Now what?

“Now,” said Laila, more to herself than to anyone else. “Now, I dance.”

At the top of the staircase, the loud sounds of revelry reached her, thrumming with urgency and desperation. Candles lined the stair banister, Forged to appear like gleaming suns. Lustrous moons crowded the ceiling, and silver confetti spiraled slowly through the air so that it was like watching a constellation explode in slow motion. The members of the Order of Babel had dressed as gods and goddesses, demons and seraphs … all of whom embodied dusk or dawn.

Laila scanned the crowd, looking for the others. From the Midnight Auction’s podium, Hypnos led the crowd in chanting the lyrics to a bawdy song while the auctioneer looked increasingly distressed and kept gesturing to the time. When Hypnos saw her, he winked. Not an uncommon gesture coming from him, but it made her pause. It felt intentional, like he was deliberately distracting the crowd. But to what purpose?

“Mademoiselle L’Énigme,” said a familiar voice at her side.

Laila turned to see Eva, dressed in a ball gown of brightest green. Her red hair was arranged in a cascading coiffure, with a gold headpiece unfurling behind her ears like slender wings. Eva crossed her arms, and Laila caught the glint of her silver ring sheathing her pinky like a claw. Eva caught her looking and smiled. It was a cat’s smile with all her small, sharp teeth. Eva opened her mouth, but Laila spoke before her.

“You look beautiful, Eva.”

Eva paused, almost flinching at the compliment. Abruptly, her hand went to the ballerina pendant at her neck before she dropped it.

“We could still be friends,” said Laila.

Death’s shadow robbed her of subtlety, and she watched as Eva’s eyes widened almost guiltily before she snapped back to herself.

“You have too many things I want, Mademoiselle,” she said coldly, and then tilted her head. “Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to be you.”

Laila smiled. “A short-lived wonder, I imagine.”

Eva frowned.

“Who are you supposed to be?” she asked. “A goddess of night?”

Laila hadn’t really considered herself dressed as a goddess, but now she thought of the stories her mother had told her, tales of star-touched queens who trailed nighttime in their shadows.

“Why not,” she said. “And you?”

Eva gestured at the green of her gown, and only then did Laila notice the delicate pattern of insect wings.

“Tithonus,” said Eva. “The ill-fated lover of Eos, goddess of the dawn.”

When she saw the confusion on Laila’s face, she said, “Tithonus was so beloved of the goddess of dawn that she begged Zeus for his immortality, so that he might stay with her forever … but she forgot to ask for eternal youth. He grew old and hideous, and pleaded for death that no god could grant until Eos took pity on him and turned him into a cricket.”

The story raised goose bumps on Laila’s skin.

“You’re dressed as a warning, then?”

“Why not,” said Eva, lifting one shoulder. “A warning to be careful of what we demand from the gods.”

From the podium, Hypnos struck a gong and pointed at the musicians. “A dance before we divide our treasures!”

The crowd clapped. The auctioneer threw up his hands in surrender just as the musicians struck up a lively tune. When Laila turned back to Eva, she realized the other girl had moved closer, until she was hardly a handspan away from her.

“That necklace is beautiful,” said Eva, tilting her head. “But it’s gotten turned, and the clasp is at the front. Allow me to adjust it.”

Without waiting for her answer, Eva reached out to her throat, freezing fingers slipping under Laila’s necklace. Laila gasped from the cold, but it turned to a wince in her mouth as something sharp grazed her skin.

“There, all better now,” said Eva. “Enjoy the party.”

Eva turned, disappearing into the crowd of wings and haloes. Only then did Laila feel a slight trickle of blood at her neck.

Eva’s ring had left a tiny cut. Laila touched it, confusion giving way to scorn. She had no time for Eva’s small acts of spite.

Around her, the members of the Order of Babel had begun to dance. Dozens of participants wore Forged masks of ice—elaborate, glittering feathers, or cruel things with hooked beaks. Some of them had smeared gold paint across their mouths, as if they were gods recklessly bleeding out their own rich blood.

Laila stumbled back, only for a man wearing a crown of the sun’s rays to catch her up in his arms. She hesitated an instant before surrendering to the dance. Her very pulse became an intoxicating cadence. More, she begged of her heartbeats. Laila danced for nearly an hour, switching from partner to partner, pausing only to sip the sweet ice wine in crystal glasses. She danced until her feet slipped out from beneath her, and she lurched forward, flinging out her arms before someone yanked her back at the last second.

“Are you all right, my dear?” asked a familiar voice.

Laila turned to see Ruslan, his uninjured hand still outstretched from breaking her fall.

Her heartbeat thundered loudly in her ears. “Yes, thanks to you.”

“I was rather hoping I would see you,” he said shyly. “May I convince you to take one more turn around the room?”

“I never need much convincing to dance,” said Laila, smiling.

Ruslan beamed. As they danced, he held his injured arm close to his chest, though he was no less graceful because of it. His Babel Ring caught the light, and for the first time, Laila noticed a bluish tinge to the skin. His hand looked far too stiff.

“Does it hurt?”

His eyes softened. “Do you know … you’re the only person who has asked me that. I wish there could be more people like you, Mademoiselle.”

He spun her in a small circle, only to be interrupted by a server wearing a white rabbit mask and holding a bloodred platter piled with onyx glasses.

“May I interest you in some refreshment?” asked the server, holding out a bitter-smelling drink. “Specially made blood Forged drinks in honor of the Winter Conclave.” The server grinned, and Laila noticed his teeth had a scarlet tinge to them. “To consume a drop of one’s own blood allows you to submit to your innermost desires … a drop of another’s blood and you could even wear their face for an hour.”

Laila recoiled. “No, thank you.”

Ruslan also declined, but he stared almost longingly after the drinks. “Too eerie for my taste, although it would be nice to look different for a change…”

He sighed, patting the top of his head.

“I quite like my own face,” said Laila wryly.

“I am sure Monsieur Montagnet-Alarie would agree,” said Ruslan, winking. “Might I ask where Mademoiselle Boguska and Monsieur Mercado-Lopez are for the evening?”

“Preoccupied, I believe,” said Laila, staring after the platter of blood Forged drinks. “Poring over the recent treasures excavated from the metal leviathan before the Midnight Auction.”

“Midnight is a flexible hour it seems,” said Ruslan. “But it gives time for others to follow your lead, perhaps even change their attire.”

Laila frowned. “How do you mean?”

“Well, not thirty minutes ago, I saw you dressed in a lovely green gown,” said Ruslan. “You and Monsieur Montagnet-Alarie were heading to your suite—to change, I imagine, and, ah, well…”