And then she pushed. But the compartment wouldn’t budge. She pushed harder, but there was something blocking her. Wedging the small metal piece between the edges, Laila pried. A gap opened, just enough for her to glimpse what was blocking her exit.
The servant who had wheeled her in must have placed the base of the cake against the bookshelf.
She was trapped.
Outside, the clock chimed eight in the evening. The sound of the nautch dancers’ anklet bells chimed through the halls. Her heart lurched as she heard the familiar straining of a sitar in the distance, the musicians tuning their instruments for the dancers. Any second now, and Séverin would be standing outside, waiting to help the lost dancer while she slipped him the key.
But there was no way she could get out in time.
Laila threw her weight against the metal board, but nothing gave way. Another bell chimed. Shoes shuffling outside the door. If Séverin had been waiting for her to slip him the key, he’d left by now.
Folded onto her side in the dark, Laila reached down to remove her slippers. The right slid off. Then the left. She shoved one slipper into the other, twisting them through the gap in the cake base. Herarms shook as she pushed all her weight into those interlocked shoes braced against the bookcase.
At first, nothing happened. The cart didn’t budge. And then an inch gave way. More light slid through the base. Laila pushed again, scraping open her elbow.
The wheels of the cart squeaked, rolling backward and givingjustenough room for Laila to slide out one leg, then the next, before she finally uncrumpled onto the carpet. She let out a breath.
Laila checked the hollow base once more for any strands of her hair or scraps of cloth before making quick work of the locks. On the other side of the door, the sounds of the party reached her. She cast her gaze to the chaise cushion in the corner of the room where Hypnos had hidden her costume.
Laila pushed any tendrils of fear out of her thoughts. She would figure out how to get House Kore’s vault key to Séverin later. First, she needed the key itself.
The matriarch’s office looked like a sprawling, elaborate honeycomb. Hundreds of interlocking golden hexagons formed the walls, filled with books or plants or etchings of her late husband. The ceiling was a ribbon of gold shot through with crimson, a portrait of still flames. Far from the windows stood a nephrite desk, like Séverin’s. The bookcase behind it stretched from floor to ceiling, filled with as many strange objects as actual books: hollow skulls full of dried flowers, animal prints trapped in slick amber, jars upon jars of preserved things. If she wanted to, Laila could trail her fingers across the desk’s surface, reading for the image of a key that might have touched it. But instinct stopped her.
On the floor, Laila found a small paper clip and tossed it onto the jade surface. The desk glowed red in warning. Her mouth tightened.
Like Séverin’s, the desk was Forged.
She turned to the honeycomb walls, and threw another metal clip. The bookcase did not change color. Not Forged. But that didn’t help her get the key from the desk. If it was Forged to remember her touch—or hold her hand hostage—she needed something to counteract it…
Like a Forged creature, Séverin’s desk had a somno that turned off the warning mechanism. It was just a matter of finding out how to trigger it.
Sometimes people hid a plaster mold of their hands—Séverin hid one behind his bookcase—or there might be a piece of wax with a thumbprint concealed by a window. Chances were, the matriarch had something like that too. All she had to do was find it.
Hauling out the leather armchair, Laila balanced on the seat, letting her fingers trail down the wall of the bookcase. Energy flowed out of her veins. A headache crimped the edges of her vision.
As Laila searched the bookcase, her mind picked up images of contracts, receipts, love letters, and then she caught it: a thumbprint encased in amber. It was hidden in the pages of a book of love poems. She searched for the spine on the shelves, opened the book, and found it. A large amber coin. Laila muttered a quick prayer, then tossed it onto the desk. The red glow faded.
Grinning, Laila jumped down from the armchair. The noises outside the office grew louder. More urgent. There was no use trailing her fingers down the desk, trying to figure out where it kept the key. Forged things never answered to her readings. Laila reached for drawers and cabinets, rifling through papers as fast as she could.
Hundreds of keys filled the drawer inside the left cabinet. Laila plunged her hand through the metals, casting out her senses. The keys weren’t Forged, so the images flowed through her. Empty bedrooms. Halls of senate. Order of Babel auctions. And then… a dark vault, a ceiling full of painted stars, statue busts, and hundreds upon hundreds of rows filled with strange objects. Her eyes flew open.
The key to the subterranean library beneath the greenhouse.
Laila pulled the key and ran to the chaise lounge near the door. She lifted the cushion and found the nautch costume beneath wrapped in cloth. Quickly, Laila undid the wrappings, but she hadn’t anticipated what she would feel the moment she saw the outfits of her youth. The way her soul staggered, folding in on itself at the memories. The raw silk blouse the color of parrot plumage and edged in red. The heavygunghroobells andjimmikkiearrings that looked so like her mother’s. Laila raised the costume to her nose, inhaling deeply. It even smelled of India. That mix of camphor, dye, and sandalwood incense. Looking at the outfit, a cold fury spread through her. She heard her mother’s voice curling through her thoughts:You want to feel real, my daughter? Then dance. Dance and you will know your truth.Laila had thrown her soul into dance, giving her body to the rhythmic invocations, the sharp movements that stamped out whole stories with nothing but her limbs. It could be sensuous. But it was always sacred. It was, her mother used to say,proofthat she had a soul. That she was real.
But to people in the audience… it was entertainment designed to be something else.
What had Hypnos called it?
Titillating.
Laila changed her outfit, undoing her braided crown of hair so that it fell thickly down her back. She shoved her House Nyx maid costume into the cushions, hid the amber thumbprint coin back in the book of love poems, and secured the key in her blouse.
The third bell struck.
At the far end of the room, no light appeared at the crack of thedoor. If Séverin had been waiting for her, he wasn’t anymore. The nautch dancers had probably lined up at the stage. She would only draw attention to herself if she ran out now. Laila pulled the silk scarf over her head and slipped outside into the empty hall. By now, the rest of the guests were already seated inside the vast amphitheater. All she had to do was get to the theater.
The guard yawned when he saw her.
