The Gilded Wolves (The Gilded Wolves, #1)(46)

But it was not Laila’s face she saw, but her own, staring back at her in the mirror’s reflection. She did not look like herself. There was black smudged on her eyes. Red on her mouth and cheeks. An aigrette fastener, with a white plume and gray pearls, pinned to coiled-up hair. She looked like the women in the grand lobby. Zofia reached up to touch the elegant bun on top of her head.

“You look beautiful, Baroness Sophia Ossokina.”

Zofia leaned forward, scrutinizing her reflection. She might look like the women in the lobby, but she was nothing like them. If anything, Laila was. Laila, who was as elegant as a wave.

“It should be you,” said Zofia.

Laila’s eyes widened in the mirror. Her shoulders fell slightly. A pattern of sorrow.

“I can’t,” she said softly. “You remember what Séverin said. If you dress to the world’s expectations, it doesn’t look too closely when you steal from it. Though I do wish I didn’t have to go as a nautch dancer.” Her mouth twisted on that word. “Nautch dancers used to be sacred in temples. Where I’m from, dancing is an expression of the divine.”

“Like at the Palais des Rêves?”

Laila snorted. “No. Not like at the Palais. It’s not even me on that stage. Even if it were, no one deserves a performance of my faith.”

Zofia pulled at the tips of her gloves. The right words kept hitting her tongue wrong. Laila looked at her, concern etched on her features. Then she reached out, cupping her chin.

“Oh, Zofia,” she said. “Don’t be sad. Everyone hides.”



* * *



ZOFIA WAS THE first to board the train.

Séverin had arranged for himself, Enrique, and Zofia to occupy an entire block of suites. The others took separate transit. Tristan had left for House Kore’s country estate yesterday to handle their landscaping, and Laila had gone with Hypnos, lugging with her a marvelous and gigantic cake that House Nyx would transport. They were all due to arrive at the Chateau de la Lune at the same time.

Once in her train suite, Zofia yanked down the window’s velvet drapes. Just looking at the crowded train platform teeming with people and engine steam made her stomach hurt. Her nose stung from the char of burnt street snacks, and she was getting bored of those Forged posters floated along the platform. Each one advertised different parts of the Exposition Universelle, which would open to the public in four days.

Zofia plucked at loose threads on her dress. Across her lap was the walking stick she’d Forged for Enrique. It was hollow, polished ebony, the top of it fashioned like an eagle with outstretched wings. Zofia sighed, wishing she could have brought her chalkboard. There was nothing to do except wait for Séverin or Enrique. Weary, she counted the cut crystals dangling from the chandelier: 112. Next, she counted the golden buttons sewn into the quilted satin seats: 17. Zofia was about to sit on the floor and start counting the carpet tassels when her compartment slid open.

An old man with a hunched back stood there. He was bald, with splotches of brown on his scalp. He paused at the threshold of the compartment and bowed low.

“What do you think? Took nearly three hours to conceal my unearthly beauty.”

Zofia blinked. “Enrique?”

“At your service—” He started, looking at her. He paused, and Zofia fought the urge to nestle farther into her compartment.

Be like Laila, said a voice in her brain.

Zofia sat up straight, held his gaze, then did what she’d seen Laila do many times when she looked at Séverin—lift one corner of her mouth ever so slightly, but tilt her head down at the same time … wait, now she couldn’t see anything, oh, and Laila would sometimes lift up one shoulder—

“What on earth are you doing?”

“I am imitating patterns of flirtation.”

“Wait. You’re flirting. With … me?”

Zofia frowned. Why would he think that? She just said she was imitating the general strategy of others.

“Maybe I have the methodology wrong. I also saw women do this. Better?”

She relaxed her body. Then pretended there was something on her upper lip and licked it off with a slow swipe of her tongue.

Enrique blinked rapidly then shook his head.

Shaking one’s head meant no.

Zofia shrugged and waved her hand. “I’ll practice later.”

“You … don’t need much,” said Enrique, his voice pitched lower than usual. He wasn’t looking at her. She must have been terrible.

Enrique took the seat across from her. Because of the hump on his back, he had to lean forward. The sun hit his face, exposing the faintest seam along his cheek that belonged to a Forged mask.

“In the dark, it won’t look like a mask at all,” said Enrique, gently touching his face. “I checked. And I won’t have to go out into the light either. Apparently, my identity as an aging botanist means I’m also nocturnal.”

“So are skunks.”

“Splendid.”

At that moment, the train lurched forward. The walking stick on Zofia’s lap began to roll. She grabbed it quickly and thrust it at him.

“Yours.”

Enrique reached for it. “Is it a prop for my disguise?”

“It’s a bomb.”

Enrique nearly dropped it.