Hypnos lay facedown on the ground of the matriarch’s safe house. He had refused to move for the past two minutes and counting. Enrique sighed and crossed his arms. Zofia chewed on a matchstick, staring down at Hypnos curiously.
“So, the weight of his sorrow brought him to the ground?” she asked.
“The weight ofunfairness,” groaned Hypnos into the carpet. “I have beenwaitingto go to themascherarisalon for nearly five years, and now, all because of the Order lurking about, I cannot. Everyone is out to harm me, and I don’t know why.”
“Yes, completely unjustified paranoia on the Order’s part,” said Enrique. “There’s nothing alarming about going to a Winter Conclave, then finding yourself paralyzed for several hours and an exiled house resurrected and run by a psychopath who will take one look at you, know the rest of us are alive and probably kill us all—”
“Oh very well, I understand,” said Hypnos, rolling onto his back. “But I can’t move from the sheer injustice of it all.”
Zofia toed experimentally at his arm, which moved a couple centimeters. “Look!”
“I am cured,” said Hypnos flatly.
Laila bit back a laugh. “AndImust go.”
From her hand, a silver demi-mask caught the fading light. The first time she had put it on, she had felt the force of mind Forging as if someone had punched through her thoughts. It wasn’t just the location of the salon, but an instruction: Show the silver mask to the artisans, and each mask they made would function as a ticket.
Hypnos made a loudharrumphingsound. Laila offered her hand, and after one more aggrieved sigh, Hypnos took her wrist and hoisted himself up.
“Please pick out a mask for me that brings out my best attributes,” he said.
“What attributes?” asked Zofia. “Your face will be covered.”
Hypnos’s grin turned sly. “Ah,ma chère, I am flattered, but one might argue that my best attribute is actually—”
“Please don’t pick out anything yellow,” said Enrique loudly over Hypnos. “Makes me look sick.”
Hypnos looked affronted. Laila raised an eyebrow, then looked to Zofia. “Any aesthetic requests?”
“Aesthetics don’t matter,” said Zofia.
Behind her, Enrique and Hypnos looked deeply insulted.
“The utility is most important,” said Zofia. “We need something that can hide tools.”
“What kinds of tools?” asked Enrique suspiciously.
“Useful tools.”
“Phoenix…”
“Hmm?”
“You are not actually thinking of hiding a large explosive near our faces, are you?” asked Enrique.
“No,” said Zofia.
“Good—”
“It’s a very tiny explosive. Hardly larger than six centimeters.”
“No,” said Hypnos and Enrique at the same time.
Laila took this as her cue to leave.
NEARLY AN HOURlater, she had finally made her decision.
Around her, themascherarisalon thrummed with life, and Laila felt a sharp ache for the Palais des Rêves. She missed the smell of the wax on the dance floor, the way the dust motes caught in a beam of chandelier light, the crisp snap of a strand of pearls breaking under her heel. Weeks ago, she had promised her stage manager that L’Enigme would return “in time for the new year.” Clearly, she had not. Laila wondered what they thought had happened to her. Did they think she was dead? Or that she’d merely disappeared? The other dancers had always teased that she was bound to run off with a Russian prince on her travels.
