“I have paid my dues,” said the man. “I was not even part of the Fallen House, merely one of its many solicitors. And I told the Order before that when the House fell, they gave me a draught, and I remembernothingof its secrets. Why drag me here? I have no information worth knowing.”
Séverin set down his teacup. “I believe you can lead me to the Sleeping Palace.”
The man scoffed. “No one has seen it in—”
“Fifty years, I know,” said Séverin. “It’s well hidden, I understand. But my contacts tell me the Fallen House created a special pair of lenses. Tezcat spectacles, to be precise, which reveal the location of the Sleeping Palace and all itsdelicioustreasures.” Séverin smiled. “However, they entrusted these spectacles to a unique person, someone who does not know what they guard.”
The man gaped at him.
“H-how—” He caught himself, then cleared his throat. “The Tezcat spectacles are mere rumor. I certainly don’t possess them. I know nothing, Monsieur. I swear on mylife.”
“Poor choice of words,” said Séverin.
He removed Tristan’s penknife from his pocket, tracing the initials on it:T.M.A.Tristan had lost his surname, and so Séverin had shared his. At the base of the knife was an ouroboros, a snake biting its tail. It was once the symbol of House Vanth, the House he might have been patriarch of—if things had gone according to plan… if that dream of inheritance had not killed the person closest to him. Now it was a symbol of all he would change.
He knew that even if they foundThe Divine Lyrics, it would not be enough to protect the others… They’d wear targets on their backs for the rest of their lives, and that was unacceptable. And so, Séverin had nurtured a new dream. He dreamt of that night in the catacombs, when Roux-Joubert had smeared golden blood over his mouth; the sensation of his spine elongating, making room for sudden wings. He dreamt of the pressure in his forehead, the horns that bloomed and arced, lacquered tips brushing the tops of his ears.
We could be gods.
That was whatThe Divine Lyricspromised. If he had the book, he could be a god. A god did not know human pain or loss or guilt. A god couldresurrect. He could share the book’s powers with the others, turn them invincible… protect them forever. And when they left him—as he knew they’d always planned to—he wouldn’t feel a thing.
For he would not be human.
“Are you going to stab me with that?” demanded the man,pushing back violently from the table. “How old are you, Monsieur? In your twenties? Don’t you think think that is too young to have such blood on your hands?”
“I’ve never known blood to discriminate between ages,” said Séverin, tilting the blade. “But I won’t stab you. What’s the point when I’ve already poisoned you?”
The man’s eyes flew to the tea. Sweat beaded on his brow. “You’re lying. If you poisoned the tea, then you’d be poisoned too.”
“Most assuredly,” said Séverin. “But the poison wasn’t the tea. It was your cup’s porcelain coating. Now.” From his pocket, he withdrew a clear vial and placed it on the table. “The antidote is right here. Is there really nothing you wish to tell me?”
TWO HOURS LATER,Séverin poured sealing wax onto several envelopes—one to be sent out immediately, the others to be sent out in two days. A small part of him hesitated, but he steeled himself. He was doing this for them. For his friends. The more he cared about their feelings, the harder his task became. And so he endeavored to feel nothing at all.
2
LAILA
Laila stared at the letter her maid had just delivered. When she took the envelope, she thought it would be a note from Zofia that she’d returned from her visit to Poland. Or Enrique, letting her know how his meeting with the Ilustrados had gone. Or Hypnos, wondering when they could dine together. But instead, it was from the last person… and held the lastwords… she ever expected:
I know how to find The Divine Lyrics.
Meeting at 12 o’clock.
—SÉVERIN
The sound of rustling sheets in her bedroom startled her.
“Come back to bed,” said a groggy voice.
Cold December light streamed through the bay windows of her suite in the Palais des Rêves, the cabaret where she performed as the dancer L’Énigme. With the light trickled in the memories oflast night. She had brought someone to her suite, which was not unusual lately. Last night was a diplomat’s son who had bought her champagne and strawberries after her performance. She had liked him on the spot. His body was not sleek, but broad; his eyes not deep violet, but pale as a young wine; his hair not plum-black, but golden.
She liked who he wasn’t.
Because of that, she could tell him the secret that ate her alive every day. The secret that had made her own father call her an abomination. The secret she couldn’t bear to tell her closest friends.
“I’m dying,” she’d whispered when she drew him down to her.
“You’re dying?” The diplomat’s son had grinned. “That eager, are we?”
