Séverin grinned, then held out his hand: “My name is Séverin, and I am a fool in need of a real historian.”

Séverin turned away from Enrique and the hope in his eyes. The cold reasserted itself in the alley and the stinging winter air slashed against Séverin’s skin. His hand went to the Tezcat spectacles buried deep inside the pocket of his jacket.

He could no longer afford to be a fool.

Up ahead, his gaze went to the cleared exit.

“What are we waiting for?” demanded Hypnos. “Let’s go!” His voice rose as he stared at the smoldering troika where the House Nyx members had fought to escape.

It looked too still, too empty.

“Wait,” said Séverin, holding up his hand.

Someone had rescued them. Someone had also set a trap for them. Someone was now waiting to see their next move.

His mind whirred with names and faces and threats, but no one rose to the front of his thoughts. At the end of the alley came the sharp snap of boots against the concrete. The person’s gait was measured. Purposeful.

Séverin reached for the blade concealed in the heel of his shoe. He snuck a glance at them all—Zofia’s snow-damp hair clung to her face, her blue eyes huge. Enrique crouched in the snow. Hypnos clung to Laila, staring unblinkingly at the troika. And Laila—Laila looked only at him. Séverin turned from her, dread cold in his heart. They were in no shape to fight. They had nothing but hats full of melted snow and a handful of weapons that slipped in their damp grasps. Still, he drew himself up, tense and waiting until the figure finally stepped into the light.

Séverin thought he had to be mistaken. But the moonlight didn’t lie. His scar pulsed, and the briefest memory—of being held close and kept safe—disappeared in a flash of blue light.

“Now … who do we have here?” said Delphine Desrosiers, the matriarch of House Kore. She lazily stroked the sable ruff of her coat. “Why, there’s the engineer with the arson charge.”

Zofia’s eyes flashed.

“A historian in need of a haircut.”

Enrique scowled and flattened his hair.

“A courtesan.”

Laila raised her chin.

Hypnos coughed loudly.

“And you,” said the matriarch, in an affectionately loathing voice. “And, finally, Monsieur Montagnet-Alarie … the Order’s favorite treasure hunter. Whatever are you doing so far from home?”

She smiled, and her teeth caught the light.

PART II

From the archival records of the Order of Babel

From the Hindu text, The Book of Dynasty written by Vidyapathi Das

1821 translation by Fitzwilliam Ainsworth

Upon coronation, the new king makes offerings to the gods with bowls of spiced milk and honeycombs, gold coins wrapped in rose petals and the choicest of sweets. He must make particular obeisance to the various avatars of Saraswati, goddess of knowledge, music, art and [translator’s note: the writer of this text refers to Forging as “chhota saans,” or “the small breath” as it mimics the art of gods to breathe life into creations. Hereinafter, I shall refer to this by its proper name, Forging] Forging.*

*Archivist note:

It is most curious to see a reference to the avatars of the goddess Saraswati, whose religious purview seems most similar to the nine Muses of ancient Greece, and who is responsible for the ancient (or apocryphal, depending on one’s intellectual bias) guardian group, the Lost Muses. Perhaps an Indian trader brought back news of these Hellenistic deities and thus introduced it to the Indian continent’s consciousness? How else would they make such a connection?

12

SÉVERIN

Séverin had seven fathers, but only one brother.

His fourth father was Envy. Envy had a beautiful wife and two beautiful children, and a beautiful home with a window that looked out over a patch of violets and a murmuring creek. The first day, Envy’s wife said that he and Tristan could call her “Mother,” and Séverin wondered if he might be happy.

But it was not to be.

“I wish they had some other family!” Clotilde—who no longer wished to be called Mother—despaired.

I did, thought Séverin. Once, he had Tante FeeFee, who loved him and held him close, up until the day she told him they were no longer family. After that, she became Delphine Desrosiers, matriarch of House Kore. He said he did not love her, but every night when Tristan had gone to bed, Séverin kneeled beside his mattress and prayed. He prayed that she would come. He prayed that she would love him again. He prayed and prayed, until his eyes drooped and he could no longer hold up his chin.

One day, Delphine arrived at Envy’s home. Clotilde simpered and flattered. He and Tristan were dragged from the gardening shed where they lived and brought to the main foyer. A phantom twinge ran through Séverin’s hands, and he forced himself not to reach for her.

Delphine took one look at him and left without a word.

That night, Tristan sat beside him, their hands clasped like in prayer.

“I will always be your family.”

* * *

SÉVERIN STOOD BEFORE a teahouse in Khamovniki District. Tinsel and Forged lights twinkled along the snow-dusted eaves. The air carried a faint whiff of steeped tea and the chime of demitasse spoons hitting the sides of porcelain cups. On the streets, bundled-up couples in long, gray coats and fur-lined hats spared them no glance as they disappeared indoors and out of the cold.

Séverin watched, hawkeyed, as Enrique, Zofia, and Laila were led to a different entrance by the matriarch’s Sphinx and—at Séverin’s demand—the uninjured House Nyx guards.

“No harm will come to them during our private discussion,” said the matriarch, eyeing him and Hypnos. “Trust me.”

He had, unfortunately, no cause to doubt her. Before they had shoved them into the carriage, the matriarch had stripped his jacket and taken out the Tezcat spectacles. For safe keeping, she’d said, smiling. On the carriage ride, he noticed Laila had removed her gloves to touch the House Kore carriage cushion and the matriarch’s forgotten fur stole. When he caught Laila’s eye, she shook her head. It was a clear signal—the matriarch was not behind the attack.

But that didn’t mean he had to trust her.

Hypnos caught his eye and shrugged. “Well, we did get kidnapped … but at least most of our clothes and equipment arrived safely?”

“Small victories,” said Séverin darkly.

At the entrance to the teahouse, a woman greeted them in a foyer lined with mirrors on each side.

“Tea for four? And do you prefer black or green leaves?”

“Red leaves,” said the matriarch. She held out her hand, where her Babel Ring—a twist of thorns—glinted dully.

“A dragon or a unicorn?” asked the woman.

“Just the horn and the flame,” replied the matriarch.

The moment she finished her sentence, one of the mirrors lining the walls glowed a soft green and then parted in the middle, revealing a carmine-red staircase that spiraled up. Annoyingly, Séverin found himself curious.

“Shall we?” asked the matriarch.