“What?” she asked.
“You’re a lot braver than most of the people outside,” said Enrique. “None of them could build a bomb with their eyes closed and wander into a metal monster and still want to name it ‘David.’ Trust in yourself, Phoenix.”
Zofia nodded and had the irrational desire to wish that some words could be solid and picked up off the ground and held close, so that she could reach for them whenever she needed.
“I will.”
WHEN ZOFIA STEPPED OUTSIDE,the Sleeping Palace had changed.
Once calm, the gigantic atrium had transformed. Zofia lost count of the silver orbs covering the ceiling. She counted no less than eleven of the Sphinx patrolling the perimeter. The translucent floor had become another stage. Thirteen Forged illusions ofrusalka, maidens from Polish folklore, dragged themselves out of the floor and appeared to wrap their arms around the dozens of laughing men and women gliding through the ballroom.
Beside the hallway that led to the library loomed a white tent. Zofia had no choice but to cross through it to reach the hall that housed her laboratory. She stepped over the sprawled out guests reclinining against pale cushions and swirling goblets in their hands. Chased-silver contraptions sheathed their pinky fingers, each ending in a sharp talon. They looked just like Eva’s ring, and Zofia realized they were instruments of blood Forging. In one corner, two women laughed and then—at the same time—dug the talon into the other person’s wrist. Blood beaded to the surface and the women crossed their hands, letting their blood drop into the other’s goblet. Zofia moved quickly to the exit when another group blocked her path. Two men and a girl no older than Laila. The girl had her backturned to them, and the two men wore matching grins. One man threw back his drink. Instantly, his visage shuddered and twisted, until he looked identical to the other man.
“Tell us apart, love,” said the one beside him, spinning the girl around. “Or perhaps you need the assistance of touch?”
One of the men looked up at Zofia and held out his goblet.
“You are more than welcome to join, lovely little fae.”
Zofia shook her head and stumbled out of the tent as fast as she could to get to her laboratory. Once inside, it took a moment to catch her breath. Blood Forging confused her. She knew it was the science of pleasure and pain, and she knew that lovers enjoyed its artistry. Was she supposed to want…that? Bodies operated like machines, and she wondered at her own machinations that nothing in that tent interested her. At least, not with those people.
Zofia shoved aside the small twinge of pain, and hurriedly gathered heat lamps, more phosphorous pendants, a Mnemo bug, several pieces of rope, and a new matchbox. When she stepped back into the hall, she realized she was not alone.
Hypnos was slumped on the ground, his back against the wall, a bottle of wine tucked under his arm, and an emptied glass in his hand. When he saw her, he looked up and flashed a lopsided smile. It matched Enrique’s own quirked smile in its asymmetry.
The pattern jolted through Zofia, opening up a chasm of heat within her. She remembered the day she had accidentally glimpsed them in the hallway of L’Eden. She was wearing a silk dress Laila had bought for her. After that, she could not bear the touch of silk. She remembered, also, Hypnos and Enrique’s kiss in the ice grotto: brief and uncomplicated. Hypnos had often said it was not his fault most people wanted to kiss him just as it was not her fault she felt no compulsion to kiss most people. However, the one person whomade her entertain such thoughts looked not to her, but Hypnos. Statistically, it made sense. Hypnos attracted far more people than Zofia did. Such a realization should cause no pain, and yet she felt a sharp twist behind the bones of her chest, and she did not know how to make it stop.
“Am I a terrible person?” asked Hypnos. He hiccuped loudly. “I didn’t mean touseanyone. I thought it was fine?” He shook his head. “No, it was never fine.”
There was a vague blurriness to his words that Zofia recognized as intoxication. Hypnos did not wait for her to answer his queries. Instead, he took another swig from his glass.
“I’m going back to the ice grotto—” started Zofia.
Hypnos shuddered. “It’s eerie, cold, damp, and without food and drink. Why in thehell—”
“I have to,” said Zofia. “I have to protect someone.”
“Keeping secrets, are we?” asked Hypnos.
Zofia nodded. Hypnos let out a laugh, clutching his glass. His eyes looked glossy, and the corners of his mouth tugged down. He was sad.
“Secrets within the group which, I suppose, I will never be privy to,” he said. “I envy whoever they are, to be worthy of such secrecy. And I envy you, too, for enjoying such trust. For being so”—he circled his glass, frowning—“wanted.”
Wanted.
It struck Zofia that they could be envious of the same quality. She remembered every time Hypnos had tried to help: when he brought them mismatched snacks, when he proposed a toast in the St. Petersburg warehouse, when he had hovered at her side and all she had thought to say was that he was throwing a shadowover her work. Tristan had done the same when he was alive. He had tried to be there, and she had not told him enough that while his presence did not improve the efficiency of her work, it was not unwanted.
“I thought we were friends,” said Hypnos, hiccuping. “Notwithstanding cat sacrifice on Wednesdays, etcetera.”
“We are friends,” said Zofia.
She meant it. Zofia wished Laila were here. She would know what to say. Zofia gave her best effort and brought out her matchbox.
“Want to set something on fire?” she asked.
Hypnos snorted. “A rather dangerous suggestion given my current inebriation.”
“You’re always inebriated.”
