On the other side of the gondola, Enrique and Zofia seemed lost in their own thoughts. Enrique stared out at the water. Zofia, who had lost her box of matches, had taken to ripping up the scorched ends of her dress. On the cushion beside Laila, Hypnos leaned over and dropped his head against her shoulder. “I fear I am getting ill, ma chère.”

“And why is that?”

“I am craving boredom, as if it is the rarest vintage of wine in all the land,” he said. “Such depravity.”

Laila nearly laughed. In the past week, she had seen riches that rivaled kingdoms and witnessed the kind of intoxicating power that could unravel the world with a song … but nothing compared to the luxury and allure of being able to waste a whole day and think nothing of it. If she could fill a box with impossible treasures, that was what Laila would hide away: luscious, sun-ripened days and cold, star-strewn nights to waste in the company of loved ones.

“I owe you an apology,” said Hypnos.

Laila frowned. “Whatever for?”

“I behaved badly when I found out you had broken the Mnemo bug,” he said, looking down at his lap. “Though Séverin has my trust, it is obvious he has not earned yours. I don’t know what he said to you, but I can assure you he did not mean it. I know it was a ruse to protect you.”

That familiar numbness rose up once more in Laila. “I know that now.”

“You must know, too, that even though he cares for all of us, it’s you that he—”

“Don’t,” said Laila coldly, before adding, “Please.”

Hypnos held up his hands in surrender, leaving Laila to her thoughts. Her gaze dropped to her ring: 9. Nine days left to breathe this air, stare at this sky. Her mind eagerly lapped up every image as if it were cream—the pale domes of cathedrals, a smudge of thundercloud on the sky. Thinking of Séverin was like dousing all those thoughts in ink. It blotted her mind with dark, and she could hardly see past it. He was not here. Not yet. So she endeavored not to think of him at all.

THE CEMETERY ISLAND of Isola di San Michele was still and quiet, walled in with red and white brick. A domed church wrought of the pale, Venetian stone appeared to float on the dark lagoon. As the gondola pulled toward the dock, a three-meter-tall Forged statue of the archangel Michael spread open its wings and raised a pair of scales in greeting. The bronze scales swung in the frosty February wind, and the seraphim’s sightless eyes seemed to fix on them, as if preparing to weigh the good and bad of their lives. Down a white-stoned gravel pathway, stately cypress trees swayed and stood guard over the threshold of the dead.

The moment Laila stepped off the gondola, a strange feeling wisped through her stomach. A blankness, there and gone. For a moment, she could not smell the snow on the wind or feel the cold at her neck. Her body felt disjointed and too still, like a thing she must drag with her—