“I am safe.”

The man shook his head sadly. “We never are, my dear. The pogroms may have stopped for now, but the hate has not. Kol tuv.”

Zofia took the package uneasily. The hate has not. Her mother had lost family in those pogroms, the anti-Jewish riots that trampled homes and families, blaming them for the assassination of Tsar Alexander II. When she was thirteen years old, she found her mother kneeling in their home before the cold fire, sobbing. Zofia had gone still. Her sister and father always knew how to comfort, but they were asleep. And so, Zofia had done the only thing she could do—make light. She had crouched by the dead fire, reached for some flint, and coaxed the metal to blaze with heat. Only then did her mother look up and smile, before pulling her close and saying: “Be a light in this world, my Zosia, for it can be very dark.”

Zofia’s throat tightened to think of them now. The world seemed too dark to navigate, no matter what light she tried to bring to it. Outside, Zofia turned slowly on the sidewalk. The city no longer felt familiar like Glowno. Now, her eyes leapt from the shuttered windows and the people in too-bright coats, to the dirty snow trampled by carriage wheels, and the paved streets that seemed to weave together. It was too much—

“Phoenix!”

Enrique rounded the corner, holding up a paper bag and grinning. When he caught sight of her face, his smile dropped and he jogged faster to her side.

“Didn’t you see me pointing around the corner before you went inside?”

Zofia shook her head.

“Oh,” he said. “Well, I figured what with all the burning carriages, ghost stories, and brooding, we might as well eat cookies.”

From the paper bag, he pulled out two, pale sugar cookies covered in a smooth, thick frosting. He handed one to her.

“Took me a bit longer than I thought because originally the cookie had sprinkles, but I know you don’t like the texture, so I had them scrape it off and asked the baker to add another layer for smoothness,” he said. “I’d savor them because you don’t—”

Zofia shoved the entire cookie in her mouth. Enrique stared at her, then laughed and followed suit. On the walk back, Zofia savored the taste of sugar lingering on her tongue. It wasn’t until they neared the entrance that Enrique spoke again.

“No thanks for me?” he asked. “I risked my hand giving you a sugar cookie. You ate it so fast, I thought you’d take my hand by accident.”

“I wouldn’t mistake your hand for a cookie.”

Enrique mimicked being wounded. “And here I thought I was sweet.”

It was a terrible joke, which Zofia was shocked that she recognized. And yet, she laughed. She laughed until the sides of her stomach hurt, and only then did she realize how she had completely forgotten about the frigid, unfamiliar city surrounding them. Enrique had brought her a cookie and made her laugh, and it felt like sitting beside a fire in one’s own home, knowing exactly where everything was and who would come to the door.

“Thank you,” she said.

“A laugh from the phoenix herself?” Enrique grinned, pressing his hand to his heart and saying dramatically, “A man would pit himself against any challenge to hear such an elusive sound. Worth a mangled hand. Certainly better than any trite thanks.”

Zofia’s smile faltered. She knew it was a joke and that he often said grand things he did not mean. Right before she stepped into the train depot, she wanted for such a thing to be true.

That the sound of her laugh might someday mean so much to someone that it was worth any challenge.

* * *

THEY HEADED FOR THE lake at dusk, when the world looked blue and the ice held onto the light. A team of twelve dogsleds fitted with Forged reins to muffle the sound of their paws awaited them on the other side of the train station’s Tezcat door. There were no direct portal roads to their location. The local Buryats had erected Forged barriers against such roads long ago. The five of them piled into a sled, operated by an elderly Buryat man wearing thick boots lined with fur, and a long sash across his coat strung with small, copper ornaments. Delphine was already seated in one of the sleds near the head of the operation, while Ruslan and Eva sat in another sled. Laila sidled in beside Zofia on the sled bench.

“Did you hear the translator?” she asked, shuddering. “He keeps talking about ‘distressed spirits’ nearby.”

Zofia did not believe in spirits. But the wind made the howling sound that had frightened her as a child, and a small part of her thought of the stories that Hela had whispered in the dark. Tales of dybbuks with their disjointed souls and blue lips, of drowned ghost girls forced to guard treasure, of lands between the space of midnight and dawn where the dead walked and the light ran cold and thin. Zofia neither liked nor believed in those tales.

But she did remember them.

“I never had a chance to apologize,” said Laila.

Zofia frowned. What did Laila have to apologize for? Laila turned to look at her, and Zofia searched her features.

“I should have told you the truth about me, but I didn’t want you to see me any differently. Or, I don’t know, not as human anymore.”

Anatomically, the body was a machine whether it was born or built. What lay inside was no different, thought Zofia. It was like physics. The transference of energy did not make the energy less real. Therefore, Laila was real, and the chance of her dying was all the more real if they didn’t find The Divine Lyrics and ensure she could stay this way.

“If there’s anything you want to tell me, you can,” said Laila. “You don’t have to … but you can.”

Zofia wasn’t sure what to say to that. She wanted to tell her about Hela, and the panic she felt at whether or not the way she processed the world made her a burden to others … but would such observations then make her a burden?

Laila held out her hand. Zofia caught sight of the garnet ring Laila had asked her to make. She thought the numbered days counted down to the day of Laila’s birth. Not her death.

Zofia felt her face heat with fury. She would not be part of her friend’s death. She would not let her die.

Zofia reached out, taking Laila’s hand, and for a moment, she didn’t feel the wind or the ice. Above them, the stars blurred together. The dogsled rumbled over the ice for what felt like hours, even with the Forged runners that allowed them to skid faster over the slick terrain. Just as dawn touched the pale horizon, they came to a stop. Zofia liked it here even though her breath burned in her lungs. She liked how the world looked solemn and cold. She liked the low belt of the Ural Mountains, the way the lake beneath them bore a lacework pattern of ice. She liked that there was nothing here.

But that was the problem.

There was nothing. And yet, according to their compasses, these were the exact coordinates of the Sleeping Palace. Séverin and Ruslan stood apart from the others, with Séverin turning the Tezcat spectacles in his hand. Eva stood between them, peering over Séverin’s shoulder, her hand on his back.

“Do you think it’s underwater?” she asked.

Séverin didn’t answer.

“Did we get the coordinates flipped?” asked Hypnos.

Zofia looked at the spectacles. Then she looked at all the people regarding the instrument without doing the obvious: using it.