Inside the shop, strange objects lined the walls. Glossy gourd-shaped dolls no taller than the span of her hand covered shelves like a small army. Delicate blue ceramic pitchers and teacups, sterling silver samovars and boxes of imported tea and tobacco lay half unpacked from wooden crates packed with straw. Along one of the walls hung pelts of expensive furs—spotted lynx and velveteen sable, frost-colored mink and fox fur the rich orange and scarlet of a sunset ripped off the sky. And at the far end of the room, Laila could just make out a pair of glass doors against a wall. Frost spidered against the glass, but through the door on the left, Laila could just make out the silhouette of a city … and it wasn’t St. Petersburg.

Hypnos followed her gaze, grinning.

“One of the Order of Babel’s better secrets,” he said. “Those are ancient Tezcat portals that use technology from the Fallen House to cross huge distances. That door on the left leads straight to Moscow.”

“And the one on the right?” asked Zofia.

Hypnos frowned. “I never opened it after that one time I saw a puddle of blood seeping through from the other side.”

“Excuse me, what?” demanded Enrique. “Also why do you have so many portals in Russia?”

“It’s the capital of the Order of Babel’s learning, mon cher,” said Hypnos, as he walked to the back of the room. “There’s only one House in Russia, House Dazbog. Imagine that! One House to throw all your parties? It boggles the mind. Anyway, Russia does not have nearly as many colonies beyond some fur-trapping whatnots. Maybe it’s too distracted from its constant skirmishes with China and the like, so House Dazbog specialized in its own currency: knowledge. As for the portals, there needed to be secure ways for each House to get information or meet in secret, so Russia has the highest concentration.”

Laila half listened as she made her way to one of the shelves lined with the painted dolls. A lump stuck in her throat. Growing up, she’d only ever owned one doll. And she didn’t like to remember what had become of it.

“Those are matryoshka dolls,” said Hypnos, taking one down from the shelf.

He twisted the doll’s top and bottom torso and it broke apart, revealing a smaller set. Then he did the same thing to that set … on and on, until there was a perfect, descending order of miniatures.

“Beautiful,” said Laila.

“They’re the latest design from Vasily Zvyozdochkin,” said Hypnos.

Laila traced the doll’s design—the ice-blue coat and shell-colored skin, the painted snowflake over the doll’s heart.

“Who is she?” asked Laila.

Hypnos shrugged. By then, Enrique had made his way to them and peered over her shoulder.

“Snegurochka,” he said.

“Bless you,” said Hypnos solemnly.

Enrique rolled his eyes, even as a small smile touched his mouth.

“The snow maiden from Russian fairy tales,” explained Enrique. “Legend goes that she was made of snow, and though she was warned all her life not to fall in love, she couldn’t help herself. The moment she did, she melted.”

Laila’s palms felt prickly with annoyance. She wanted to shake this Snegurochka for breaking so easily. After all, they were hardly different from each other. Laila was salvaged bones, and the snow maiden was only gathered snow. Love didn’t deserve to thaw their wits and turn their hearts to dust.

“Is everything in order?” asked a familiar dark voice.

A flash of heat wound through Laila’s traitorous body, and she turned sharply from the snow maiden dolls.

“Yes, yes, everything is ready,” said Hypnos, looping his arm through Enrique’s and walking to a wooden crate heaped in hay.

Beyond him, Séverin caught her eye and his gaze moved slowly to the dolls behind her. Laila stalked off toward Zofia, who was sitting at a low table and playing with her box of matches.

“Shots?” asked Hypnos, pulling out a bottle of vodka netted in ice.

“Spectacles,” said Zofia.

“Never heard of that drinking game.”

“I thought we were putting together the Tezcat spectacles,” said Enrique.

“Not here,” said Séverin, casting an eye to the door. “Too noticeable. Vasiliev’s men could still be out there. We’re going to take the portal to Moscow first.”

“And it’s bad luck to start a journey sober,” added Hypnos. He lifted up the vodka bottle. “Now. To Lady Luck?”

“I don’t see the point of toasting to an anthropomorphization of chance,” said Zofia. “It doesn’t increase the frequency of its occurrence.”

“And for that, you’re getting two shots,” he said. “Also, do be careful sitting on those wooden crates. They’re old and have a fair number of treacherous splinters.”

Laila sat. She forced herself to smile, but those dolls had shaken her. She turned the garnet ring on her hand: 18 days.

We have the Tezcat spectacles, she reminded herself. But her doubts snapped through her hope: What if it didn’t work? How did she know for certain that the secret to life lay in the pages of The Divine Lyrics? What if the book had been moved from the Sleeping Palace?

“Laila?” asked Hypnos.

She looked up. She hadn’t been listening.

“We were going to go in order of birthdays. When’s yours?”

“Eighteen days,” she said.

Her stomach turned to say it aloud.

“So soon, ma chère! You should have told me! Will you have a party?”

Or a funeral? she thought. She shook her head as Hypnos put a cold glass in her hand, then handed one to Enrique and—though she scowled—Zofia. Séverin refused. He stood by the hearth, away from the rest of them. Shadows and firelight licked over him, rendering him almost inhuman. The curve of her neck prickled, remembering the near brush of his lips against her skin. Now you’re overselling your part. Séverin’s gaze lifted sharply to hers. A second too late, she turned her head.

“May our ends justify our means,” intoned Hypnos.

Any time she thought of ends, Tristan’s quicksilver smile twisted through her heart. Laila murmured his name under her breath, then knocked back the icy vodka in one swallow. It tasted like ghosts, she thought, for even after she’d finished her drink, the alcohol lingered bitterly on her tongue.

“L’Chaim,” said Zofia softly, throwing back the vodka.

Enrique drank his, then sputtered, clutching his throat. “That’s disgusting.”

“Here, have more,” said Hypnos, holding out the bottle. “Enough shots and you won’t taste a thing.”

“I’d like a word alone with my team,” said Séverin quietly. “Go check on the portal, Hypnos.”

Hypnos slowly put the bottle on the ground. The smile slipped off his face.

“Of course,” he said.

When he stood, Enrique caught his hand, squeezing it for a moment before letting go. Laila recognized that longing expression on his face, and it made her pause … It was the same expression he wore when he had become enamored with an idea. Like with his piano playing or his short-lived obsession with bonsai trees that annoyed Tristan to no end. Laila watched as Hypnos absentmindedly smiled at Enrique before turning to his guard and heading to the portal. She was happy for them, of course, but that didn’t stop the pang of misgiving in her heart. Hypnos enjoyed falling in and out of love as if it were a hobby. If someone fell too hard along the way, Laila wasn’t sure he’d stop to care.