his direction, though their eyes were fixated on Laila. Too late, he realized Laila’s fingers had crossed the barrier of their shared armrest until her hand rested on his sleeve. He jerked back.

“Is that any way to treat the girl you love?” she asked. “Surely, you can endure my touch.”

Laila leaned in closer, and Séverin had no choice but to look at her: at the sleek line of her neck, her full lips, and cygnet eyes. Once, when they had trusted each other, she told him she had been cobbled together like a doll. As if it made her less real. Those parts—those lips he’d traced, neck he’d kissed, scar he’d touched—were exquisite. But that wasn’t the essence of her. The essence of her was walking into a room, and all eyes pinned to her, as if she were the performance of a lifetime. The essence of her was a smile full of forgiveness, the warmth in her hands, sugar in her hair.

Just as quickly as the thought rose to his head, it disappeared, swallowed up by the memory of torn-up bird wings and ichor, Tristan’s gray eyes dulling and Laila’s rapid pulse. Numbness rose, icing him over until he felt nothing.

“I don’t love you,” he said flatly.

“Then pretend,” she whispered, her fingers trailing up his jaw now, turning his face to hers.

She moved so close, he thought she’d actually—

“I read the coats of Vasiliev’s security detail in the main foyer,” she whispered. “Vasiliev leaves two guards outside the private salon. One with a weapon, and one who has blood Forged access to open the room. The one with the tattoo is … an admirer … of mine.” Séverin didn’t miss the way her lip curled in distaste at this. “Hypnos has several House Nyx guards placed to redirect the crowd. A couple are disguised as Vasiliev’s guards.”

Séverin nodded and started to pull away from her. He hated being this close to her.

“I am not finished,” she hissed.

“We’re drawing too much attention. Tell me later.”

Laila tightened her grip on his hand, and Séverin felt scalded. This had gone far enough. He reached out, cupping the back of Laila’s head, feeling the hot pulse of her skin as he bent to the hollow of her neck. Her breath hitched.

“Now you’re overplaying your part,” he said and then released her.

* * *

THIRTY MINUTES LATER came the call for intermission.

The stage curtains drew tight. Séverin listened for the sound of Vasiliev rising from his chair in the box beside them.

“I’ve had enough of this,” he said.

That was the first time Séverin heard his voice. It wasn’t what he expected. Vasiliev was a broad man, with a shock of dark hair and silver at his temples. He looked full of strength, and yet his voice was almost thin and wispy. Around his neck shone a gold chain. At the end of it twirled the lens piece of the Tezcat spectacles.

Laila rose, her hand resting on his shoulder. She touched her throat, and her L’Énigme headdress unfurled around her face, concealing her eyes and nose, leaving only her mouth which curved in a sensuous suggestion. Her coy smile acted as its own camouflage as they slipped away from the crowd, down the servants’ service halls and into a darkened hallway that shot off from the main lobby.

The entrance to Vasiliev’s private salon was designed as two, twelve-foot high marble hands cupped in prayer. When someone was granted entrance, the palm doors swung open. Séverin studied the threshold. Every acquisition was the same in the sense that every hiding place contained a message that someone hoped would outlive them. The trick lay in understanding the context. Vasiliev’s salon was no different. Someone might think the hands pressed together were a sign of a guest humbling himself before Vasiliev … but Séverin suspected it was the opposite. The doors loomed huge, rendering whoever stood before them—regardless of their stature—small. There was something apoolgetic about the design. To Séverin, it was a loud, public expression of guilt. The same guilt that perhaps convinced Vasiliev to wear the Fallen House’s Tezcat lens necklace in the first place, thinking it was a nod to his dead ballerina lover.

Séverin judged the distance between the two men stationed at the entrance. One was a guard with a bayonet across his back. The way he stood, tilted to one side, suggested a bad leg. The other guard had his hands clasped before him. When he saw Laila, he flashed an oily smile.

“Mademoiselle L’Énigme!” he said, bowing his head. “I heard the rumors that you would be here this evening.”

He barely registered Séverin walking behind her.

“To what do we owe the pleasure?”