“We’ve arrived at the Mariinsky Theatre, Monsieur Montagnet-Alarie,” called his driver from the front.
Séverin hid the blade behind a steel-lined pocket of his jacket where it couldn’t hurt him. Before he stepped outside, Séverin closed his eyes and pictured Roux-Joubert in the catacombs, his mouth dripping with golden ichor, that shining blood of the gods. Phantom sensations crawled over his skin—black feathers shooting from his spine, wings draping around his shoulders, horns unraveling from his head, and that unmistakable rush of invincibility. Ofgodhood. Bad or benevolent, he didn’t care. He just wanted more of it.
Inside the Mariinsky Theatre, the glittering elite of St. Petersburg glided about before the ballet performance. At the entrance, a Forged ice sculpture of Snegurochka—the snow maiden from Russian fairy tales—twirled slowly, her gown of ice stars and crystal pearls catching the light and spreading nets of frost over the redcarpet floors. Women wearingkokoshniksof golden appliquéand swan feathers laughed behind pale hands. The air smelled of ambergris perfume and tobacco smoke, salt and the occasional metallic tang of snow. A couple of women draped in ermine and sable fur walked past him, trailing gossip in their wake.
“Is that the hotelier from Paris?” whispered one. “Where’s he sitting?”
“Don’t look at him like that, Ekaterina,” snapped the other. “Rumor has it he’s got a cabaret star or courtesan warming his bed tonight.”
“Well,Idon’t see her on his arm,” she said with a sniff.
Séverin ignored them, turning instead toward the ivory-and-gilt doors of the entrance. The minutes ticked slowly past. Séverin twisted the diamond signet ring around his pinky. Laila would hate him for summoning her like that, but it’s not as though she’d given him a choice. She was supposed to meet him here fifteen minutes ago. Séverin turned about the room. A server in a crisp silver jacket balanced a platter of etched glasses carved from ice and filled with black peppercorn vodka besidezakuskion small porcelain dishes: pickled cucumber and glossy roe, bits of meat suspended in aspic, and thick slabs of rye.
A man wearing an ermine ruff caught his eye and followed his gaze to the door. He flashed a knowing smile, then picked up two glasses, handing one to Séverin.
“Za lyubov!” he said, and cheerfully knocked back the glass. The man lowered his voice. “It means ‘to love,’ my friend.” He winked and looked back to the door. “May she not keep you waiting for long.”
Séverin drained his vodka in one swallow. It smoldered down his throat. “Or may she never find me at all.”
The man looked confused, but before he could say anything, an announcer from the top of the golden, spiraled staircase called out: “Ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats!”
The crowd moved toward the staircase. Séverin hung back. Laila still wasn’t here, and yet even in her absence, she’d managed to drive him mad. He heard her in the chime of another woman’s too-throaty laugh, the whip of a fan she’d never bother to carry. He thought he saw her through the golden haze of a floating candelabra, trailing a bronze hand down someone else’s jacket. But it was never her.
Inside the auditorium, golden champagne chandeliers drifted over the guests, who waved down flutes with a sharp flick of their hand. An artist with an affinity for silk matter had Forged the embroidery of the stage’s scarlet curtains, so the threads moved fluidly into the shape of swimming koi fish. The stirring of a long-ago childhood impulse flickered inside his chest… to watch the audience, to follow the paths of their gaze. To makewonders. But he shoved it down.
Séverin snuck a glance at the empty box beside his. The art dealer, Mikhail Vasiliev, was due to arrive any minute now. Impatiently, he tapped his foot against the ground, and then let out a small curse. Some of the anti-magnetic dust Zofia had coated their shoes with left a fine grit along the wooden floor. He looked down at his hand, to the diamond signet ring that was bonded to Laila’s choker. He scowled at it. Either it wasn’t working, or she’d chosen to ignore him entirely.
At the sound of the door opening, Séverin sat up straight. He expected Laila, but it wasn’t his door that had opened—it was Vasiliev’s. Two armed guards entered the booth beside his. Their cuffs wererolled, and the blood Forged tattoo that allowed them entrance into the downstairs’ private lobby salon cast a scarlet glow beneath the gas lamps. Séverin could just make out a small symbol… an apple… before the guards turned, scanning the box.
“This isn’t the usual,” murmured one of the guards.
“The other was under construction,” said the second. “Even Vasiliev’s salon is under construction. They had to add new metal beams or something in the corners.”
The other guard nodded and then made a sound of disgust as he scraped his feet on the floor. “Do they no longer clean this establishment? Look at all this dust. Disgusting.”
“Vasiliev won’t like all these changes… he’s nervous tonight.”
“Well, heshouldbe. Someone stole the verit stone lion at the entrance. Not that he knows, so don’t tell him.” The man shuddered. “He’s hard enough to be around these days.”
Séverin smiled into his champagne flute.
The first guard picked up the bottle of champagne sweating in its ice bucket.
“At least the Mariinsky Theatre saw fit to send a bubbly apology.”
The second one only grunted.
The two guards headed back outside, no doubt to assure Vasiliev that everything was safe. On the curtain, the embroidered koi fish swam into an elaborate number5.
Five minutes until curtain.
Vasiliev’s door opened once more, and Séverin dug his nails into the armrest. It was only when the door shut that he realized it was not Vasiliev’s box entrance. But his. The scent of roses and sugar filled the air.
“You’re late,” he said.
“I’m sorry I kept you pining, Séverin,” she said smoothly.
Before, she would have called himMajnun, but that was lifetimes ago.
