The Gilded Wolves (The Gilded Wolves, #1)(84)

Not wanting to alarm Laila, Séverin set down the box of crickets. But he ended up placing the box near the table’s edge where it nearly slid and toppled to the ground. Séverin rushed to grab it, only to stab his thumb on a concealed thorn.

“Majnun?” said Laila, whirling to face him. “What are you doing here?”

Séverin winced and gestured at the box of crickets. “Same as you, it seems. Although you managed to do so without injury.”

“Here, let me,” she said, walking toward him. “I know he keeps bandages around here somewhere.” Laila rummaged through one of the drawers until she found a length of gauze and a pair of scissors. “For a moment I thought you might be the elusive bird killer on the grounds.”

Séverin shook his head. It was a pesky problem, but chances were, it was just a cat.

“I’m sorry to disappoint,” he said. He brought his pulsing finger to his lips, intent on sucking the skin as he would any cut, but Laila batted away his hand.

“You could get an infection!” she scolded. “Now hold still.”

She reached for his hand. Séverin did as she commanded. He held still as if his life hung in the balance. Right then, it seemed as if there was too much of her. In the air. Against his skin. When she bent her head to tie the gauze, her hair trailed over his fingertips. Séverin couldn’t help it. He flinched. Laila looked up. Her uncanny eyes, so dark and glossy they reminded him of a swan’s stare, bored into his. One corner of her mouth tipped up.

“What’s wrong? Do you think I’ll read you?”

His pulse scattered. She had told him before that she could only read objects. Not people. Never people. “You can’t do that.”

Laila raised one slender eyebrow. “Can’t I?”

“That’s not funny, Laila.”

Laila waited a beat, then two. Finally, she rolled her eyes. “Don’t worry, Majnun. You’re quite safe from me.”

She was wrong about that.



* * *



FOR THE NEXT eighteen hours, none of them slept. Enrique spent so much time scouring books in the library that Laila had arranged for his bedding to be sent there. Hypnos was scarcely seen without a drink in his hand—the better to help me think!—and spent all his time corresponding with his own spies, accomplices, and guards. Zofia, meanwhile, lived up to her nickname, for she spent half the day submerged behind veils of smoke. And Laila … Laila kept them alive. Her hands were always working … pouring tea, offering food, rubbing tired scalps, grazing the edges of objects, while her smile stayed as still and knowing as ever.

One day, then two, and now midnight was nearly upon them.

Far away from the glitter and glamour, midnight soaked the gritty streets. Beggars slept huddled in corners, and skinny cats slipped around stone corners. Séverin and Laila walked lightly, their shoulders hunched against any curious glares. Séverin had never had any interest in seeing the catacombs. He knew that it was an underground ossuary holding the remains of millions. Cradled in its earth were the bodies of duchesses and aristocrats, plague victims, and those whose heads had been snapped off by a guillotine’s teeth. Countless, unnamed individuals who were now nothing more than ghastly halls and arches made from grinning skulls and cracked jaws.

Laila shivered as they got close. Slowly, she plucked off her gloves, then reached down to touch the metal fence surrounding the entrance. She closed her eyes, then gave a tight nod. Roux-Joubert was here. Calm washed over him then. He thought of the stories he’d heard growing up about the underworld. The tale of Orpheus, who looked behind him and lost everything. He wouldn’t be that. He would descend and ascend, and lose nothing but a handful of time. He swallowed hard against the doubt lodged at the back of his throat and took the stairs. Above his head, a sign carved in stone declared

Arrète! C’est ici l’empire de la mort.

Stop! This is the empire of death.





PART V


From the archival records of the Order of Babel The Origins of Empire Mistress Hedvig Petrovna, House Da?bog of the Order’s Russian faction 1771, reign of Empress Yekaterine Alekseyevna We must be vigilant in the boundaries of our work.

We protect and preserve.

We do not pretend at being gods.

Our Babel Rings carry the power to reveal the Fragments, but some have forgotten that this power does not confer godhood. We might have been better served to call them wax wings. A reminder for those who wish to reach for that which they should not. There are Icaruses, Sampatis, Kua Fus, and Bladuds. Those who reached and failed. Their fall, the better to remind us. Their smashed bones upon the ground, a necromancer’s reading of the fate to befall those who forget.





24





ZOFIA


Two hours before midnight

Zofia glared at her bed. On it were three different outfits. One was dark, one was light, one was covered in multicolored embroidery. She was aware, distantly, that there was more she was supposed to notice, but she couldn’t fathom it and so she didn’t try. Instead, she reached for the letter pinned to one of the sleeves. It was a list written out in Laila’s neat hand.

Step 1: Zofia, brush your hair. I tried to help before I left, but couldn’t find you. Or did I see you on the western hallway near the wisterias?