“I must say, I’m always a little shocked to hear you speak … You’re so eloquent that it’s, um—”

Dazzling? Awe-inspiring? wondered Enrique. He puffed out his chest a bit.

“Confusing,” said Ruslan.

Well, never mind.

“Confusing?” repeated Enrique.

“A bit, yes. I heard about your meeting with the Ilustrados in Paris—”

Enrique froze at the mention. All over again, he remembered standing in the auditorium, the empty table and the cooling food. The way every sound outside the hallway brought a shock of hopeful nerves.

“—something about not feeling up to the task of lecturing; although, it was very kind of you to send each of them a check,” said Ruslan, shrugging. “I thought perhaps you’d just been nervous, or perhaps not as eloquent as you’d hoped, and that’s why you cancelled the meeting.”

Enrique felt rooted to the spot. “I never cancelled that meeting.”

All this time, he thought no one had cared. But that wasn’t the case. Someone else had cancelled for him. Someone who had enough money to pay off the Ilustrados; who could speak on his behalf; who knew him well enough to know exactly what he wanted.

Séverin.

Enrique wished he didn’t remember how Séverin had flung himself between the troika fire and Enrique. He wished he didn’t remember the day that Séverin introduced him as the new historian of L’Eden and promptly dismissed anyone who spoke out against him.

Without meaning to, Enrique’s hand moved to his heart. Whatever bruise Hypnos had left on it was nothing compared to the break he felt now. The secret snap of the heart where certainty crumbles. He’d always known a part of Séverin had died when Tristan was murdered, and Enrique had mourned them both. But at least Séverin was here, and though he was a shadow of himself, there was always the chance he would find himself once more. Now Enrique knew that he’d been holding out hope for a ghost.

The Séverin he knew was gone.

“Enrique?” asked Ruslan. “I’m sorry … should I leave? Did I say something wrong?”

Enrique pushed aside his thoughts.

“No, not at all,” he said, returning his focus to the objects. “It’s merely been a while since I’ve thought of the Paris talk. No matter.” He met the other man’s eyes. “Please stay.”

He would let himself think of Séverin’s betrayal when all of this was over. Too long, he had forgiven Séverin his temper and his coldness … but this. This, he could never forgive. Enrique set his jaw and reached for a new object.

“Is that a harp?” asked Ruslan, lifting an eyebrow.

“No,” said Enrique, studying the shape. He looked behind him to Calliope, the muse of epic poetry. In her hands, a broken golden instrument.

“It’s a lyre,” he said.

The lyre didn’t look like other treasures. For one, it was of a metal he didn’t recognize, with etchings along the side. The strings, which normally would have been cat gut and thus disintegrated by now, looked metallic. He tried to pluck one of the strings, but it was stiff and intractable, hard as concrete. A hum gathered at the back of his thoughts as he slowly rubbed the surface of the lyre with a clean towel until the metal shone. There … etched into the left side appeared a symbol:

Enrique hardly breathed as he lifted the lyre, gently taking it to the box shaped deceptively like a book. The lyre fit perfectly within the hollowed space. And just like that, the images fell neatly into his head. The reason all the women’s hands were cut off. It wasn’t for turning pages … it was for playing an instrument.

“It was never The Divine Lyrics,” breathed Enrique. “It was always the divine lyre … a mistranslation. The words had gotten cut off and everyone thought it was a book, but we were wrong. That’s why everything we’ve found keeps referring to it as an instrument of God.”

No sooner had he spoken than he remembered the words painted on the Istanbul portal …

TO PLAY AT GOD’S INSTRUMENT

WILL SUMMON THE UNMAKING

Unmaking …

Enrique looked once more at the statues of the muses. The broken objects in their hands. He thought back to the paintings in Istanbul … the way every painting showed a Forged object crumbling apart in the hands of the goddesses of divine inspiration. All this time, they’d known what they were searching for held the secret to the art of Forging … but what if that secret was not how it could create … but how it could destroy. And that meant that Laila, endlessly chasing what she thought would save her, was running straight to her death.

“Oh no,” said Enrique, snatching back his hands as if merely touching the object would summon destruction.

He needed to find the others. He looked to the door. Where was Zofia? Surely she should have been back by now. And then he felt a shadow cross over him. Before he could turn, before he could even speak … the world turned black.

30

LAILA

One hour before the Midnight Auction …

In eleven days, Laila would die.

Maybe tomorrow, she would feel fear, but right now fear felt out of focus and far off, like something glimpsed beneath layers of ice. Maybe deep in her heart, she had always known it would end like this. Or maybe she had lost the ability to feel anything other than regret. Not that she wouldn’t live longer, but that she hadn’t lived enough. She should have stayed at L’Eden even if it hurt, because then at least she would have had more time with those she loved. She should have baked cakes and shared them with friends. She should have stayed even if it meant seeing Séverin … perhaps especially so.

She should have, she should have, she should have.

That mantra sped through her veins, bloomed into her pulse until her heart sang with it. Laila curled her hands into fists. Eleven days of life. That’s all she had. These precious coins to spend as she wished, and she did not want to do it alone. She wanted to be with the people she loved. She wanted to hear music, to feel light across her skin. To step out on the ice and watch her breath plume.

Laila would meet death standing.

Earlier, she had made herself dress for evening, but she had skipped dinner entirely. Only now did she realize that not once had her Forged necklace of white diamonds tightened with a summons. Séverin was lost to himself. Perhaps he thought finding The Divine Lyrics would be the truest vengeance for Tristan, and now his guilt only thickened in his blood and forced him away from the world. Or perhaps … perhaps he thought nothing of her absence. He would never know that death raced toward her.

Each time she’d thought to tell him, fury stilled her tongue. She couldn’t live with his pity, and she would die at his apathy. All that remained was his silence. Laila wondered if that was the truest death—being slowly rendered invisible so that all she inspired was indifference.

Laila glanced at the invitation on her vanity. The theme of the Winter Conclave was dusk and dawn … to herald the transition of a new year.

For tonight, she selected a gown steeped in midnight. The Forged silk clung to every contour. Its only nod to opulence was the ends of the gown, the tendrils of which appeared like ribbons of ink suspended in water. If she leaned forward, the top of the long scar down her spine peeked out. It used to make her feel like a doll hastily put together; now, she merely felt like she wasn’t hiding her truth. Laila fastened the cold diamonds to her throat.