“Almost convincing,” repeated Zofia. “What’s lacking?”
Enrique pointed at his mouth. Her voice gave her away entirely.
Zofia scowled. “I knew it. It must be a genetic predisposition from my mother.” She pursed her mouth. “I thought the cold would help, but my lips always look too red.”
Enrique opened and closed his mouth, struggling to find his next words.
“Was that what you meant?” she asked.
“I… yes. Of course.”
Now that she’d mentioned her mouth, of course he had to look at it. Now he was thinking of how red her lips were, like a winter apple, and what they might taste like. And then he realized what he’d just thought and shook himself. Zofiadisquietedhim. It had snuck up on him unawares, and now made its presence known at the damndest of times. Enrique forced his thoughts to Hypnos. Hypnos understood him. The other boy knew from experience what it was like to live with a fissure in one’s soul, never quite knowing which side of oneself would reign sovereign—Spanish or Filipino, the son of the colonized or the son of the colonizer. Fornow, their arrangement was casual, which suited Enrique just fine, but he wanted more. He wanted someone who would enter a room and look for him first, to behold him as though the secrets of the world lay somewhere in his gaze, to finish his sentences. Someone to share cake with.
Maybe he could find that with Hypnos.
To live a full life would have made Tristan happy. Lightly, Enrique touched the flower peeking out of his lapel and murmured a prayer. It was a dried moonlight flower, one of the last ones Tristan had ever Forged. When the flowers were fresh, they could absorb moonlight and hold on to its glow for several hours. Dried, it was nothing but a ghost of its former luster.
“That’s Tristan’s,” said Zofia.
Enrique dropped his hand from the flower. He didn’t think she’d seen him. When he glanced down at her, he saw that her hand was in her pocket… an identical Forged flower stem poking out… and he knew Tristan was with them.
THE WATERFRONT MANSION ROSElike a moon before them. Snow caught in the ribbons of tinsel wrapped around hundreds of stately pillars. Delicate bells hidden in the Christmas pines lining the entryway chimed as they walked past. The mansion itself looked like a child’s dollhouse brought to life—candy-colored mosaics beveled its domes, and the frosted panes looked more like sugar than glass.
“Remember our roles?” asked Enrique.
“You’re playing an eccentric and easily distracted human—”
“—A writer, yes,” said Enrique.
“And I’m the photographer.”
“The verysilentphotographer.”
Zofia nodded.
“Only distract the butler for a few minutes,” said Enrique. “That should give me enough time to scope for any recording devices before we enter the Chamber of Goddesses.”
He adjusted the lapels of the bright emerald velvet jacket that he’d borrowed from Hypnos, and then pulled the enormous door knocker shaped like a roaring lion. The Forged knocker narrowed its eyes, feigned a yawn, and then let out a huge, metallic roar that shook the small icicles from the threshold. Enrique screamed.
Zofia did not, and merely raised one eyebrow once he regained composure.
“What?” said Enrique.
“That was loud.”
“Iknow. That Forged lion—”
“I meant you,” said Zofia.
Enrique scowled, just as the butler opened the door and greeted them with a broad grin. He was light-skinned, with a trim black beard, and wore a heavily embroidered blue-and-silver coat over billowing pants.
“Dobriy vyecher,” he said warmly. “Mister Vasiliev sends his apologies for being unable to join you, but he is most delighted by the coverage on his collection, especially by such an esteemed art critic as yourself.”
Enrique puffed out his chest and smiled. The fake documents he’d cobbled togetherhadseemed remarkably impressive. He and Zofia stepped into the wide vestibule of the mansion. So far, the blueprints matched. Crisscrossing star-and-lozenge patterns formed the mahogany floor. Floating lanterns lit the halls, and allalong were portraits of women in movement—some mythological, some modern. Enrique recognized Salomé’s Dance of the Seven Veils, and a depiction of the Indian nymph, Urvashi, performing before the Hindu gods. But the painting that dominated the wall was that of a beautiful woman he didn’t recognize. Her bloodred hair curled down her white neck. Judging by the slippers in her hand, she was a ballerina.
The butler extended his hand in greeting. “We are most—”
Enrique flourished his hand, then yanked it back before the butler could attempt to shake it. “I do not… savor the touch of flesh. It reminds me of my mortality.”
