“What does that have to do with the ghost stories?”

Enrique swallowed hard. The horror of what he was about to say filmed over his thoughts.

“If you’re burying your treasure, you’d need built-in guardians. Guardians who couldn’t leave.”

There was silence in the room.

“The Fallen House has been known to emulate more ancient practices. I believe that perhaps those missing girls in the area were connected to their effort to conceal treasure. The last murder was twenty years ago, which coincides with the last known documentation of The Divine Lyrics before the artifact was lost.”

Zofia looked sick now. The matriarch said nothing, but her mouth was drawn. A curious expression passed over her face, as if some terrible idea had only just now made sense to her.

“That,” said Enrique, “is why I believe the Sleeping Palace holds the treasure we’re looking for.”

Delphine did not look at Enrique when he finished. Instead, she turned to face the empty doorway and called out, “Well? Are you convinced or not?”

Someone stepped into the room … a stunning redheaded girl that looked about his age. There was something familiar about her, but the thought vanished when another person moved to stand beside the girl: Ruslan.

“As one expected, excellent hair hides an excellent mind!” said Ruslan, clapping. Then, to the matriarch: “Yes, I find myself thoroughly convinced. I was most intrigued by your letter. Admittedly, it’s hard to turn down any invitation to eavesdrop on someone else’s conversation.” He smiled at Delphine. “A pleasure to finally meet you, Matriarch.”

“And a pleasure to meet you,” said Delphine, extending her hand. “I met your father only the one time, but I am glad to make your acquaintance in person.”

She gestured to Ruslan and the red-haired girl. “Zofia, Hypnos, and Enrique … may I present to you Eva Yefremovna, a blood Forging artist of impeccable skill and cousin to Ruslan Goryunov, patriarch of House Dazbog.”

14

ZOFIA

Dear Zofia,

I am feeling much better. Now, the only ache left is in my heart because you are no longer here. You work so hard, little sister. I confess it frightens me. Our uncle told me all the funds you allotted to my care, and I feel such shame. You’re not yet twenty. You need someone to look after you, Zosia. When I am better, I shall do so.

Hela

* * *

ZOFIA STUDIED THE LETTER. True to his word, Séverin had made sure she would hear from Hela. Normally, it would have been impossible to receive mail so quickly, but the Order’s portal inroads throughout Russia were numerous, and Poland was not so far. Zofia kept returning to one sentence: You need someone to look after you. It bristled in her thoughts. Perhaps at one point, she had needed her parents to guide her through Glowno, to explain the gaps of meaning between what people did and what people said. And yes, she had needed Hela to guide her after their death. But Paris had changed her. She had the structure of her work, the routine of her laboratory, and everything worked until Tristan had died and Hela had gotten sick. And then, once more, her whole world turned dark and unfamiliar, and sometimes when she was forced to navigate it alone, panic did fill her … but that did not mean she needed such monitoring. Did she?

“Zofia?”

Zofia looked up from the letter. Laila stood before her, bundled up in a fluffy white coat. A diamond necklace that Zofia did not recognize circled her throat.

“Are you well?” asked Laila, eyeing the letter.

Zofia folded it and shoved it into her pocket. She did not want her friend to see what Hela had written and grow worried for her. Laila was the one fighting to live. Zofia would not add to her burden.

“Are you cold?”

“Yes.”

“I thought so.” Laila made a tsk sound and pulled off her scarf. “You should’ve told me. Better now?”

Zofia nodded, savoring the scarf’s warmth before looking again to the portal entrance at the far end of the deserted train depot. The train depot had been shut down two years ago after riots. There were seven shattered windows which let in broken light. The tiles were uniformly square, but cracked. There were ten benches, but only four could bear the weight of a person. The silence of the place was broken only by the occasional scritching of rats in the walls, and pigeons—exactly fourteen—roosting in the balustrades.

After the attack from the Fallen House, the patriarch of House Dazbog demanded they make separate trips through the portal roads of Russia. They had left Moscow nearly an hour ago and had been waiting for the past hour for House Kore, House Nyx, and House Dazbog to bring the rest of the supplies that could be salvaged from the troika fire and whatever else was needed for the expedition—tools, seal-skin gloves, Forging lights, and incendiary strips.

“They didn’t forget us, did they?” asked Enrique, pacing. “It’s not like they could continue the expedition without us, although if they have the Tezcat spectacles—”

“They don’t,” said Séverin.

Enrique frowned. “But I saw Ruslan take the box?”

“The patriarch of House Dazbog took a box.”

Enrique was quiet for a moment. “What do you all think of him?”

Laila sighed. “I think he’s sweet. Maybe a bit lonely.”

“And a bit mad,” said Séverin.

“A bit eccentric, perhaps,” said Laila, frowning. “Zofia, what do you think?”

“He’s soft,” said Zofia.

And she meant it. After introductions, Ruslan had exclaimed over her blond hair, then patted the top of her head like a dog or a child—which one might consider rude—but then he offered his own head, so perhaps this was his normal interaction. Not wanting to be rude, Zofia patted it.

It was soft.

“I think the secret is not to use too much wax,” Ruslan had said to her. “If one must look like an egg, then one must aspire to be an erudite egg.”

From his pocket, Séverin drew out the Tezcat spectacles, the longitude and latitude coordinates of the Sleeping Palace still gleaming on the glass lenses.

From the opposite end of the train depot came the sound of screeching metal. Zofia winced and covered her ears, turning to the door where people streamed out from the portal. There was the matriarch of House Kore and her Sphinx guard and attendants; Hypnos with his House Nyx attendants and Sphinx; and the patriarch of House Dazbog and his cousin, the blood Forging artist named Eva.

Ruslan gestured to the boxes and equipment they’d carried with them. Zofia recognized her portable laboratory, the Forged suitcase charred. The troika explosion had rent a small hole in its side, and saltpeter dribbled out of the crack. Zofia’s skin prickled. She needed saltpeter for any demolition required inside the Sleeping Palace. If she didn’t have enough, that meant—

“This is the last stop before Lake Baikal,” said Ruslan. “If there are any other supplies you require, you have to go into Irkutsk, I’m afraid.”

When the House Dazbog couriers brought over her luggage, a pang struck through Zofia. Her storage of saltpeter had definitely been affected. The only question was how much and whether she needed to go into the city. As she started opening the case, a shadow fell over her. Eva walked toward them, and Zofia noticed a slight limp to the other girl’s gait.