“Do?” she repeated.

“Yes, you know, in the sense that … and I mean no offense … but you contribute perhaps as much as I do in these meetings, do you not?” he asked. “There’s the arrangement of food and such, but I tried to do that as well and was met with very pitiful success. How do you…”

He trailed off, and Laila knew the word he wouldn’t utter: belong. Though Hypnos didn’t realize it, as he turned her hand, a part of her couldn’t help but to reach out with her own senses. She remembered what Hypnos had said in the music room of the Moscow teahouse. Of how music had filled his loneliness, and even in so small a thing as the cuffed edge of his shirtsleeve, Laila thought she could hear that loneliness clattering through her. It felt like icy rain sliding down her neck, like staring into a room full of warmth and missing the door to enter it each time.

“Give it time,” said Laila, squeezing his hand. “I think most would place more value on knowing who you are … rather than who you’re with.”

Laila tensed, not knowing if he would find offense at her last comment. Everyone knew that he was involved with Enrique, but to what degree? Hypnos’s affection had always struck her as casual, despite its sincerity. What he had with Enrique hadn’t seemed serious until Enrique had emerged unconscious from the Tezcat. At that instant, Hypnos had insisted upon tending to him. And yet, Laila noticed how his gaze went to Séverin far more than it did to Enrique; how his hand on Enrique’s shoulder looked less affection and more like he was anchoring himself to a place in the room. Hypnos turned a couple of shades darker, and his gaze darted almost guiltily to Enrique.

“Knowing me,” repeated Hypnos. “Are you calling me a cipher, Mademoiselle?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Someone has to,” he said loftily. “How to crack a cipher, one wonders. Perhaps with names? Perhaps you might even tell me yours?”

Laila fixed him with an annoyed look. “Laila.”

“And surely, I was born a Hypnos,” he said, smirking. And then, after a moment, he let go of her hand. “Then again, the names we are born with can end up meaning so little. The names we give ourselves, well, perhaps that’s the truth of us.”

“And in truth, you wanted to be the god of sleep?”

Hypnos’s smirk softened.

“I wanted to be a person I saw only in my dreams, and I named myself for that realm,” he said quietly. “And you?”

Laila thought back to the day she’d plucked her name from one of her father’s volumes of poetry.

Laila.

Night.

“I gave myself a name that hides all manner of flaws.”

Hypnos nodded. For a moment, it seemed as if he would say something else, but then Enrique’s voice rang through the air—

“Cracked it,” said Enrique. “There was a message waiting for us this whole time.”

Laila closed her eyes. Panic flared briefly inside her chest. She steeled herself, then opened her eyes to the translation of the first set of symbols:

The teeth of the devil call to me.

Then, her gaze shifted to the translation of the symbols Zofia found in the leviathan’s mouth:

I am the devil.

23

ZOFIA

Zofia felt her pulse quicken as the words came into view … I am the devil.

The year before her parents had died, someone had vandalized the storefront of a well-known Jewish merchant, calling him a demon responsible for the death of Tsar Alexander II. All day, her father had helped scrub the paint off the bricks. When Zofia had visited him, he placed his hand on hers, and together they traced the stone still wet with painted slurs.

“You see that, my Zosia?” he had asked. “That is the devil. When a man cannot see a person as a person, then the devil has slipped into him and is peering out of his eyes.”

A low, frantic buzz built up at the base of her skull. Zofia forced herself to take a deep breath. She started to count whatever she could see—the cookies on the plate before her, the number of tassels hanging from the carpet. She counted until she no longer had to remind herself to breathe. When she thought of evil, she did not think of mechanical monsters swimming in lake waters, but people. The people who had captured those girls and killed them; the people who hid cruelty behind politics. When the buzzing subsided, she tried to decipher the expression on everyone’s faces. Laila’s face was blank. Hypnos and Enrique wore matching expressions of what looked like horror. But Séverin’s lip curled. The gesture unnerved Zofia. It reminded her of an animal’s imitation of a human smile.

“We have to go inside the leviathan,” said Enrique, breaking the silence.

“All of us?” asked Hypnos. “Can’t we send, I don’t know, an envoy into the terrifying beast?”

Enrique crossed his arms. “You’re a paragon of bravery.”

“Or perhaps I worry for you, mon cher,” said Hypnos.

Zofia watched as color bloomed on Enrique’s cheeks. The whole exchange—Hypnos’s slow smile and the brightness of Enrique’s eyes—disoriented her. Her pulse spiked, and her palms dampened … but to what purpose? Those small gestures felt significant for no reason. This was no equation that demanded solving. This was merely a scenario in which she had no place. And yet her center of balance felt tilted, and she didn’t know why. Annoyed, she chomped on the end of a matchstick.

“When the leviathan returns at noon tomorrow, I will go,” said Séverin.

“And he is a paragon of martyrdom,” said Hypnos. “You’re not going alone.” He rolled his eyes. “I’ll go.”

“You’re the one who just called the creature a terrifying beast,” pointed out Enrique.

Zofia did not agree. A Forged invention was neither inherently good nor evil, but a vessel suited to a particular purpose.

“Perhaps it would be less terrifying if it had a name,” she said. “I like ‘David.’”

“No,” said Hypnos, Laila, and Enrique at the same time.

Zofia scowled. Before she could defend herself, the doors of the library opened and Eva walked inside, carrying a slip of paper. As she approached, the limp in her gait seemed more noticeable. She stopped walking the moment she saw the translation of symbols.

“You shouldn’t be here,” said Séverin sternly.

At a snap of his fingers, the Mnemo projection disappeared. Enrique took a side step, blocking the translation from view.

“I brought news,” said Eva.

Séverin frowned. “News of what?”

“One of the girls reported missing was the daughter of a man named Moshe Horowitz, the name we found in the well. House Dazbog’s contacts were able to trace the name to a moneylender who lived in Odessa until 1881.”

“And?” asked Laila.

At this, Eva’s shoulders fell, and her gaze darted to Zofia. “Moshe Horowitz is dead. And so is his family. They were killed in a pogrom.”

All of them fell silent. Zofia did not want to think about the dead girl’s family in Odessa. They had lost their daughter, and then lost their lives. Before now, the dead girls had reminded her only of Laila. Now, she saw something of herself in them. That same powerlessness.