Zofia nodded, and Hypnos pressed his hand against a particular brick. His Babel ring—a grinning crescent moon that spanned three knuckles—glowed softly. A moment later, they stepped through the brick and vanished.

Laila stared at the Tezcat door, a desperate laugh clawing up her throat.

When they’d first left the Sleeping Palace, she had almost imagined that things might be salvaged … but then Hypnos had revealed the matriarch’s “hint,” and Laila had known they were well and truly lost. Even if they made it to the island of Poveglia, what then? They had no instruments, no intel, no weapons, no directions … and no meeting point either.

Laila squeezed her eyes shut, as if it might conjure whatever she was supposed to have glimpsed in that Mnemo bug. In her mind’s eye, she saw Séverin’s cool, dusky gaze turning from her. She remembered catching sight of a half print of her rouge just below his collar from when she had kissed him in the night. Laila’s eyes flew open, banishing those images.

She hated Séverin. He had overly relied on her belief in him. He had foolishly assumed she would think there was no world in which he would hurt Enrique or Zofia, but he had underestimated how well he’d convinced them of his indifference. Laila could almost imagine him saying: You know me. But that was false. She didn’t know him at all. And yet the guilt stayed. Every time she blinked, she saw the shattered Mnemo wings, and she didn’t know what that moment of fury had cost them in their search.

Laila shoved Séverin out of her thoughts and looked across the alley to where Enrique stood. His arms were crossed, and his gaze looked distant and furious.

“Do you blame me?” she asked.

Enrique’s head snapped up. He looked horrified.

“Of course not, Laila,” he said, walking over to her. “Why would you think that?”

“If I hadn’t smashed the Mnemo bug—”

“I would’ve done the same,” said Enrique, his jaw tight. “Laila, I know how you felt … I know what it looked like…”

“Even so—”

“Even so, we are not out of options,” said Enrique firmly. “I meant what I said … we don’t need him. We’ll find another way.”

Enrique reached for her hand, and together, they stared up at the sky. For a moment, Laila forgot about the weight of death on her bones. She tilted her chin up, scanning the high brick walls. They seemed to be part of a spiral of ramparts separating the city from the sea. Overhead, Laila could hear the bustle of a market, and gossip in foreign tongues. The smell of baked bread flecked with honey and spices filled the air, pushing out the rotting stench from the nearby sea.

“Plague Island,” said Enrique softly. “Do you remember that prank Tristan pulled on me? We were all talking about whether or not to pursue that acquisition there, and he knew I was a little unsettled by all the talk of bones in the soil—”