It was a strange sanctuary, thought Séverin as he studied the room. Far above him, dozens of metal beams rotated slowly in the air. Draped over the beams lay a constellation of silken threads, from which swung hundreds of sculpted faces. Some were unfinished, nothing more than a voluptuous mouth painted on plaster. Some were lifelike—the Forged plaster capable of grins and long lashes blinking back to reveal hollows for eyes. The traditional masks of Venice appeared amongst them: Thebauta, with its protruding chin, the hollows of its eyes adorned with gilded diagonals. Thecolombinahalf mask, crushed pearls baked into its edges. In the recessed balconies of the chamber, themascherarisworked furiously. On theirfaces, they wore clever shields that looked like liquid mirrors clinging to their features so that any who tried to guess at their identity would only see themselves reflected.
Something on the back wall caught Séverin’s eye. At first glance, it looked like nothing more than a heavy, emerald-colored curtain that hung from the ceiling to the floor. But a second glance revealed at least a dozen hands poking through the drapes.
Some patrons ignored the hands as they walked past. Others dropped coins and letters and ribbons. One partygoer wearing a feline mask lightly touched an extended hand. An invitation, it seemed, and one that, a moment later, was accepted as the feline-masked person was pulled, laughing, through the curtains.
Séverin was still staring at the curtain when Eva touched his arm. “Wait here. I’m going to get the masks myself.”
Séverin protested, but Eva held up her hand. “Ruslan might have sent us both here, but the Order will be looking for you. They may even have one of themascherariworkers reporting to them in disguise. You’re… you’re safer here.”
Eva was right, though why she would protect him when she had said she didn’t trust him was strange. Perhaps she was like him… hoping that she had placed her faith in the right person.
“Thank you,” said Séverin.
“I’ll find you soon,” said Eva. “It should not take me longer than half an hour.”
With that, she disappeared into the crowd. Séverin watched her go. The scraps of a plan itched at the back of his skull, but there was nothing for it to tether itself to. And there was still the problem of the lyre. Ruslan was not coming with them, which meant he would expect the lyre to stay by his side. Perhaps Séverin could switch the instrument with an object of identical weight, but how could he do that without Eva’s help—
“Do you wish to sample a different fate,signore?” interrupted a voice at his side.
Séverin turned to see a short, pale-skinned man speaking to him from behind a large mask carved to the likeness of a frog with bulging, glassy eyes.
“Here you can be anyone you wish,” said the man, gesturing to the back wall and the curtain of disembodied hands. “You merely have to pluck a face from the air itself… or perhaps you might wish to open your hands to fate, and see what love and fortune befalls you…”
Séverin was on the verge of dismissing the man entirely when a slender figure caught his attention. A woman. She was too far away for him to see her features, but there was something in the way she moved. She moved the way he imagined a star-touched goddess would step through the night sky, aware that the brush of her ankle or tilt of her hip might knock a man’s destiny askew.
“Signore?” asked the short man again.
“Yes,” said Séverin, distracted. “Let me open my hands to fate.”
He felt a low buzz ringing in his ears as the man led him to the samite curtains. The woman had disappeared on the other side, guided through some Tezcat portal hidden in the mirrored wall. Séverin felt the loss of her presence like a physical ache. Before him, masked patrons flitted past the curtain of hands. He watched a person pause before an open hand, dropping a kiss at the center of a palm before walking away. The hand curled around the kiss, then withdrew completely.
Séverin walked down the row of outstretched hands. At least a dozen or so stretched before him, but only one called to him like a siren.
Near the end of the row, he paused before a woman’s bronze wrist. His breath caught when he saw her index finger. There, afamiliar welt that had healed to a pale scar caught his eye. He knew that mark. He was there when it happened, standing beside her in the kitchens of L’Eden, furious that a pot had dared to burn her hand.
I cannot stand to see you hurt.
Unthinking, Séverin caught hold of the woman’s wrist. He felt her pulse, frantic as his. And maybe it was that—that barest hint that perhaps she felt as much apprehension as he did—that possessed him to do what he did next. Séverin raised her hand to his lips, pressing his mouth to the place where her pulse fluttered like a trapped bird.
An internal mechanism within the floorboards reeled him in through the Tezcat curtains until he found himself in a small silk-lined room. Forged, floating candles dripped pools of golden light.
Laila stood before him, her eyes wide with shock.
Just days ago, he had memorized the poetry of her features. To be faced with them so unexpectedly struck him like bottled lightning let loose behind his ribs. He knew she’d had every right to leave him standing beneath that Bridge of Sighs. He knew that he should fall to his knees and start groveling the moment he laid eyes on her, but for this second, he could not help himself. Joy transfixed him.
Séverin smiled.
Which was precisely when Laila slapped him across the face.
13
LAILA
It was not the first time that evening Laila had left a man heartbroken.
An hour ago, Hypnos had thrown quite the fit before she’d left the matriarch’s safe house.
“I said I’m sorry,” said Laila, her hand on the doorknob. “You know if the circumstances were different, I would have no issue with you going in my stead.”
