Ruslan smiled warmly.
“Well put,” he said. “Though I would imagine such a weapon is wielded with great cost. It was said to be created from fragments of the top-most brick of the Tower of Babel, and thus closest in reach to God’s power.”
“Perhaps that’s what made the Fallen House think they could become gods,” said Séverin.
The matriarch scoffed, gesturing at the gold feathers of the floor, the intoxicating nearness of the stars. “One would think after all these reminders of fatality, they would’ve stopped themselves.”
Ruslan rubbed his one injured arm, still limp in its sling. “But then we would not be human, would we?”
He grinned and signaled to a server, who rang a dinner gong. Hypnos continued to play the piano, lost in the music. It used to be impossible to pull Hypnos away from the instrument.
Eva called out over Hypnos’s playing: “Do you take requests, Monsieur?”
Hypnos paused. “Yes!”
“Excellent,” said Eva. “Then stop.”
And she walked off. Hypnos’s expression soured, but he rose from the piano and joined everyone at the table. When Séverin turned to his right, he found that he was seated next to the matriarch. A servant stopped beside her, handing her a small, bloody vial that he recognized as her immunity to any unwanted blood Forging.
“You always see so clearly into the darkness of men’s hearts, Monsieur Montagnet-Alarie,” she said, before adding in a softer voice, “But I remember when you used to see wonder.”
Séverin reached for his water goblet. “And now I see truth.”
For dinner, the spread appeared like burnt offerings, food presented to deities. All of it designed to look charred, though none of it was. In a silver bowl sat black figs, so velveteen and succulent, they looked as if someone had taken a silver spoon to midnight and scooped. Then a roasted haunch, served on a pillow of burnt sage; black pudding on ice terrines; soufflés the color of the night sky. Around them, the animals of the ice menagerie had been repurposed… a crystal jaguar prowled around the dining table, balancing carafes of delicate ice wine on its back. The onyx table reflected the sky above, and as the night stretched longer, the ceiling grew delicate stalactites that resembled thinly beaten strandsof silver. Séverin moved through the motions of dinner, but he hardly felt present. As far as his mind was concerned, he was already inside the leviathan, already turning the pages ofThe Divine Lyrics, already watching as the blood in his veins turned to a god’s rich ichor. He wouldn’t need the Fallen House’s Midas Knife for such a thing. He could have it on his own.
Séverin didn’t realize dinner had concluded until the gong sounded once more. He pushed back from his chair, only to realize Zofia was standing beside him and glaring. He hadn’t seen her leave her seat, much less walk toward him.
“What is it?”
“I haven’t received word from Hela in eight days,” she said.
Séverin frowned. There was no reason for a delay in messages. He had paid an exorbitant price so a courier would travel through the Order’s inroads and fetch Hela’s letters of health. Perhaps the man had gotten turned around in Irkutsk.
“I’ll take care of it,” he said.
Zofia hesitated for a moment, and then nodded. “I know.”
Something flickered behind his heart, and the rime of ice he’d placed around it slipped for an instant.Howdid she know he’d take care of it?Howcould she trust his word after he’d made sure she couldn’t go back to her family? After she’d seen what happened to the last person who trusted him so blindly?
Séverin clenched his jaw, and the cold in his heart reasserted itself. He had found the best physician in the area to treat her sister. By all accounts, the girl was responding to treatment better than expected. It was Zofia’s trust that inexplicably annoyed him. This was a business transaction. It had no room for hope, and yet she’d shoved that burden on him.
Beside him, Laila touched his arm. As he readied to leave, he heard Ruslan call his name. He looked up and saw the patriarch of House Dazbog still seated at the table, dragging one finger across the dessert plate to collect what little powdered sugar remained.
“I can’t decide if going into that leviathan’s mouth makes you brave or mad,” he said, with a small shake of his head. “But perhaps it’s fitting.” Ruslan looked to Laila, smiling. “With a name like ‘Laila,’ and a madman for a lover, I do hope you call your Séverin ‘Majnun.’”
Laila’s hand stiffened on his arm. “What did you say?”
Ruslan looked confused. “It’s a reference to the sixth century poem ‘Laila and Majnun’ composed by Nizami Ganjavi—”
“I know what it is,” said Laila quietly.
“Ah! Good, good,” said Ruslan. “Do you, Séverin?”
Séverin almost didn’t realize he was shaking his head. He felt numb all over.
“‘Laila and Majnun’ is one of my favorite tragedies,” said Ruslan. “I’ve always considered it such a shame that they are overshadowed by their later counterparts,Romeo and Juliet.”
Séverin fought to listen to their conversation, but his awareness felt pulled to every instance when Laila had called himMajnun.Madman.She’d told him what it meant, but he’d never known his nickname came from a poem. A tragic one, no less. Inexplicably, he felt like a fool. Once, that name had been a talisman to him. Now, it tasted bitter and prophetic.
