The Gilded Wolves (The Gilded Wolves, #1)(50)

Beneath the light, a delicate pattern spiraled across the floor, like that of a nautilus. A network of crystal vines and quartz veins formed the walls, as if they were sumptuously below the ground. Masked guests clad in black and gray and bloodred moved down the halls. An after-echo of a chimed gong lingered in the air. They had arrived moments after the dinner gong had rung. Only the matriarch and a group of her servants were left. She walked toward them, dressed in an oxblood gown and a choker of black diamond thorns. On her face, a gold mask.

He stared at her a second too long, convinced she’d recognize him. She didn’t. The last time he’d seen her, he’d seen the blue glow on the Babel Ring—the color that declared he was the rightful heir—ripped from his sight. The last time she’d spoken to him was the last time he had a family.

“Welcome to our Spring Festival,” she said in her smoky voice, her smile tight.

She extended one velvet-gloved hand. Séverin noted the glove of her right hand was heavily padded. Her bones had not yet healed after the theft of her Ring. Enrique bent over her proffered hand and Zofia executed a perfect curtsy. The matriarch whispered something to her manservants, who immediately led them to different parts of the mansion.

Last, the matriarch turned to him. Séverin had prepared himself for this, but practice paled to the reality of her. Eleven years ago, that gloved hand had thrown him in the dark and stripped him of his title. And now he had to kiss it. To thank it. Slowly, he held her fingers. His hands shook. The matriarch smiled. She must have thought him overwhelmed, stewing in his insignificance before this opulence. Before her. His eyes narrowed. Séverin squeezed the joints of her broken fingers.

“So honored to be here.” He pressed his other hand atop hers, watching her breath hitch, her smile turn brittle. “Truly.”

To her credit, the matriarch did not snatch back her hand, but let it fall limply to one side. He smiled.

A tiny hurt was better than none.



* * *



SéVERIN MISSED L’EDEN the moment he sat in House Kore’s dining room. It was nothing like the bright green of his hotel. Here, the ceiling had been Forged to resemble the inside of a jeweled cave. Hunks of bloodred rubies and cabochons of emerald and jasper cast stained light onto the onyx table below. Candles like flowers seemed to bloom from evenly spaced piles of snow. On the floor, Séverin recognized Tristan’s design—vines that sprouted beside guests, blooming to reveal dainty wineglasses, much to their awe and delight.

As anticipated, his insignificance earned him a seat near the exit, far from the matriarch. Many of the people around him had been, or were soon to be, guests of L’Eden. They might have recognized him had they looked close enough. But they didn’t.

Near the head of the table, Hypnos slung back his drinks with happy abandon while the smile on the matriarch’s face turned tense every time he spoke. Near the middle, Zofia had perfected the picture of aristocracy: bored and beautiful. She kept moving her fingers to a strange rhythm, eyes roving around the dining room. Counting again. When she met Séverin’s gaze, he raised his glass to her. She did the same, holding it aloft long enough that people saw.

The meals progressed quickly: pan-fried foie gras, leek sprouts in a rich marrow broth, creamy quail eggs served in an edible nest of spun rye bread, and a tender filet of beef. Finally, the pièce de résistance: a single serving of ortolans. The songbirds were a rare delicacy, trapped and drowned in armagnac, a regional cognac, then roasted and eaten whole. The sauce dribbled thickly onto the plate, streaking ruby bloodlike smears onto the pristine white porcelain. At the head of the table, the matriarch led the meal. She took the crimson napkin and placed it over her head. The guests followed suit. As Séverin reached for his, the man beside him laughed softly.

“Do you know what the napkins are for, young man?”

“I confess, I do not. But I am far too enthralled with fashion to deny a trend.”

Again, the man laughed. Séverin took a moment to study him. Like everyone else, he wore a black velvet mask across his eyes. There were wrinkles around his mouth, and his hair was streaked gray. What skin Séverin could see was pale and thin, waxen with illness. The man’s mustard-colored suit wasn’t obviously Forged, so he likely wasn’t aristocratic. Something gleamed on the man’s lapel, but he turned before Séverin could get a closer look.

“The point of the napkins,” said the man, placing the napkin over his head, “is to hide your shame from God for eating such a beautiful creature.”

“Is it our shame that we’re hiding or our delusions that we can hide at all?”

Séverin caught the edges of the man’s grin from beneath his napkin.

“I like you, Monsieur.”

Séverin didn’t look too closely at the brown flesh on the plate. He knew objectively that it was a delicacy. Gluttony always said he wished for a dish of ortolan to be his last meal. But Séverin had never approved them for L’Eden’s menu. It felt wrong.

Cautiously, Séverin bit into the bird. The thin bones snapped between his teeth. His mouth filled with the taste of the bird’s flesh, tender and rich with the flavor of figs, hazelnuts, and his own blood as tiny bits of bone cut the inside of his mouth.

He licked his lips, hating that it was delicious.

Brandy followed dessert, and guests were encouraged to move to a separate lounge. As Séverin rose, he saw Hypnos whisper something to the matriarch of House Kore. Her mouth pursed into a thin line, but she nodded and whispered something to her manservant. Hypnos summoned his factotum from the edge of the room. The man carried a black box.