Séverin turned around sharply, his mouth a flat line. “What about him?”
Zofia raised her chin. Ever since Tristan’s death, she had kept his venomous tarantula warm and safe in her lab. The only time she hadn’t watched the animal was during her trip away when she had asked Enrique. At the time, Enrique declared, “I would rather set myself on fire.” This turned out to be an exaggeration for he eventually, despite grudgingly, agreed. She imagined it would have made Tristan happy.
“He needs money for food and bedding.”
Séverin looked away. “I will take care of it. Do you accept the terms?”
Zofia searched his face, looking for the familiar patterns in his expression. She used to be able to decipher him, but perhaps he had only let her. Now, he was a stranger. Zofia wondered if this was the effect of death, but that could not be true. She and Hela had seen their parents’ death. They had watched their home and all of their possessions burn. But they had not become strangers. Zofia closed her eyes.They. They had each other. Séverin—for all that he could command men without words—had no one. Her anger faded.
When she opened her eyes, she thought of Hela’s weak smile. Because of her, her sister would survive. For the first time, Zofia felt a touch of pride. She had always relied on Hela and so many others. This time, she was repaying that debt. Maybe one day, she would not need to rely on anyone.
“Every week, I will personally send for two letters of health written in your sister’s hand,” added Séverin. “Atmy ownexpense.”
Zofia remembered her sister’s kiss on her hand.Go, Zosia.
“I accept,” she said.
Séverin nodded, then glanced at the clock. “Then head downstairs. The others will be here any minute now.”
5
SÉVERIN
Séverin knew that to become a god required divorcing oneself from all the elements that made one human. When he looked at Zofia, he extinguished whatever kernel of warmth lay inside him, and he felt a little less human. He could have given her the money to go home, and he hadn’t. He’d thought, briefly, that if she had no sister, then she’d have no reason to return to Poland… but some vestige of himself recoiled. Instead, he’d sent a physician to her uncle’s home. He told himself it was smarter, colder. That it meant nothing. And yet, even as he repeated this to himself he remembered their first meeting.
Two years ago, he had heard rumors of a brilliant Jewish student, expelled and imprisoned for arson and abusing her Forging affinity. The story hadn’t sat right with him, so he’d taken his carriage to the women’s prison. Zofia was skittish as a colt, her striking blue eyes more creature than girl. He couldn’t bring himself to leave her there, so he took her to L’Eden. Days later, his staff reported thatevery night she slept on the floor with blankets rather than in the swansdown bed.
When he heard that, something in him warmed.
He’d done the same thing at every foster father’s home. He and Tristan never stayed with one father for long, and so it was too dangerous to get attached to anything. Even to a bed. Séverin removed every object from Zofia’s room, gave her a catalogue, and told her to select what she wanted, informing her that each item she picked would be deducted from her salary, but at least every item would be hers.
“I understand,” he’d said quietly.
That was the first time Zofia smiled at him.
THE FIRST THINGhe heard when he approached the stargazing room was piano music. Soaring notes rich with hope sank through him, freezing him into place. The music overwhelmed his senses, and for one bright moment of wonder, it seemed as if the sounds drifted down from the stars themselves, like the mythical Music of the Spheres that moved the planets in a solemn rhythm. When the music stopped, he let out his breath, his lungs aching from holding it too long.
“Again, Hypnos!” said Laila.
Séverin knew her well enough to hear the smile in her voice. The sound of his pulse drowned out the memory of music. How easy it was for her to smile. After all, she’d lost nothing. She might have been disappointed they could not findThe Divine Lyrics, but she merely wanted the book to satisfy a curiosity of her own past.
“Since when do you play the piano so well?” asked Laila.
“He’s notthatgood,” grumbled Enrique.
Two years ago, Enrique had tried—much to everyone’s chagrin—to learn the piano. Soon, his “playing” infected the hallways. Tristan declared his music was killing the plants, and afterwards Zofia had “accidentally” spilled a wood-decaying solvent on the instrument, thus ending his lessons for good.
Once more, the music swelled and with it, his memories. Séverin dug his nails into his palms.Leave me, he begged of his ghosts. The recollections faded. But in their wake, he caught the scent of Tristan’s roses.
The phantom perfume made him stumble. Séverin flung out a hand to steady himself, only to catch the heavy doorframe. Abruptly, the music stopped.
When he looked up, Hypnos was crouched over the piano, hands hovering above the keys. Laila sat stiff-backed on her favorite green couch. Zofia perched on her stool, an unopened matchbox in her lap. Enrique halted in his pacing, right in front of his research onThe Divine Lyricsthat hung against the bookshelves.
Two images superimposed onto his vision.
Before. After.
Before, there would have been tea and sugar cookies. Laughter.
