“Monsieur Montagnet-Alarie. Are you ready?”
Eva stood in the doorway, holding out the ice-and-blood Forged box. Beside her stood a masked member of the Fallen House. Séverin moved toward them, catching sight of his reflection on the shining red walls as he passed. For his costume, Eva had selected a red-lacqueredmedico della pestemask, which now hung off the back of his billowing, crimson robes. From here, it looked as if he was sprouting horned ridges along his back, like a chimera not yet formed.
Séverin held Eva’s gaze as he pressed his thumb to the thorny lock of the box. Blood welled on his skin. The box swung open.
“How stiffly you greet me, my love,” he said, forcing a grin to his face. “Have I displeased you?”
“I found your behavior quite cold earlier,” said Eva, turning her head.
“I was distracted,” he said, holding out his hand. “Will you forgive me?”
Eva smiled, then sighed. She moved the ice box to the crook of her left arm, then reached for him. But as she reached out, shestumbled. Séverin caught her, his hand sliding up her wrist, his fingers finding the garden pliers strapped to her arm beneath the heavy, green folds of her robes. He slid it out, and Eva adjusted, the case tumbling to the floor some distance away.
“The box!” she cried.
Beside Eva, the Mnemo honeybee on the mouth of the Fallen House member fluttered. Watching. Séverin knew what it saw. An empty box, and a girl who fell.
“Allow me,” said Séverin.
He moved back a step, bending over the box. In full view of the Mnemo bug, he drew out the lyre from the folds of his billowing sleeves, taking care to make sure it was seen disappearing behind the lid of the box. He pretended to fuss over the instrument as he quietly swapped it with the garden pliers. A few moments later, he shut the lid. He picked up the case one-handed, holding it to him protectively.
“Is this really necessary?” he asked Eva. “Perhaps we can ask Patriarch Ruslan if he’d at least bring it onto the gondola with him? If we have all our supplies ready, we could leave for Poveglia immediately after Carnevale.”
Eva frowned. “I’m not certain—”
But then Ruslan stepped into the shadows behind Eva. “I think that’s awondrousidea.”
Séverin nearly succeeded in hiding the sudden tremor that ran through him as Ruslan came into view. His grip on the box tightened. The divine lyre pressed against his skin, held snug by the Forged wristlet straps which had immediately wrapped around the instrument.
“You do?” asked Séverin.
“Why, of course! Why would I delay godhood? I already knowthe first thing I’m going to do”—Ruslan rubbed his bald head—“grant myself perfectly flowing locks.” He closed his eyes and smiled, as if imagining it. “But I doubt we will all be able to leave at once. It would draw too much attention. It might be best if the three of us left for Poveglia from the House Janus location, and I send for the rest of my House after.”
“An excellent plan,” said Séverin.
And it would be. There was something strange about the Fallen House members. Their limbs moved with an inhuman stiffness. When he looked at their eyes beneath their masks, they looked clouded and gray. They did not blink. Even without Ruslan, they seemed incapable of any agency. Eva had said that without Ruslan, they might as well be powerless.
“May I?” asked Ruslan, holding out his hands to the box.
Séverin’s heart rate kicked higher. May he what? Open it? Hold it?
Séverin held out the box. As Ruslan took it, the garden pliers slid and knocked into the inner wall of the box. Séverin stilled, wondering if Ruslan would notice. But the patriarch merely turned on his heel.
“Come,” he said. “Our gondola awaits.”
AS EVA DIRECTEDthem toward the drop-off location for House Janus’s Carnevale, Séverin noticed that the patriarch never took his eyes off him. Séverin held his gaze.
“You’ve told us precious little about where to find the map to Poveglia’s temple,” said Séverin, with feigned boredom. “I assume it is something mind Forged, like the vial you showed me during supper some time ago.”
Ruslan ignored the query. Instead, he glanced at his Midas Knife, turning it in his hands. “I’ve never told you my House’s true name, have I?”
Up ahead, the lantern light of elaboratepalazzosspilled across the lagoon. Judging by Eva’s gestures, they would dock any moment now. Séverin forced himself to be patient.
“No,” he said. “I have not had the pleasure of that information.”
“Hmm,” said Ruslan. He tapped his teeth with the point of his Midas Knife. “It is a teasing name. My father told us we had the greatest treasures out of all the Houses… and yet such priceless objects were mere nail clippings of therealsource.”
He knew Ruslan meant the Tower of Babel, the biblical construction that had nearly touched the belly of heaven. Western theory held that it was the scattering of such a building—brought about by a confusion of languages that halted its construction—that ushered Forging to the world. Where the pieces fell, Forging bloomed.
