“What’s left of them is a small knot of fanatics,” Ruslan had said. “They won’t be able to make it past Irkutsk without our resources. Don’t worry. You’re under House Dazbog’s protection.”
A small knot of fanatics could still kill, though. Laila had remembered that truth each night before bed, when she whispered a prayer for Tristan’s restless soul. With one slice of that blade-brimmed hat, Roux-Joubert had killed him. She’d never forget the fevered light in his eyes, or the way he had pathetically crumpled at the feet of the doctor, the masked leader of the Fallen House. She hadn’t been able to read anything of the man, but she hadn’t forgotten thestillnessof him. It looked inhuman.
The sound of footfalls on the staircase made her sit up straight.
Ruslan appeared, carrying more blankets in his uninjured arm. He smiled apologetically when he saw her, and a warmth of gratitude spread through her. It was Ruslan who had thought to bring an extra couch, quilts, vodka, and several thimble-sized glasses, and a spread of Lake Baikal cuisine—cold, smokedomulfish, taiga meat wrapped in forest ferns and frozen berries, cloudberry jamcakes, and goldenpirozhkibaked into the shapes of fish and wild fowl. Laila couldn’t summon much of an appetite after what happened in the ice grotto, and so Enrique had eaten her share… as well as everyone else’s.
“I know it’s not much, but, no need to wait in the cold,” said Ruslan. “Bad for the heart and the hair, and you have got thelovelieststrands. Like a girl from a myth.” Ruslan held his slinged arm close to his chest. “Are you familiar with the eleventh-century Persian poet Ferdowsi? He wrote a fabulous poem called theShahnameh, otherwise known asThe Book of Kings. No?” Ruslan swayed a little, closing his eyes as if that simple act would pull him into another world. “Just imagine it… elegant courts and citrus trees, jewels in the hair and poetry dissolving like sugar on the tongue.” He sighed, opening his eyes. “With that hair, you remind me of the Princess Rudaba, and your Séverin is like King Zal! In the tales, she let down her mesmerizing tresses, and King Zal used them as a rope. I hope you do not use yours as a rope. Very unhygienic.”
Laila laughed in spite of herself. “I assure you, I do not.”
“Good, good,” said Ruslan, rubbing his head.
Ruslan seemed lost in thought after that, murmuring to himself about braids and orange trees. House Dazbog—with its focus on the accumulation of knowledge rather than objects—was unlike the other Houses. And Ruslan seemed unlike most patriarchs. He didn’t even look European. His high, broad cheekbones reminded her of the perfume ateliers who had arrived from China and set up shop in Paris. There was an upswept tilt to his eyes, like Enrique, and his face seemed to belong to two worlds: east and west.
Down the hall, the door to Séverin’s suite opened, and the physician poked his head out.
“Patriarch Ruslan?”
Laila moved toward the door, but the physician held out his hand.
“I apologize, but the blood Forging artist said the mistress can’t come in yet. It might alter his heart rate and blood pressure, which we’ve only just stabilized.”
Laila’s hand curled into a fist, but she stepped back as Ruslan made his way to the door.
“I’m sure it will only be a moment longer,” he said kindly.
When the door closed behind him, Laila heard the faintest laugh. She whirled around to see Delphine standing once more at the stair landing. Every twenty minutes she had arrived, each time demanding entry.
“I am his patron, after all,” she’d said to the physician.
To Laila, she sounded more like a worried parent.
“No admittance yet? I believe the girl who resuscitated him has not encountered the same problem,” said Delphine, with a slanting smile. “She’s very pretty.”
Laila remembered the crimson fall of Eva’s hair when she bent over Séverin.
“She is,” said Laila stiffly. “And we are indebted to her.”
Laila walked back to the others, taking a seat by the window and ignoring the other woman. Delphine sat beside her anyway, pushing aside the vodka bottle and reaching for the last remaining cake. Laila thought for sure Enrique would jolt awake, somehow sensing the last cake would be taken from him, but instead, he snored louder. Outside, dusk quickly descended into night, and the number in Laila’s ring changed shape. She forced herself to take even breaths. She still had sixteen days left. There was still time to live.
“They said you were a nautch dancer when you broke into my home,” said Delphine.
Laila smiled. She preferred this skirmish to the battle for her very life.
“They lied. I’m not a nautch dancer.”
“A small lie,” said the other woman, shrugging. “I understand that’s not far off from your actual profession. A courtesan, am I correct?” Delphine snorted, not waiting for her answer. “A euphemism for a prostitute, if I ever heard one.”
Laila wasn’t offended, though perhaps the other woman wished her to be. Delphine’s hands stilled, waiting. Testing.
“We have many things in common, Madame.”
“And how do you suppose that?” asked Delphine drily.
“Me and my ancient profession, you and your ancient Order. Me and my wiles to part men from coin, and you and your Order’s manner of forcing their hands,” said Laila, ticking off the reasons on her fingers. “The only difference being of course that my wares never go out of style. Corruption, murder, and thievery are, I imagine, not as easily welcomed into people’s beds.”
Delphine stared at her, shocked. And then, impossibly, she laughed. She reached forward, pouring the vodka into two delicately etched quartz glasses.
