“Fire and brimstone, I imagine?”

“No,” she said, smiling. “It ends in terrible beauty. Our Lord of Destruction is also called Nataraja, the Lord of Dance. In his movements, the universe will dissolve and start anew. So yes, we must request permission for beautiful things, for they have hidden hearts of danger.”

Slowly, Laila walked toward him. Her anklets chimed softly. Her hair, long and unbound, curled around her waist.

“Can’t you feel that danger, Séverin?”

He had.

But it was not destruction of the world he’d feared when Laila turned sharply from him and began to practice.

Watching her now, Séverin wondered at her movements. Was she requesting the earth’s permission for beauty … or its forgiveness for destruction? He didn’t know how to ask her.

When Laila was finished, he turned to the others.

“We know the landscape has changed considerably, so we must pay special attention to any ruins,” he said. “We may need to explore more shadows than not.”

Zofia raised her hand. “I can light the way.”

“I’ll go with her,” said Enrique.

“She has all the explosives, yes?” said Hypnos. “I’m going with her too.”

Séverin rolled his eyes. “Then I’ll guard the back. The siren bust should be no more than a half kilometer away according to our map.”

He thought Laila would walk to the front, but she didn’t. She remained a couple of paces ahead of him, just out of reach. Every now and then, she’d pause and stare around at the dull greenery. She must have been feeling restless. Worried. He wished he could comfort her, but what if everything he said came across as an unwanted demand of her time? She would think him insensitive or worse, unchanged and selfish.

As he moved, he felt the edges of the glass Forged fire lily in his front pocket. He should never have gotten it. How would he give it to her anyway? Here, take this extremely fragile thing and please do not perceive it as a metaphor for our relations.

He should smash it on the ground.

He was turning the idea over in his head when Laila suddenly spoke. “I wish it were spring,” she said.

Séverin’s head snapped up. Cautiously, he took a few strides faster until he fell into step beside her.

“Why?” he asked.

“For wildflowers,” said Laila, laughing a little. “I should’ve looked more closely at them last spring.”

She wanted flowers. How strange that of all the things he couldn’t give her, he could at least do that. Slowly, he reached into his jacket, pulling out the lily. He held it out to her.

Laila stopped in her tracks, staring between him and the glass flower in his hand.

“I picked it up earlier. In the markets. I thought—well, hoped really—that you would like it.”

Laila raised an eyebrow. Slowly, she took the lily. She twirled it between her fingers. The sunshine flowed through the crystal, painting the ground scarlet and orange.

“Do you like it?” he asked, before quickly adding: “It is perfectly acceptable if you don’t, of course. I merely thought it was … nice. I suppose. And a far better alternative than—”