He lifted her off the ground, turning sharply and settling her on the desk. Her legs fell to either side of his hips. They were pressed so closely together that the light from his nephrite desk could not squeeze between them. He filled his hands with the black silk of her hair. This was what a kiss that meant nothing supposedly felt like. As if he could not touch her enough, taste her enough, as if this movement alone would leave his body riddled as an addict’s. Her neck was hot silk against his lips. He felt drunk. And then, he felt her hand skimming to the space where his shirt joined his pants, and he stopped short.
He stepped back. Her legs, once wrapped around his waist, fell, and her heels hit the front of the desk.
“See?” he said hoarsely. “I told you. Nothing.”
Fury flashed across her face. “You know it wasn’t. And if you really think that, you’re a fool,Majnun.”
He winced at the last word. When he finally looked at her, her sable eyes appeared raw. He didn’t even remember reaching for the words that flew out of his mouth, but their venom chilled his teeth. “Go ahead,” he said. “Call me whatever you wish. It’s impossible to be hurt by someone who’s not even real.”
He couldn’t doubt what he felt afterward. The lightning crack in the air as something in Laila unmistakably broke.
39
SÉVERIN
Two months later… November 1889
Séverin held up a gigantic fur stole that, until very recently, might have been a silver fox. Or may have been a shiny weasel. He could never tell with these things. Glossy chips of garnet shone in the fur so that it looked blood-flecked.
“What the hell is this?”
“It’s your birthday present,cher!” said Hypnos, clapping his hands together. “Don’t youloveit? Perfect for our upcoming trip too. Russia is frigid, and the last thing you’re going to want at the Order’s Winter Conclave is to sound snobby through chattering lips. It just won’t suit.”
Séverin held the fur stole at arm’s length.
“Thank you.”
Séverin picked up the protocol of the Winter Conclave. They would be staying at a palace, it seemed, with separate suites allowedfor—Séverin squinted as he made out the world—mistresses. He rolled his eyes. Many of the Order factions of the Western world would be in attendance, particularly those factions which guarded a continent’s Babel Fragment. If the Fallen House sought to join all the Babel Fragments of the world, then it was no longer just the problem of France.
“What about Laila?” asked Hypnos.
The paper slipped from his hands.
“WhataboutLaila?” he asked, not looking up from his desk.
He hadn’t seen her since that night in his study. He pushed away the memory.
If everything went to plan, they would find her precious book. She would leave Paris, and he would be free of his guilt.
“Are you no longer working together?”
“We are.”
Enrique had become, albeit grudgingly and with much attitude, a conduit between the two of them. Laila might not speak to Séverin anymore, but he still had what she wanted: access to artifacts and the intelligence collected by the Order. And she still had what he wanted: insight into the objects that held precious secrets. Séverin would pack a box full of this or that collector’s or curator’s personal effects and have it sent to her, and a progress report on finding the Fallen House. Laila would return the box with notes about the person attached, along with anything she’d picked up from the Palais. It was a method that suited both of them.
“Have you asked her to join us at the Winter Conclave?”
Séverin nodded.
“And has she responded?”
He sighed. “No.”
That was another problem. He couldn’t figure out what she wanted, what would make her join.
“Ah, lover spats,” sighed Hypnos.
“Laila is not my lover.”
