Zofia toed experimentally at his arm, which moved a couple centimeters. “Look!”

“I am cured,” said Hypnos flatly.

Laila bit back a laugh. “And I must go.”

From her hand, a silver demi-mask caught the fading light. The first time she had put it on, she had felt the force of mind Forging as if someone had punched through her thoughts. It wasn’t just the location of the salon, but an instruction: Show the silver mask to the artisans, and each mask they made would function as a ticket.

Hypnos made a loud harrumphing sound. Laila offered her hand, and after one more aggrieved sigh, Hypnos took her wrist and hoisted himself up.

“Please pick out a mask for me that brings out my best attributes,” he said.

“What attributes?” asked Zofia. “Your face will be covered.”

Hypnos’s grin turned sly. “Ah, ma chère, I am flattered, but one might argue that my best attribute is actually—”

“Please don’t pick out anything yellow,” said Enrique loudly over Hypnos. “Makes me look sick.”

Hypnos looked affronted. Laila raised an eyebrow, then looked to Zofia. “Any aesthetic requests?”

“Aesthetics don’t matter,” said Zofia.

Behind her, Enrique and Hypnos looked deeply insulted.

“The utility is most important,” said Zofia. “We need something that can hide tools.”

“What kinds of tools?” asked Enrique suspiciously.

“Useful tools.”

“Phoenix…”

“Hmm?”

“You are not actually thinking of hiding a large explosive near our faces, are you?” asked Enrique.

“No,” said Zofia.

“Good—”

“It’s a very tiny explosive. Hardly larger than six centimeters.”

“No,” said Hypnos and Enrique at the same time.

Laila took this as her cue to leave.

NEARLY AN HOUR later, she had finally made her decision.

Around her, the mascherari salon thrummed with life, and Laila felt a sharp ache for the Palais des Rêves. She missed the smell of the wax on the dance floor, the way the dust motes caught in a beam of chandelier light, the crisp snap of a strand of pearls breaking under her heel. Weeks ago, she had promised her stage manager that L’Enigme would return “in time for the new year.” Clearly, she had not. Laila wondered what they thought had happened to her. Did they think she was dead? Or that she’d merely disappeared? The other dancers had always teased that she was bound to run off with a Russian prince on her travels.

She hoped they believed that was her fate.

“Signora?” asked the Forged artisan.

Laila turned to face the mascherari work table, which was situated to the far right of what looked like a grand ballroom that was curtained off in sections. This side of the chamber carried a distinctly eerie demeanor. Here, it was quiet and hushed thanks to a Forged veil which locked out sound.

“The four masks you requested,” said the Forged artisan.

Laila found it hard to look at the man. He wore a mask like a melted mirror, which adhered to every feature—even his eyes—and rendered him strangely reflective.