“I hope I’m not being too forward, but I have to say that I’m a great admirer of you all,” said Eva.

Zofia heard her, but it was not a question and did not need an answer. The lock on her luggage had been mangled, requiring a lock and pick from her necklace of pendants. She crouched on the ground, fiddling to open it.

“I’ve heard of Miss Boguska, of course, a fantastic engineer,” said Eva.

Zofia grunted. She had not heard of Eva Yefremovna.

“And, of course, Mr. Mercado-Lopez. Ruslan is quite an avid fan of your articles—”

Enrique let out a laugh, which sounded strangely high-pitched. Zofia frowned and looked at him. He was grinning at Eva. So was Hypnos.

“And I know all about you, Mr. Montagnet-Alarie,” said Eva.

Zofia detected a slight change in Eva’s pitch. It was lower. When she spoke, she fiddled with a silver pendant at her neck, yanking it back and forth.

“The handsome treasure hunter with the opulent hotel,” said Eva, smiling. “What a dream. Perhaps you might have need of my services one day. As a blood Forging artist, I’m versed in pain. Or pleasure. Or both, depending on your taste.”

Beside Zofia, Laila cleared her throat. Zofia had finally managed to open the luggage. She gazed up triumphantly, but no one was looking at her or the luggage. Everyone’s gaze went back and forth between Laila and Eva.

“How rude of me!” said Eva. “I’m Eva Yefremovna, the blood Forging artist of House Dazbog. Are you the cook? Secretary?”

Enrique inhaled sharply. Zofia looked at him, but he didn’t seem hurt. When she looked at Laila, her friend seemed to hold herself taller, and she placed her hand gently on Séverin’s cheek.

“Mistress,” said Laila. “You might know me better by my stage name at the Palais des Rêves in Paris: L’Énigme.”

Though Laila had stopped hiding her other job once she left L’Eden, Zofia never remembered her talking about it and sounding quite so chilly. Perhaps she was cold and Zofia should return her scarf.

Eva shrugged. “Never heard of such an establishment. But well done, I suppose?”

Zofia began to lift up the layers of what she’d packed. So far, most of her belongings were intact.

“I’ve heard all about your exotic tastes, Monsieur,” said Eva to Séverin. “Concerning all of your … objects. I hope you don’t find my question impertinent, but may I ask why you would allow your mistress on such dangerous ordeals? My understanding was that mistresses have a rather distinct place.”

Oh no, thought Zofia. Her suspicion was right. She was out of saltpeter. She looked up just as Eva grasped Laila’s hand.

“Truly, my dear, this work is dangerous.”

Séverin opened his mouth to respond, but Laila lifted her chin and took a step in front of him. Séverin closed his mouth and took one step back.

“My place, Mademoiselle Yefremovna, is wherever I damn well please,” said Laila. She flipped her grip, so now it looked as though she was holding Eva’s gloved hand with her bare one.

Zofia sank back on her heels. “I’m out of saltpeter.”

The rest of them glanced down at her as if they’d only just noticed she was there.

“Peter? Who’s Peter?” asked Hypnos, looking interested.

“Potassium nitrate,” said Laila. “Not a person.”

“How exquisitely boring.”

“Surely Irkutsk will have what you’re looking for?” asked Eva.

A low frantic buzz started to gather at the base of her skull. Zofia didn’t know the Siberian city of Irkutsk. She didn’t know how many trees grew next to the sidewalks. She had not prepared for how it would smell, whether there would be crowds or nobody at all.

“I’ll come with you,” said Enrique. “If that suits you?”

Zofia nodded, grateful. She’d seen Enrique walk into a crowd of strangers and walk out with a group of friends. It was one of the things she liked about him. She also liked how the light played across his skin and seemed, somehow, to get caught in his dark eyes. She liked how the panic in her chest eased when he was near. Although sometimes, in his company, she felt as if she’d been turned around blindfolded in a room. It made her head feel a little light, but it wasn’t unpleasant.

Enrique glanced at her quizzically, and she realized she hadn’t answered him out loud:

“Yes,” she said. “That suits me.”

* * *

THE CITY OF IRKUTSK was nothing like Paris.

Here, the buildings looked as if they had been cut from lace. Homes painted in shades of cream, blue, and yellow and bearing intricate wooden carvings crowded the wintry streets. Sunlight bounced off the gilded domes of cathedrals, and beyond the city’s borders, Zofia caught sight of the snow-dusted taiga with its pine and spruce trees dotting the slopes of the surrounding Ural Mountains. Her footsteps crunched on the ice, and when she breathed deep, the air carried familiar scents—warm honey cake and smoked fish, berries mixed with malt, and even the earthen, sugary scent of borscht, a rich sweet-and-sour soup made from beets that her mother used to serve over mushroom-filled dumplings. There was a bluntness to Irkutsk that reminded Zofia of her home in Glowno. If she returned home, she would find nothing: no family, friends, job, or even home. Besides, she couldn’t leave Goliath behind. It was too cold in Poland for tarantulas.

“Do you think Laila and Eva have killed each other yet?” asked Enrique.

“Why would they do that?”

Enrique made an exasperated sound. “You were right there! I could have cut through that tension with a butter knife!”

“That’s not physically possible.”

“What’s going through your head, then, phoenix?”

“Tarantula environmental preferences.”

“I regret asking.”

“Poland would be too cold for Goliath.”

“All of Poland mourns.”

Zofia hoped the caretakers at L’Eden were looking after him. Goliath reminded her of different times. Happier times. And even if they no longer existed, she liked the reminders that they had ever been there in the first place.

“I miss him,” said Enrique.

Zofia suspected he wasn’t talking about Goliath.

“So do I.”

Up ahead, Zofia caught sight of an alchemical and pharmacy store painted a pale green. Crouched beside a broken window was a man wearing a kippah. Her father, who had not been Jewish, had never worn one, but many of the men and boys in Glowno had. The fabric stretched over the top of the man’s skull, a gesture of his faith.

“Gutn tog,” said Zofia.

The man looked up, startled. His eyes darted across the street before looking at her.

“Gutn tog.” He rose to a stand, before pointing at his broken window and saying tiredly, “Third time this year … You’d think Alexander II was only just murdered.” He sighed. “How may I help you?”

“I need saltpeter,” said Zofia.

The man frowned and hesitated, but then he gestured her inside. Enrique, he said, had to wait outside. Alone in the store, Zofia counted the neat wooden rows and the shining, green bottles lined up: twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three. When the shopkeeper refilled her bag, he lowered his voice as he slid the bag across the counter. “It’s not safe for us,” he said. “Every year it is getting harder.”