“What do you think?” she asked, looking up at him.
She was so close, he had to look down at her. It was before he had ever touched her, ever kissed her lips or the scar down her spine. She was a wonder to him, a sunlit crystal that could peel back the light to reveal its secret, multihued veins.
“I think it’s fair to say that you have witchcraft in your lips, and hands, and there is as much eloquence in a sugar touch of them as there is in any of your desserts.”
He had meant the words to sound sophisticated… distant, even. After all, they were not his words, but a line stolen from Shakespeare’sHenry V. But when he uttered them, the wordsturned like a spell. Maybe it was the soft lights of the tent or the painted sugar petals. Whatever it was, his elegantly meant words came out earnestly, and though they were obviously borrowed lines, his tongue did not know the difference. They felt true.
“Fine words,” said Laila, color deepening in her cheeks. “But words without action are hardly convincing.”
“What do you I propose I do to be convincing?”
“Surely you can think of something,” Laila had said, smiling.
He was too stunned by what he’d said and that she hadn’t laughed at him outright that it didn’t occur to him until the next morning that she might haveactuallywelcomed his attention. He should have kissed her hand. He should have told her that her smile was a snare from which he never wished to escape.
I should have, I should have, I should have…
There was no poison more potent than the shadow cast by those words, and they haunted him with renewed fervency ever since he had left themascheraribar.
Séverin was still thinking of this when he heard footsteps behind him in the poison garden. He did not turn. His hands were behind his back, clasping a pair of garden pliers.
“Did you find something?” asked Eva. She touched his back. The gesture was soft, but her voice was harsh.
“In my hand,” he said.
He had found the pliers this morning when he was searching for an object of comparable weight to the divine lyre. He would need it if he was going to fool Ruslan.
Eva took the pliers, and he heard the rustle of silk as she tucked it into her sleeves. She angled her body as if she were embracing him fondly, wrapping her arms around his waist. In his ear, she hissed: “If I catch even a whiff that you are trying to deceive me, I will kill you. I could make your bloodliterallyboil.”
“If I thought any different, I would not have trusted you at all,” said Séverin mildly.
Eva was still. He could hear her breathing hard. Last night, she had confronted him after they had left themascheraribar.
“I saw her,” Eva had said, furious. “I recognized her as she left the salon. Did you really think you could hide her from me?”
“No—” Séverin started.
“All that nonsense about meeting at the Bridge of Sighs,” Eva had snarled. “Was it a trick? Did you decide not to help me after all? Because I know what I saw, and I will go to Ruslan and—”
“Spare me the threats, and tell me what you want,” said Séverin harshly. “I had no intention to leave you in the dark, but I doubt you’ll believe me even if I did tell you the truth. All that matters is that we both need to be rid of Ruslan, and now I am certain we can come to an arrangement.”
And so they had.
Séverin turned slowly, ignoring the Mnemo beetles on the wall. For all they perceived, he had been admiring the flowers and she had moved closer. He bent around Eva, and her arms went about his neck.
If they were lovers, it was natural that they should embrace, that she should tuck her head into the curve of his neck and press a kiss beneath his earlobe. Eva rose up on her tiptoes, her lips at his ear, her hand tucking something into his pocket. He could feel the roughness of the leather straps.
“He knows something is wrong.”
SÉVERIN’S PULSE SPIKEDas he adjusted the leather-strapped wristlet Eva had smuggled to him against his arm. With his costume sleeves, the wristlet would be undetectable beneath his robes.
Soon.
He would see them soon. The knowledge moved inside him, desperate as a prayer. How were they? Was Enrique in pain after losing his ear? Would Hypnos clasp him as he would an old friend? Was Zofia well?
Would Laila ever look at him the way she once had?
It was a selfish cycle of questions, all of it centering around his own wants. He couldn’t help himself. Hope was an exercise in delusion. He could only hope for such things if he secretly believed he was deserving of them, and though he knew he had disappointed them beyond belief, he was still holding an instrument of the divine. And with the lyre in his hands, he could believe anything.
