A muffled sound caught his attention. Nearly hidden by a pillar and propped against one of the gilded chamber walls stood a large, black luggage piece marked:photography equipment. Zofia quickly unlocked the cabinet hinges. The door swung open and a very annoyed-looking Hypnos stepped out and shook himself.
“That was… awful,” he said, heaving a dramatic sigh. He blinked against the sudden light and beauty of the room. A naked wonder lit up his face, but it faded when he turned to the two of them. “Zofia, you’re a charming man, but I much prefer you without a beard… and why is itso cold in here? What did I miss?”
“We only have twenty minutes before this whole art installation of goddesses disappears,” said Zofia.
“What?”
While Zofia explained the situation, Enrique focused on the actual statues inside the room. There was something strangely unifying about the goddess statues around them. He thought the goddesses would be from different pantheons around the world… and yet all ten of them wore the same flowing, marble tunics common to Hellenic-era deities… except forone. They looked almost identical, save for a distinguishing object here and there: a lyre or a mask, an astronomical device or a sprig of herbs.
“These goddesses strike me as odd,” said Enrique. “I thought they’d be varied. I thought we’d see Parvati and Ishtar, Freya and Isis… but they’re all so similar?”
“Spare us the art lecture for now,mon cher,” said Hypnos, reaching out to touch his cheek. “Focus only on where the Tezcat spectacles might be.”
“In a goddess?” asked Zofia.
“No,” said Enrique, eyeing the collection. “I know how Fallen House safety boxes work… they always hide a riddle. And they wouldn’t have done anything that required destruction of the property itself.”
“Cold is the baseline temperature,” said Zofia, almost to herself.
“I think we know that,ma ch-chère,” said Hypnos, shivering.
“So change the factor. Add heat.”
Zofia pulled off her jacket, and, with one smooth move, she ripped out the lining. Hypnos shrieked. “That’s silk!”
“It’ssoie de Chardonnet,” said Zofia. She reached for a match behind her ear. “A highly flammable silk substitute that was displayed at the Exhibition in May. Not good for mass production. But excellent for a torch.”
Zofia struck the match and dropped it, then held up the flaming cloth, warming the air in a bright rush. She cast the flame around,but nothing on the walls or the faces of the statues changed. The Chardonnet silk burned fast. In a minute, it would hit her hands, and she’d have no choice but to drop it to the floor.
“Zofia, I think you were wrong,” said Enrique. “Maybe heat doesn’t work—”
“Or…” said Hypnos, grabbing his chin and pointing it to the floor. The thin layer of frost on the marble floor began to melt. When Enrique leaned closer, a mirror-bright shape caught his eye, like the outline of a letter. “Perhaps you have not debased yourself enough to a room full of goddesses.”
“Of course,” said Enrique, sinking to his knees. “Thefloor.”
Zofia drew her torch closer. There, a riddle took shape:
THE NOSE KNOWS NOT THE SCENT OF SECRETS BUT HOLDS THE SHAPE.
8
SÉVERIN
Séverin had seven fathers, but only one brother.
His seventh father—his favorite father—was Gluttony. Gluttony was a kind man, with many debts, and that made him dangerous to love. Tristan used to count the minutes he left them alone, terrified Gluttony would abandon them, no matter what Séverin said to calm him. After Gluttony’s funeral, Séverin found a letter shoved under his desk and streaked with dirt:
My dear boys, I am so sorry, but I must relinquish my role as your guardian. I have offered my hand in marriage to a rich and lovely widow with no desire for children.
Séverin held the letter tightly. If Gluttony was to marry, then why had he taken his life with rat poison? A poison that was only kept in the greenhouse to ward off pests, a greenhouse that Gluttony never entered, but that Tristan loved.
You will always have me,Tristan had said at the funeral.
Yes, thought Séverin now. He would always have him. But would he always know him?
AS THETROIKArumbled over the streets of St. Petersburg, Séverin drew out Tristan’s penknife. A shimmering vein of Goliath’s paralyzing venom ran down its edge. When he touched the blade, he imagined the soft brush of ghostly feathers, remnants of Tristan’s kills. And then he’d remember Tristan’s wide grin and sly jokes, and he couldn’t reconcile this blade with his brother. How could someone hold so much love and so many demons in one heart?
Thetroikapulled to a stop. Through the pulled velvet curtains, Séverin heard laughter and violin music, the bell-like chime of glasses clinking together.
