It gnawed at her constantly. The only time she did not feel it was when she Forged, and so Zofia threw herself into work. While the others searched for clues regarding the map that would take them to the temple beneath Poveglia, Zofia created invention after invention. She had counted at least a dozen members of the Fallen House at the Sleeping Palace. Each had been equipped with two short-range explosives and two throwing knives. Whether they had other properties, she could not determine, and so she knew her inventions must account for the unknown. For the past day or so, Zofia had built seven miniature explosives, constructed four coiled ropes that could fit in the heel of a shoe, and chewed her way through five matchboxes.

Zofia was putting the finishing touches on the Forged cloth when Laila knocked at the door.

“Phoenix you might be, but you must subsist on something other than flames,” said Laila, placing a platter before her.

Zofia scanned its contents: meats and cheeses spaced far apart, and a row of tomatoes neatly dividing the plate. On a separate plate was a dish of olive oil and sliced bread. Her stomach growled loudly, and Zofia reached for the bread—

Laila tutted. “Manners.”

Zofia frowned then held out her hand. Laila handed her a napkin. The napkin did nothing to the grease stains on her hands, but Zofia knew Laila liked ceremony.

“You don’t have to eat in here,” said Laila gently.

“I want to,” said Zofia, tearing into the bread. “It maximizes efficiency.”

“Would it be so bad to step outside for some sunlight?” asked Laila.

“It would be unnecessary, as I am not a plant and do not need to photosynthesize to sustain myself,” said Zofia.

“Well, I may partake in some photosynthesizing this afternoon if you care to join me.”

“No,” said Zofia, before adding, “thank you.”

She cared more about other things, like preparing items for whatever awaited them in Poveglia.

“As you wish,” said Laila, smiling.

Zofia noticed her friend’s smile did not reach her eyes. Ever since they had arrived here from Isola di San Michele, Laila had grown more silent. When Zofia had gone to bed last night, she saw Laila standing in the drawing room, rubbing her thumb against her palm over and over. In the mornings when they broke their fast, Laila would stare at the ring on her hand. Zofia glanced at it now: Eight.

Even though she was sitting, Zofia felt as if she had just tripped.

Eight days left, and far too much left unknown.

“I must work,” said Zofia.

She gestured her hands at her workbench, her breaths rising tight and fast inside her.

“Phoenix?” said Laila softly. Zofia looked up and saw her friend’s warm, brown gaze assessing her. “Thank you. I appreciate all that you are doing.”

Zofia ate hurriedly and returned to her work, but no matter what she did, there was still that stumbling sensation. As if she were blindly finding her way in utter darkness. It was not just Laila’s dwindling days that pressed on her thoughts. All the time, she felt Hela’s letter against her skin. Seven times a day, Zofia allowed herself to take out the letter and smooth her hands over the creased envelope. It felt worn and soft to the touch, not unlike the grisly pelt in the cellar. The only difference between them was that this time Zofia chose not to know whether it held death.