“You don’t?” said Séverin. “Perhaps we might put the question to Patriarch Ruslan. I’m certain he’d find your interest in my dead friends very intriguing.”
For a moment, something pained flashed in Eva’s eyes. Her hand flew to her necklace before she dropped it abruptly. Séverinkept his face blank. When he said nothing, Eva stepped away and held back the curtain, her eyes full of anger.
“He will be with you shortly,” she said in a flat voice. “I will work on the lockbox for the lyre immediately.”
“Good,” said Séverin, smiling.
Just before she let the curtain fall, Eva caught his gaze. “Be sure you know how to play.”
When she had left, Séverin saw that Eva had left him in a conservatory. Séverin stilled. For a moment, he couldn’t breathe. He could not remember the last time he had willingly stepped foot into a greenhouse. Even on L’Eden’s grounds, he had ripped out the rose canes Tristan had once tended and salted the earth so they could never grow back. Unbidden came the memory of his brother walking toward him, a flower blooming in his hand, his tarantula, Goliath, perched on his shoulder. Séverin tightened his grip on the divine lyre, letting the metallic wires dig into the skin of his palm. This was the instrument of the divine, and it washis… his alone to use, his alone to remake the world as he saw fit.
I can fix this, Séverin told himself.I can fix it all.
Minutes later, he opened his eyes. Eva’s last words echoed in his thoughts.Be sure you know how to play. The boy killed in front of him yesterday… now the conservatory. Ruslan was deliberately taunting him with echoes of Tristan.
Séverin set his jaw as he stared around the chamber. It was half the size of L’Eden’s grand lobby. The walls were draped in ivy, and the vaulted glass ceiling overhead let in the early-morning sunshine. A white-graveled pathway wound its way to a bloodred door on the far side of the room, where Ruslan would no doubt be waiting for him.
There was something odd about the conservatory. He recognized some of the plants from Tristan’s gardening… milk-whitedatura and nightshade the color of fresh bruises. A trellis of lavender skullcap flowers bloomed on his left. On his right stood blush-colored foxgloves, and near the entrance of the other room, a stately horse chestnut cast a shade over the chamber. A faint headache brewed at the back of his skull, and Séverin understood what this place was.
A poison garden.
Tristan had kept a miniature version of one years ago, and had only stopped because of edicts from French officials that they could not cultivate fatal flora on the hotel premises. Séverin remembered how furious Tristan had been when he was told he needed to uproot the plants.
“But they’re notdeadly,” Tristan had pouted. “Some of these have wonderful medicinal properties! Everyone uses castor oil, and no one seems to mind that it comes fromricinus communis, which is highly toxic!Youhave used skullcap and were completely fine.”
“At the time, you didn’t tell me you’d given me a poisonous flower,” Séverin had said.
Tristan had only flashed a sheepish grin.
Séverin looked at the skullcap blooms. Years ago, he had needed to conceal himself in a small cabinet, and to avoid detection from any Forged heartbeat-seeking creature, Tristan had given him a tincture of skullcap.
Be sure you know how to play.
On impulse, Séverin ripped off one of the skullcap blooms and tucked it into his pocket. Ruslan might be insane, but he was still clever, and if he had placed poison outside the room where they would meet, Séverin couldn’t fathom what venom waited for him inside.
Just then, the door swung open. Ruslan stepped into the garden. He was dressed in a plain black suit, the sleeves rolled up so as not to hide the molten skin of his left arm.
“Come in, my friend, come in,” he said, smiling. “How hungry you must be.”
Séverin joined him. Inside, Séverin understood the source of the rustling wings he’d heard the night before. The dining room was filled with Forged animal creations. Glass ravens roosted on the chandelier. Stained-crystal hummingbirds zipped across his line of sight. A marvelous peacock trailed its plumage of garnets and emeralds, the sound of its translucent feathers like chiming bells. The table was smoked glass, and laid out with steaming dishes: eggs baked in roasted tomatoes, frittata flecked with chili,fette biscottate, and golden cups filled with dark coffee.
“This was my father’s favorite interrogation room,” said Ruslan, warmly patting his glass chair. “In here, no one could hide a thing.”
“Intriguing,” said Séverin, careful to keep his tone bored. “How so?”
He reached for his chair when he felt it… a faint electrical current coursing through the glass. When he touched the table, the same feeling followed. The furniture was reading him… but for what?
“The room has its ways,” said Ruslan, grinning at him.
Séverin remembered the skullcap in his pocket. He had no idea whether the Forged table worked anything like the heartbeat-seeking creatures from his acquisition years ago, but it was all he had. While Ruslan helped himself to coffee and food, Séverin ripped off two petals, feigned a cough, and swallowed them whole.
“I saw you feed a little street urchin today,” said Ruslan. “Do you like the boy? We can keep him for you, if you’d like. I’ve never had a pet, but I imagine it’s quite the same… He’s perhaps a little too stubborn, but we could fix that.”
From his sleeve, Ruslan drew out his Midas Knife and tapped the side of his forehead, grinning.
“A superstition, I must confess,” said Séverin. “Feed another before yourself and you will never go hungry. Besides, I intend to be a benevolent god.”
Ruslan lowered the knife, considering this. “I like this idea…benevolence. What excellent deities we shall make, eh?”
