Laila twisted her garnet ring until the number blazed: 12.

Twelve days left.

Or, depending on how soon Séverin and Hypnos could bring up The Divine Lyrics from the leviathan, hundreds of days to spare.

Laila’s throat tightened, and she gripped the gazebo’s railing, avoiding any sight of her reflection when a sudden crunch of snow made her look up. There, bundled against the cold, stood Enrique. He was dressed in a long trench coat, the chill wind mussing his hair.

“Can I join you?” he asked.

Laila smiled. “Of course.”

She made room for him on the bench, and the two of them sat looking out at the endless stretch and prisms of ice and light. He fiddled with the edges of his coat. He opened his mouth, then clamped it shut.

“Spit it out, Enrique.”

“You know how you can read objects with a touch?” asked Enrique in a breathless rush.

Laila feigned shock. “I can?”

“I’m being serious!”

“What of it?”

Enrique flipped over his notebook of ideas and research. He seemed agitated. In the past, he might have leaned against her, limp as a puppy angling for someone to scratch his head or, as Enrique used to say: Annoy the ideas under my skull. Something held him back now, and only then did Laila see part of the script written on the notebook:

TO PLAY AT GOD’S INSTRUMENT

WILL SUMMON THE UNMAKING

Strange words that cast shadows in her heart.

Enrique reached for her hand. “Have you ever considered that why you can do this has nothing to do with, um, the circumstances of your birth…,” he said delicately, and then, all in one breath, “… and more like, perhaps, a secret-lineage-in-which-you-are-descended-of-guardian-women-tasked-to-protect-a-powerful-book?”

“Enrique.”

Enrique tugged at a piece of his black hair. “The more research I’ve conducted, the more this sacred order of the Lost Muses comes into play. Granted, they have different titles depending on which culture you look at, but they are prevalent! And then there’s you with your goddess abilities, and need to find The Divine Lyrics, and the fact that all of those statues in the grotto and the dead girls didn’t have hands. Their hands were a sacrifice, Laila, like giving up the power within them.” He poked at her palm. “Just think about the power in your own hands.”

Laila curled her fingers.

“Enrique,” she said, this time more wearily.

He stopped, and the tops of his cheeks reddened. “We must be careful, is all, once they bring out the book. Especially you. There’s far too much that’s unknown and I … I worry.”

He said this last part like a child, and Laila was reminded of the glimpses of boyhood she’d seen in the objects he handed her. The little boy who read by his mother’s knee and wrote “books” from the scraps of merchant ledgers for his father. A boy who was brilliant and eager.

Overlooked.

She brought her hand to his cheek. “I hear you, Enrique.”

He looked crestfallen. “But you don’t believe me.”

“I don’t know what to believe,” she said. “If I really were descended of the Lost Muses, I imagine my mother would have told me.”

“Maybe she didn’t have the time,” said Enrique gently. “And it doesn’t even have to be your mother. The man we saw in Istanbul had the bloodline and preemptively blinded himself because of it.”

Laila bit her lip. Enrique had a point … but it felt too huge to wrap her mind around.

He squeezed her shoulder. “Will you come in and wait with us, at least?”

“In a minute.”

“It’s freezing. Why are you even out here, Laila?”

Laila smiled and exhaled, watching as her breath clouded.

“See that?” she said, nodding at the fading plume of air. “Sometimes I need to see that I can still do that.”

Enrique looked stricken as he released her shoulder, tucking his arms around himself and huddling against the wind. He didn’t meet her eyes. “Of course you can … and you will for a long, long time.”

“I know, I know,” she said, not wanting to worry him.

“No, but you really must,” said Enrique, looking exceptionally wounded. “I can’t feed myself, Laila. I’ll perish left to my own devices. Life is cruel, and often without cake.”

She swatted his arm. “There will always be cake.”

He smiled, and then his expression changed to something pleading.

“Speaking of cake … or rather, the opposite of cake.” He paused, frowning in thought. “What is the opposite of cake?”

“Despair,” said Laila.

“Right, well, speaking of despair, I think you should tell him.”

Enrique didn’t have to define him. Laila already knew, and the thought twisted inside her. Séverin had no claim to her secrets, much less her death.

“I know he’s been the opposite of cake, but he’s still our Séverin,” said Enrique. “I know these past months have been hard, and he’s … different. But what if telling him changes how he’s been acting? I know he’s in there somewhere … I know he still cares…”

His face fell a little. Out of all of them, Enrique had always trusted Séverin the most. How could he not? Séverin had earned his loyalty through and through, but that was the past and now Laila felt as though someone had set fire to her veins.

“And what if it doesn’t change him?” she said, her voice rising. “And even if it does, what does it mean that I have to be at death’s door to bring him back to himself? My life, and whatever is left of it, will not be what his soul gnaws on to regain its strength. My death is not in service to his character, and I will not be a sacrifice simply for him to find peace of mind. He is not my responsibility to save.”

It was only when she realized she was looking down at Enrique that she realized she’d shot to her feet.

Enrique’s eyes went round, and he squeaked out, “Agreed.”

“I know you mean well,” said Laila, sighing as she plopped back down on the seat. “But I … I can’t do it, Enrique. It would hurt too much.”

Enrique’s chin dropped a little, and his gaze went to the ice. “I can see that. I know how much it hurts when you realize you’re not held in the same emotional regard as you thought. Or, perhaps, imagined.”

“Promise me you won’t tell him, Enrique,” she said, gripping his hand. “I have had things taken from me my whole life. My death will not be one of them.”

Enrique looked at her, his eyes bleak. And then he nodded. A moment later, he squeezed her hand and left. Laila watched him go as a light snow began to dust their clothes. Now, the Sleeping Palace looked as if it had been chiseled out of the pages of a cold fairy tale. The spires of frosted quartz looked like glass bones, and Laila wanted to imagine the palace belonged to Snegurochka. Maybe the snow maiden had chosen not to melt for love, but rather freeze for life. But her reverie was cut short at the sight of Delphine greeting Enrique at the threshold. Laila was too far away to catch the words exchanged, but she saw how Enrique went stiff. He looked back to her, but Delphine caught his arm, pointing him inside. Laila knew what it meant.