“You lured me here with a path of cookies.”
“Who said it was a path? It could have just been artfully strewn cookies. You made it a path by following it, and assuming it had any intention.”
“I—”
“I know.”
And that was all she needed to say.
Now, Zofia ran her hand across the dresses. She reached for a gown that Laila had described as “blue as the heavens.” Once she had clasped all the buttons, she evaluated her reflection. Her hair looked like a cloud of snow. Her eyes were blue. That was all she really noticed. Looking at her reflection for more than a minute at a time was excruciatingly boring. Zofia turned away to slip on the ivory gloves. She pinched her cheeks a couple times—the way she had seen Laila do—and then headed for the door, her heartbeat thundering in her chest.
She’d never done this before, and she wasn’t sure what to expect. All her life, she’d felt far too analyzed to willingly put herself in people’s line of sight. But maybe that could change. She had Lailaand Enrique to thank for that. With them, she never felt as if every sentence was a labyrinth to navigate. Séverin was a little more difficult. He often said only half of what he meant to say, according to Laila. Hypnos, on the other hand, saidallhe meant to say, but Enrique had told her she was only to takehalfof it seriously, which made processing his sentences a bit of a chore. With them, she did not feel as if there was a part of her missing. It made her feel brave, to wander into this strange terrain as she did now where she was no different from anyone around her. That perhaps she was enough… that her company could be desired and sought out just like anyone else’s.
Ahead of her, the lights of the hotel’s hallway had dimmed. Down the grand staircase, she could hear the sounds of a violin and a pianoforte. The vaulted windows overhead revealed a clear night sky decorated with an immeasurable number of stars.
When she got to the end of the hall, Zofia stopped short. Enrique and Hypnos had not moved from their spot. Their eyes were locked on each other, heads bent low in conversation and then—just as suddenly—notin conversation.
Zofia could not move. Cold spread through her, swirling from the new, embroidered heels Laila had hid next to her work boots and climbing up her body and her new dress and her ivory gloves that had already rumpled and fallen past her elbows. She watched as Hypnos’s hand slipped around Enrique’s neck and he deepened the kiss. She was reminded of all that she could not detect. All that she could not do. She could storm into a room, but she could not command its attention through charm. She could face herself in the mirror, but she could not spark imaginations with her face.
Zofia stepped back. She should stay in the world she knew.
And not reach for one she did not.
Slowly, she turned on her heel, careful to tiptoe softly so that noone heard or saw her. In her room, she stripped off the blue dress and gloves. Then she put on her rubber gloves and donned her black smock.
She had work to do.
35
SÉVERIN
Séverin hooked his walking stick around the carriage’s velvet curtains, scanning the damp streets. The Palais des Rêves stood in the distance, casting curves of amber light that feathered into the night like wings. If Laila were here, she would say the lights looked like a blessing of angel feathers. He grinned. If that were true, it was no blessing. It was a declaration. Only Paris would rip out seraph wings and string them onto its buildings as if to say one thing:
This was no place for angels.
He rapped the top of the hansom with his cane.“Arrêtez!”
Beside him, Tristan jerked awake.
“We’re here already?” he asked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
Tristan hadn’t been sleeping well in the past week. Sometimes, Séverin found him curled up in the greenhouse, a pair of pliers in his hand, surrounded by unfinished terrariums… including one creation where an array of crimped jasmine petals looked unnervingly like milky bones set into the earth.
“Where are the others?” asked Tristan.
“Probably inside,” said Séverin.
Enrique had been giddy to attend the full moon party at the infamous Palais, and Séverin would’ve bet money he’d try to get there early just for the desserts.
“Don’t forget the mask,” said Séverin.
“Oh, right.”
Each of them had been given a wolf mask. He’d wear it, but he drew the line at baying at the full moon or whatever festivity the Palais had planned.
Tristan jumped out of the hansom, then paused, patting one of his jacket pockets.
“Forgot I had this,” he said, drawing out an envelope. “The factotum asked me to give it to you. He said it’s urgent.”
