“If I thought any different, I would not have trusted you at all,” said Séverin mildly.

Eva was still. He could hear her breathing hard. Last night, she had confronted him after they had left the mascherari bar.

“I saw her,” Eva had said, furious. “I recognized her as she left the salon. Did you really think you could hide her from me?”

“No—” Séverin started.

“All that nonsense about meeting at the Bridge of Sighs,” Eva had snarled. “Was it a trick? Did you decide not to help me after all? Because I know what I saw, and I will go to Ruslan and—”

“Spare me the threats, and tell me what you want,” said Séverin harshly. “I had no intention to leave you in the dark, but I doubt you’ll believe me even if I did tell you the truth. All that matters is that we both need to be rid of Ruslan, and now I am certain we can come to an arrangement.”

And so they had.

Séverin turned slowly, ignoring the Mnemo beetles on the wall. For all they perceived, he had been admiring the flowers and she had moved closer. He bent around Eva, and her arms went about his neck.

If they were lovers, it was natural that they should embrace, that she should tuck her head into the curve of his neck and press a kiss beneath his earlobe. Eva rose up on her tiptoes, her lips at his ear, her hand tucking something into his pocket. He could feel the roughness of the leather straps.

“He knows something is wrong.”

SÉVERIN’S PULSE SPIKED as he adjusted the leather-strapped wristlet Eva had smuggled to him against his arm. With his costume sleeves, the wristlet would be undetectable beneath his robes.

Soon.

He would see them soon. The knowledge moved inside him, desperate as a prayer. How were they? Was Enrique in pain after losing his ear? Would Hypnos clasp him as he would an old friend? Was Zofia well?

Would Laila ever look at him the way she once had?

It was a selfish cycle of questions, all of it centering around his own wants. He couldn’t help himself. Hope was an exercise in delusion. He could only hope for such things if he secretly believed he was deserving of them, and though he knew he had disappointed them beyond belief, he was still holding an instrument of the divine. And with the lyre in his hands, he could believe anything.

“Monsieur Montagnet-Alarie. Are you ready?”

Eva stood in the doorway, holding out the ice-and-blood Forged box. Beside her stood a masked member of the Fallen House. Séverin moved toward them, catching sight of his reflection on the shining red walls as he passed. For his costume, Eva had selected a red-lacquered medico della peste mask, which now hung off the back of his billowing, crimson robes. From here, it looked as if he was sprouting horned ridges along his back, like a chimera not yet formed.