But he was wrong.

Even if he was cruel, even if he was cold … at least they had been near. At least he could catch the ghost of Laila’s perfume in the hallways, hear the clanging of Zofia’s Forging, smell the ink from Enrique’s endless letters to the Ilustrados, stare out at the gardens where Tristan had once walked.

One more day, thought Séverin.

One more day until he could see them … and tell them what?

He had made a mistake with Ruslan, and now he was bleeding time … time that Laila couldn’t afford to lose. Séverin felt the loss of every hour as if it had been forcibly ripped from him.

Without the Forged map, they could wander Poveglia for years and never find the hidden entrance to the temple. And even if there was some other way to discover it, Séverin had not found a way to be rid of him. The patriarch of the Fallen House was never alone. No food passed his lips without a Fallen House member confirming its safety. Daily draws from Eva rendered him immune from blood Forging.

Séverin was turning over those thoughts when he heard the shuffle of small feet some distance away. The orphaned boy from yesterday stepped out of the shadows. Behind him stood a smaller, even more ragged child. His hair was dirty blond, and his hazel eyes looked like dimmed lanterns in his face. The first boy held out his arm, as if shielding the other one.

“Un altro,” said the first boy, sticking out his hand.

Another one.

Séverin grinned. He tossed an apple to the child, who caught it one-handed, then he removed another from his pocket and tossed it over too. The first boy immediately bit into it, before offering the second to his companion. After a moment of glaring at Séverin from the shadows, he muttered a quick “grazi” and fled.

Séverin watched them go, before stepping back into Casa d’Oro.

Inside, Eva waited beside the door in a high-necked scarlet gown the color of blood. The silver ballerina pendant was tucked away. Around her waist she kept a jeweled knife. Three members of the Fallen House in their volto masks stood against the walls, their Mnemo honeybees whirring and watching.

“Here,” said Eva, thrusting out a box. “But before it can be used, it is missing something.”

“Which is?” asked Séverin.

Eva reached for his hand. Her taloned pinky ring winked in the light before she slashed it down the top of his hand. Séverin sucked in his breath, glaring at her, but Eva didn’t seem to notice. She traced a complicated sigil in blood over the box, whispering something.

At first glance, the box seemed delicate, like something from a children’s book. Forged of ice roses and twisting vines. A thorn jutted out from its clasp. A faint blush tinge rose from its base.

“Now it will know you by your blood,” said Eva. “Try it.”

Séverin took the box. He pulled at the edges, but it wouldn’t budge. Atop the clasp was a little thorn. When he dragged his thumb across it, he felt a sharp sting as the metal broke skin and drew blood. One drop was all it took. The thorn accepted it readily, and that faint blush spread across the box as it sprang open to reveal the divine lyre nesting on a blue velvet pillow.