Laila laughed. It was a high, false sound.

“I am told I have an admirer inside who wishes to greet me personally.”

“Ah, Mademoiselle, if only…” The first guard leered. “But, one cannot enter without one of these.” He raised his wrist, displaying the apple-shaped blood Forged tattoo. “Unless Mademoiselle has one hidden somewhere secret on her person?”

His eyes roved down the length of her, and Séverin had a great urge to snap the man’s neck.

“You’re welcome to check,” she said silkily.

The guard’s eyes widened. He straightened his lapel, then walked over to her. Laila stretched out her bronze leg for inspection. Séverin counted down from ten.

9 …

The man reached for her thigh.

7 …

Laila feigned a laugh as his other hand went to her waist.

4 …

The second the man touched her, Laila drew out a knife and pressed it against his neck, leaving Séverin standing there uselessly holding a knife in his hand.

“Guard!” shouted the first.

But the man with the bayonet didn’t move.

“Get this bitch off me,” he said.

Séverin raised his knife and walked forward. “I’m afraid he doesn’t work for you. He works for us.”

Laila pressed the knife tighter to his throat.

“If you kill me, you can’t get inside,” said the man, starting to sweat. “You need me.”

“On the contrary,” said Laila. “We only need your hand.”

The man’s eyes widened. “Please—”

Laila looked at Séverin. Séverin raised his knife higher.

“No—” started the guard.

Séverin brought it down, switching his grip at the last second, so the heavy hilt slammed into the back of the man’s skull. He slumped forward, unconscious.

“Repulsive,” hissed Laila, pocketing her knife. When she saw Séverin looking at it, she shrugged. “I was going to tell you I could render him immobile on my own. You were the one who chose not to listen.”

Séverin shut his mouth.

With the help of the disguised House Nyx guard, they dragged the guard forward, placing his wrist with the blood Forged tattoo on an access point in the middle of the pressed-palm marble doors. The marble shuddered open at the touch, and Séverin dropped the man to the floor.

Séverin glanced at the guard. “Get the wedding carriage ready.”

The other man nodded and left.

Inside the salon, rich curtains and portraits of a ballerina with red hair adorned the licorice-black walls. Vasiliev sat at a desk, sketching. At the sight of Laila and Séverin, his guards leapt forward.

“Rather dusty inside here, isn’t it?” asked Séverin.

He pushed down on Zofia’s magnetic signet ring, and the guards zoomed backwards into the four corners of the room where, earlier today, a false construction team had erected several powerful magnetic beams, to Zofia’s specific instructions.

Vasiliev stared at them, his face pale.

“How?”

“Adhesive magnets,” said Séverin, with a grim smile. “Fascinating, aren’t they? Even small particles that can coat a man’s shoes might retain their strong polarity. Now, the chain and lens pendant around your neck, if you please.”

He expected Vasiliev to frown in confusion … but instead, the other man just bowed his head. Guilt scrawled across his features. The same guilt Séverin detected in the design of his salon’s entrance.

“I knew this was coming.”

Séverin frowned, on the verge of speaking when Vasiliev grabbed a champagne flute, knocked back the drink and then shuddered as he wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

“A truly blessed man is one who knows his burdens,” said Vasiliev. His gaze slid to the champagne. “It was kind of you to provide mind Forged champagne. It absolves one of guilt, though I have few people left in my life to answer to these days.”

Vasiliev unwrapped the chain from around his neck, already starting to sway on his feet. The Tezcat spectacle lens glittered in the dark room. It was the size of an ordinary monocle and set into a structure that resembled a key. He placed it on his desk, his eyes slowly closing.

“She’s not safe, you know,” he said wearily. “She’ll find you. And then she will see reason.”

His chin dropped to his chest as unconsciousness overtook him. Laila looked at Séverin, horror on her face.

“Who is he talking about?”

But Séverin had no answer.

9

ZOFIA

Zofia pulled her now flameless jacket back on and tore off one of her Tezcat-detecting pendants.

Over the past few months, she had perfected the formula, so all she had to do was hold the pendant to an object and it would reveal whether there was a concealed Tezcat door. One by one, she held the pendant to the statues, but her pendant never changed color.

Whatever lay hidden here had taken different precautions. Zofia frowned, shivering. Arctic air filled the Chamber of Goddesses. A white tinge spread from the door, erasing the gold filigree on the tile and creeping up the walls. Where the white touched the statues, their shapes began to dissolve back into their wall niches. In a matter of minutes, they would disappear entirely. Even the riddle had begun to disappear from the floor:

THE NOSE KNOWS NOT THE SCENT OF SECRETS BUT HOLDS THE SHAPE.

It meant nothing to her, but when she looked at Enrique, his eyes seemed alight. Hypnos stood on his right, patting his own nose and then sniffing his hand.

“I’ve drawn zero conclusions,” announced Hypnos.

“Then keep an eye on the time and guard the door,” said Enrique, walking toward the statues. “The butler said we have twenty minutes. Zofia?”

Zofia rehooked her pendant.

“No Tezcat presence detected,” she said. “If there is one here, it must have several security layers.”

Enrique paced the room slowly. Zofia rummaged through the rest of her jacket pockets, pulling out more flammable Chardonnet silk, a box of matches, a small set of chiseling tools, and a Forged ice pen that drew water from the air and froze it. Zofia analyzed the room, but none of the tools she brought were helpful.

“I thought … I thought there’d be a sign or something to the treasure,” said Hypnos, blowing into his cupped palms for warmth.

“Like an ‘X marks the spot’?” asked Enrique.

“That would’ve been helpful, yes,” said Hypnos. “Someone should inform this treasure that I find it unbecomingly teasing. I thought it was supposed to be hiding in one of the goddesses? But then the riddle is talking about noses?”

“Zofia, any luck with the tools?”

“Luck is useless,” she said.

“Fine, any success?”

“No.”

“Mythologically speaking, we’re talking about something that is thought to guard or hide things,” he said. “There are ten goddesses here, maybe one of them has a story about hiding something?”

“How can you tell which goddess each is?” asked Hypnos.

“Iconography,” said Enrique. He stared at the ten statues, all of whom looked the same to Zofia except for whatever object they might be carrying. And then, Enrique snapped his fingers. “I get it now … these are the nine muses from Greek mythology, goddesses of the arts. See that lyre?” He pointed at one of the blank-faced statues clutching a golden harp. “That’s for Calliope, the muse of epic poetry. Beside her is Erato, the muse of love poetry with her cithara instrument, and then Thalia, the muse of comedy, with her theatre masks.”