Last, she tugged at his hair. There was a cruel familiarity to her gestures. It had only been a handful of days since that night in the ice palace when their hearts had beat in sync, and everything seemed awash with hope. But when she pulled back her hand, she saw the dwindled days left to her. That fullness against her ribs ached and said: No more. I can hold no more.

“Is this how you want me, Laila?” Séverin asked. There was no jest in his voice, but a wounded hopefulness. “Bloodied up by your hand?”

“No,” she said, reaching for the curtains. “I don’t want you at all.”

14

ENRIQUE

At dawn, Enrique scrutinized his appearance in the long mirror in the library. He wore a black suit. A white cravat. He had changed his bandage so that it was soot dark and almost—almost—blended into his hair. His scab throbbed a bit as he lowered a black hat over his head and arranged the brim over the nubbed wound. He glanced at himself in the mirror. The hat’s brim was tugged so low, one could no longer see his left eye.

He looked like the incompetent villain in a pantomime.

“Ugh,” said Enrique, dragging the hat down lower.

Ever since Laila had come home last night with the news that Séverin would be joining them at Carnevale and would send word at sunrise to the Piazza San Marco, Enrique could not stop thinking about what he should wear. Though it had only been days, he was not the same Enrique that Séverin had appeared to leave for dead. He wanted Séverin to see that at first glance. He wanted him to be struck by his patina of … manliness? No. Independence. Independence haloing him like an aura. Pigeons flying out from behind him in a maelstrom of feathers.

Perhaps that would be too much.

Besides, no amount of mind Forging had been able to corral the pigeons of Venice.

All night, Enrique couldn’t sleep. He polished his shoes. He washed his hair and neatly set it with wax. He plucked at every stray bit of dust on his suit. He wanted to press the words I don’t need you into every stitched line of his jackets and pants.

At first, Enrique had balked at being given the task to meet with him alone tomorrow.

“Why do I have to see him?” he had asked. “He’ll find us at Carnevale anyway.”

Laila hesitated. Her gaze flicked—there and away—to his wounded ear.

“It’s Ruslan,” she said. “We can’t leave for Poveglia with the Fallen House on our trail. They must be dealt with, and Séverin said he would come up with a plan. So. Who will go to the piazza tomorrow?”

“Me!” said Hypnos, raising his hand.

“And risk a Sphinx authority catching sight of the patriarch of House Nyx?” asked Laila.

Hypnos lowered his hand slowly. “… Not me.”

“I have work,” said Zofia, eyeing the folded up Forged masks that Laila had brought back.