“Laila,” he said slowly, like her name was something to savor. “I was about to look for you.”
Laila’s heart didn’t know how to hate. Nottruly. And a small part of her wished never to learn. She could only stand there, staringat him. She remembered his face as he read the letter meant for Tristan… the pain when he’d discovered how many demons his brother had hidden from him. Maybe it was that which finally let her speak.
“I am sorry you found out the truth about Tristan the way you did, but I—”
“I’m not,” he said. He tilted his head slightly, and dark curls swept across his forehead. His lips curved to a cold grin. “In fact, you deserve my thanks. And since you’ll be acting as my mistress, I have a present for you. I can’t have L’Énigme on my arm with a bare throat.”
Until that moment, Laila hadn’t noticed the velvet box under his arm. A jewelry box. He opened it, revealing a diamond choker that looked like snapped icicles. Just the thought of putting it against her skin made her shiver.
“They’re real,” he said, holding them out for her to touch.
Laila traced one jewel, only to feel a slightresistancein her thoughts. That only happened when she touched a Forged object. Séverin’s shadow fell over her.
“When I have need of you, this diamond necklace will turn warm and tighten ever so slightly,” he said. “Then you will report to me and tell me of any findings. Likewise, I will inform you of my progress with securingThe Divine Lyrics.”
Laila jerked back.
“You wish tocollarme?”
Séverin raised his wrist, where her own oath bracelet caught the light.
“I wish to return the favor. Are we not equals in all things? Was that not what we promised each other?”
His words were a twisted echo of their first meeting. Fury stole Laila’s voice just as Séverin stepped closer.
“Let’s not forget that it was you who came to my chambers and demanded to act as my mistress, to be inmybed.”
The Forged diamonds seemed to glint knowingly, as if sneering to her:What did you expect?
He lifted the choker, letting it dangle from his fingers. “I assume you have no objections.”
Ice snuck up her veins. Objections? No. She wanted to live, to savor existence. And so all she felt was disbelief at this stranger before her. The longer she stared at him, the more it felt like watching night creep toward her, her eyes adjusting to the dark.
“None whatsoever,” she said, swiping the diamond necklace from him. She nearly closed the distance between them, and felt a sharp stab of pleasure when he flinched from her. “The difference between a diamond necklace and a diamond dog collar depends on the bitch. And they both have teeth, Monsieur.”
7
ENRIQUE
St. Petersburg, Russia
Enrique pulled his scarf tighter, as if it might keep out the Russian winter. Snowflakes whipped around his steps, pressing cold kisses to his neck. St. Petersburg was a city suspended between old and new magic—electric streetlamps cast wide pools of golden light and bridges arched like the outspread wings of angels, and yet the shadows looked too sharp and the winter air smelled of warm copper, like old blood.
Beside Enrique and Zofia, the Neva River gleamed like a black mirror. The lights of palatial homes along the English Embankment—one of the grandest streets of St. Petersburg—had abandoned their windows for the lustrous water. Unstirred by the wind, the Neva’s reflection looked as if a different, parallel St. Petersburg had been poured into the water.
Enrique believed in it sometimes—other worlds crafted fromthe choices he had not made, paths he had not followed. He stared at the water, at the wavering image of the other icy St. Petersburg. Maybe in that world, Tristan was alive. Maybe they were drinking cocoa, and making an ugly tinsel crown for Séverin, and thinking of how to make off with a barrel of imported champagne for the annual New Year’s party at L’Eden. Maybe Laila hadn’t given up baking, and L’Eden still always smelled of sugar, and he and Zofia would fight over cake slices. Maybe Séverin had accepted his inheritance, instead of throwing it away, and maybe that other Enrique was not only a member of the Ilustrados but the toast of Paris, surrounded by a gaggle of wide-eyed admirers hanging on his every word.
Maybe.
Not far off, the heavy clang of the clocks of St. Petersburg marked the eighth hour of the night. Enrique paused, and then heard it: silvery wedding bells in the distance. In two hours, the couple newly wed at Our Lady of Kazan Cathedral would hold their wedding procession down these streets in a flurry of wintry, horse-drawn carriages. Which meant they were still on time. They weren’t expected at the art dealer’s waterfront mansion until a quarter after eight, and the walk was long. At the second chime of the clocks, Enrique shuddered. Only one hour until Séverin and Laila would meet at the Mariinsky Theatre, laying a trap for the art dealer to secure the lens of the Tezcat spectacles. God could’ve promised Enrique salvation on the spot and there was still no way he’d want to be there, stuck in the middle of Laila and Séverin. Vaguely concerned that he’d just committed blasphemy with this thought, Enrique crossed himself.
Beside him, Zofia matched him stride for stride.
For tonight, she’d disguised herself as a slight, young man. Hercandlelight hair was tucked into a broad hat, her lithe frame hidden by a padded coat, and her diminutive height bolstered by a pair of clever shoes. Her design, naturally. A fake beard stuck out the front pocket of her greatcoat on account of Zofia declaring it far too itchy to wear until necessary. She didn’t shiver as she walked. If anything, she seemed to luxuriate in the cold, as if it ran through her blood.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” asked Zofia.
“I like looking at you,” he said. Horrified at how that came out, he quickly added, “I mean, you look almost convincing, and I appreciate it merely on an aesthetic level.”
