“Let’s try the other doors,” said Zofia.

Clutching his hand, Hypnos walked to the second door. Again, he placed his palm against it. Again, the portal opened.

“Oh good, more brick,” said Hypnos.

But this brick was different. A smell, like a stale pond in summer, hit her nose. The brick was damp, and when Zofia poked her head through the opening, she saw murky water far below. Above, but barely visible through the slats of boarded wood, she glimpsed cutouts of a blue sky. She could even hear the chittering of townspeople. Their language sounded close to her native Polish.

“It opens into a well,” she said.

Enrique moved beside her.

“Do you see this writing?” he asked, pointing to marks on the dark bricks that made up the well. “These are signs of talismans and amulets, languages meant to ward away demons … There’s even a name carved into the stone … Horowitz? Does it ring a bell?”

“It sounds Jewish,” she said.

“Maybe it’s the name of the well builder?”

Zofia didn’t answer. She’d already moved on to the third Tezcat. After all, a door that opened into a bricked-up well would not save Laila.

“This one now,” said Zofia.

“I think there’s still some writing here,” protested Enrique. “We’ve barely looked into the second door!”

Hypnos followed after her and placed his palm on the third shield. Again, they waited. Again, it opened with that same puffing sound of release.

A new scent flooded Zofia’s nose. It smelled of spices, like the kind Laila put in her morning tea. Hot sunlight spilled out onto the ice grotto. The wide door had flung open to reveal a three-foot drop into a deserted courtyard below them. Nine broken pillars surrounded the walls of the stone courtyard. The wall on the opposite side wasn’t made of stone like the others, though, but appeared to be slatted pieces of wood, through which Zofia glimpsed what looked like the green waters of a lake. Above the courtyard, open sky appeared between wooden slats draped in stained ribbons. There was writing along the wall in a language Zofia couldn’t decipher. Beside her, Eva’s hands had dropped to her side, her mouth slightly agape, and Enrique quickly crossed himself.

Hypnos sucked in his breath and then clapped his hands. “I’m going to get Séverin and Ruslan! No one move! Say ‘promise’!”

“Promise,” muttered Zofia, her eyes never leaving the statues.

The moment she knew Hypnos had gone, Zofia took a step forward. She had everything they needed already packed from her venture into the leviathan: rope, torches, sharp-edged knives, and the folded-up tools around her necklace. She needed to know whether this place held the answers they sought. Whether this place could save Laila. But no sooner had she taken a step, then Enrique caught her arm.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m only taking a look,” she said, shaking him off.

“But,” said Enrique in a smaller voice, “you said ‘promise.’”

Zofia looked over her shoulder, one hand on the entrance to the courtyard. “I did say ‘promise.’”

Out the corner of her eye, she saw Eva grin.

“I am only taking one step,” said Zofia.

“Just the one,” warned Enrique.

Small hairs on Zofia’s arm bristled. Just the one. Stay in sight. Don’t move. She could do this, she told herself. She could save Laila. Zofia brought out her Mnemo bug and toggled the switch to record as she hopped onto the ground. Eva landed gracefully beside her. Enrique craned his neck, but the rest of him stayed in the ice grotto.

“This place looks abandoned,” he said.

Broken glasses and rusted knives littered the hard-packed dirt floor. Gouged-out holes, like the divots left behind from bullets, dotted what remained of the walls, and Zofia’s stomach lurched. Her parents talked of riddled walls like this, witnesses to moments where their own people were driven out of villages. Whoever had been here had also been chased out.

And then there was the writing along the wall … the way the blasted pillars were not pillars after all, but statues of women. Women with their hands behind their backs. It looked familiar. Hadn’t Enrique pointed out something similar when they had first walked down the hall that led to the ice grotto? She took another step forward.

“Zofia, wait!” called out Enrique.

“Oh, don’t be such a coward,” said Eva. “This place is practically dead.”

Zofia shrugged off her fur coat.

“I recognize the writing on the wall,” said Eva. “I think … I think we’re in Istanbul.”

“In the Ottoman Empire?” asked Enrique from above her.

But Eva didn’t have time to answer. Because from the wall on the right came the sounds of a chair scraping back. The next second, she saw a plume of smoke. Someone stepped into the shadows of a statue. Instantly, the pillars lurched to life, the broken faces of nine statues swiveling toward them.

An old, smoke-rasped voice declared:

“You shall not take another.”

20

LAILA

When Laila was a child, her mother made her a doll.

It was the first—and last—toy she ever owned.

The doll was made from the husks of banana leaves, stitched together with the ends of the gold thread that had once fringed her mother’s wedding sari. It had burnt eyes of charcoal, and long black hair fashioned from the mane of her father’s favorite water buffalo.

Every night, Laila’s mother rubbed sweet almond oil into the scar on her back, and every night Laila held still, terror gripping her heart. She feared that if her mother pressed too hard, she would split down the middle. And so she held her doll tight, but not too tight. After all, the doll was like her: a fragile thing.

“Do you know what you and this doll have in common, my love?” her mother had asked. “Both of you were made to be loved.”

To Laila, the doll was a promise.

If she could love its stitched-together form, then she too could be loved.

When her mother died, she took the doll everywhere. She took it to dance practice, so it could learn the same movements she did and remember her mother with each sharp stamp of her heel and flick of her wrist. She took it to the kitchens, so it could learn the harmony of spice and salt, and the relief that this place was a sanctum. Every night, when Laila held the doll close, she felt her own emotion and her own memory replaying behind her eyes like a dream that would not end, and though she had grief, she did not have nightmares.

One morning, she awoke to find it gone. She rushed into the hall … but it was too late. Her father stood by the hearth, watching as scarlet flames fed upon the doll, charring out its eyes, gulping down the single braid of its hair that Laila had so carefully arranged to match her own. The room smelled of singed parts. All the while, her father did not look at her.

“It would’ve fallen apart sooner or later,” he said, crossing his arms. “No use keeping it around. Besides, you’re far too old for such childish things.”

Afterwards, he left her to kneel before the flames. Laila watched until the doll was nothing more than soft ash and the muted glimmer of golden thread. Her mother was wrong. They were not made to be loved, but to be broken.