The Gilded Wolves (The Gilded Wolves, #1)(76)

Laila swore under her breath. “What in the world?”

“It repels matter,” said Zofia. “No solid matter can penetrate it.”

Laila dragged her fingers across the surface of it.

“What does Séverin want with it?”

Zofia chewed her lip. She wasn’t sure that she could answer yet because it depended on something back in the dark halls of the Forging exhibition. A place she was not looking forward to exploring once more.

“Have the others found the headquarters of the Fallen House?”

Laila sighed. “No. They think the answer is in an old bone clock. Apparently, it once held the locations of the Fallen House meetings or something. Don’t get me started. Personally, I think we should use the meeting location and just track who goes in and who leaves.”

Zofia thought back to the man who had been lying in wait for her and Enrique. The detection sphere hadn’t revelead his presence, and at the time both exits had been accounted for, which meant he had entered some other way. She hadn’t noticed anything that might have concealed their assailant, but studying the silver cloth made her think perhaps she had missed something.

“That won’t work.”

“Why not?”

“They’re using a different route.”

“That’s impossible,” said Laila. “There’s only the entrance and exit, and both join at the same road.”

Zofia reached for her box of matches and her necklace with the phosphorous pendants, shoving them into the pockets of her black smock. If the theory churning in her mind was right, then she couldn’t waste any more time. After all, Tristan was counting on her.

Zofia was already headed to the door when Laila blocked her.

“Where are you off to?”

“I have to go to the Exposition Universelle. I have to find a way into the Exhibition on Colonial Superstitions. I can climb over walls or stun guards or whatever I have to do—” she said, even as panic started pushing itself through her bloodstream.

“Zofia,” soothed Laila. “Let me help. We can get in and get out, and hopefully no one will be jumping over fences.”

Zofia looked up, confused. “We?”

Laila winked. “Oui.”

“How?”

“You have your talents,” said Laila. “I have mine.”

And then she scrutinized Zofia’s outfit. “But you are not wearing that.”

“Why not?”

“Because, my dear, we are without armor. And beauty is its own armor. Trust me.”



* * *



ZOFIA WAS EXTREMELY itchy.

“I hate this,” she declared, plucking at one of the outfits Laila had shoved her into.

It was a nice enough color. Pale pink. With frills around the bodice and a neckline that felt at once scratchy and ticklish.

“Garments are an art,” said Laila, walking briskly.

“I’ll never get out of it.”

“As it so happens, some would consider disrobing an art too.”

Zofia grumbled, but kept up her pace. It was nearly nighttime. Lights spilled out across the Seine River. Up ahead loomed the Eiffel Tower, the entrance to the Exposition. Zofia had watched the Tower being built, growing from scaffolding to spire. It was a bold, staggering lattice of rivets and steel bolts. No one would call it beautiful, but that hardly mattered to Zofia. Beauty did not move her. But the Eiffel Tower did. It was immensely awkward. If the streets looked sewn together with a neat hand, la Tour Eiffel was the ungainly needle pinning it all into place. It lanced through the grand boulevards, elegant cupolas, and buildings draped in sculpted gods. It would never blend in, but always demand witnessing. Zofia suspected that if la Tour Eiffel could talk, they would understand each other perfectly.

Past the Eiffel Tower stretched out the Esplanade des Invalides. Even in the dark, Zofia felt her breath catch. It was as if she were no longer in Paris. Gone were the familiar boulevards and docile cafés with their wicker chairs. Now, sprawling tents covered the streets. On the sidewalk were low tables crowded with water pipes. Men in robes and women with their heads covered walked briskly down the cobbled lanes.

Laila pointed out the water fountain, the bell-shaped minaret, and the mosque paneled with bright blue tiles. Around it were salons and restaurants. The tang of unfamiliar food coated the air so thickly that Zofia was tempted to stick out her tongue.

“We’re on Cairo Street,” said Laila, keeping her voice low.

Although Paris was full of tourists, the Exposition had not yet officially opened, and the streets were empty, save for the very wealthy who had procured tickets early. Small units of guards carefully patrolled the spaces, making sure no one had snuck in before it was open to the public. On the other side of the street, Zofia spied a handful of guards walking toward them.

“Act calm,” said Laila under her breath. “You look like anyone else. As if you belong here, so there’s no reason for them to feel alarmed. And under no circumstances should you take off running.”

A guard strolled up to them. Zofia thought he would direct his questions to Laila, but he didn’t. He acted as if she wasn’t there at all.

“I’m afraid you and your maid can’t be here, Mademoiselle,” he said to Zofia. “We have been having some troubles with security—there was a disturbance here a week ago. We will have to ask you to remove yourself to a different sector of the Exposition Universelle.”