The Gilded Wolves

by Roshani Chokshi

  Between the hall of mirrors and the library was a rotunda full of astrological tools, and a wide skylight. The matriarch, Hypnos, and manservants all had their backs to him. Séverin touched the tip of his shoe to one side of the wall, then quietly ducked into one of the recessed niches on the opposite side. A slender, nearly invisible Forged glass thread stretched across the hall, connected to Séverin’s shoe. Outside the niche, he heard the others talking:

  “—a moment for me to place the box within my vaults.”

  “Of course,” said Hypnos. “I appreciate it, truly. Though, is it not tradition for us to hold our Rings together as proof of agreement? You know me, I am ironclad to tradition. Right down to my blood.”

  Séverin smirked at Hypnos’s self-jab.

  “I don’t believe that’s necessary,” she said, her voice slightly higher pitched. “We are old friends, are we not? Old dynasties and all that is left of the Houses of France … Surely, as I am doing you a favor at great cost to myself, we might excuse the formality?”

  Hypnos’s comment was a test. The matriarch must not have disclosed to the Order that the Ring had been stolen. Her words were proof that she too thought the theft had been an inside job.

  “Of course,” said Hypnos brightly.

  “May I speak frankly with you?” asked the matriarch.

  Séverin could sense the hesitation in his voice. But Hypnos answered, “Of course. What are old friends for?”

  The matriarch took a deep breath. “I know you are aware my Ring has been stolen.”

  Hypnos feigned a gasp, but the matriarch must have cut him off.

  “Don’t humiliate me,” she snapped. “Every member of my House that I trust has been searching for it … I am not asking for you to set your own guards to finding it, but I ask that you keep your wits about you. I know we’ve had our differences, but this … this damage that might be wrought would affect far more than just us.”

  “I know,” said Hypnos solemnly.

  “Very well,” said the matriarch. “Now if you’ll excuse me.”

  Séverin listened for the sound of something clicking open. The massive doors of the library unlocking. Moments turned into minutes. Hypnos started tapping his foot. After exactly nine minutes and forty-five seconds, the door to the library opened once more.

  “Shall we?” asked Hypnos.

  The matriarch said nothing. Perhaps she had taken his arm. Séverin heard their footsteps quickly approaching.

  He opened his watch, taking out some mirror powder. He smeared it onto his fingers, dragged them down the wall behind him, and touched his clothes. Instantly, his clothing shimmered, turning the same brocade pattern as the wall. The disguise would last for little over a minute—all he needed. Séverin propped up his foot, ready. But the matriarch stopped just outside the thread, as if to catch her breath.

  This was not part of the plan.

  “It’s beautiful, is it not?” asked the matriarch.

  “Yes, yes, it is—”

  Irritation flickered in Hypnos’s voice. Séverin’s fingers twitched. He glanced at his watch. He hadn’t been able to get another order of mirror powder in time, and that was all that was left. His clothing shimmered. Less than thirty seconds, and it would vanish. They would see him.

  Ten seconds left.

  The servants walked past.

  Four seconds.

  Hypnos escorted the matriarch. Séverin willed himself to breathe, not to let his hands get damp and soak up what remained of the mirror powder.

  Three seconds.

  The matriarch was about to cross the glass thread. Séverin lifted his shoe. Right on time, she tripped. Hypnos caught her before she fell, but her dress had billowed, lifting high enough to reveal her shoes. Séverin looked intently for the one sign that would have proved his theory, and found it: mud.

  “Are you quite all right?” asked Hypnos.

  Hypnos crushed the glass thread, spinning the matriarch so her back faced Séverin just as the last traces of powder vanished from his fingertips.

  * * *

  WHEN SÉVERIN ENTERED his room at two thirty in the morning, he found his bed occupied.

  “Flattered as I am, get out.”

  Enrique clutched a pillow.

  “No. It’s deliriously comfortable.”

  “You know I hate when my pillows get warm.”

  “Like this?” Enrique started rubbing his face on the pillows and hugging them.

  “Ugh. Just take them.”

  On Enrique’s other side, Tristan lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling. He didn’t say anything when Séverin entered. Even when Enrique smacked his face with a pillow, he merely groaned and turned on his side. Blue-black circles hollowed his eyes. He looked exhausted, and he kept flexing his hands, sinking his nails into his palms. He got like this sometimes … lost in his own head. And then either Séverin or Laila would have to bandage his hands to keep him from breaking his own skin. Laila moved to Tristan’s side, carefully flattening his palms. When it came to Tristan, all of them acted a little differently. Laila coddled, Enrique teased, Zofia instructed. Séverin protected.

  Ever since their fight in his office, he hadn’t been able to apologize. Everything left unsaid gathered and crackled in the air between them.

  Footsteps echoed outside the door. Laila held a finger to her lips, glowering at the room.

  The door opened. In glided Zofia. The first thing she did was kick off her heels. With the bed and chair taken, Zofia plopped on the floor.

  “How come we had to hide out in the laundry to get in here, and she just strolled into your bedroom?” asked Enrique.

  Zofia started rubbing her feet. “We’re having an affair.”

  “It’s clearly very torrid,” said Séverin.

  Zofia grunted.

  To Enrique’s bewildered expression, he added, “We raised a glass of wine to each other across a dinner table and threw in a lingering look. Voilà. Easiest way to go somewhere unnoticed is to tell everyone where you’re going. Now. What do you have for me?”

  The door creaked open. All five of them leapt up, hands immediately reaching for knives or fire tape—

  Hypnos.

  He grinned in the doorway and waved.

  “Why are you here?” asked Séverin.

  “It’s my plan too. I helped downstairs…”

  “You’re drawing unwanted attention—”

  “On the contrary, I’m affirming your penchant for eccentric proclivities. A rumor I judiciously spread at dinner. And as you just said, the easiest way to go somewhere unnoticed is to tell everyone where you’re going. If I left now, and someone saw, it might draw, what was it you said? Oh.” Hypnos beamed. “Unwanted attention.”

  Séverin scowled.

  “Fine. Just sit and don’t talk or touch anything. Or anyone.”

  Hypnos sat on the floor beside Zofia.

  Laila spoke first. “I confirmed that the only guards with loaded weapons are the ones surrounding the terrariums and hothouse garden wall. I also confirmed they’re being regularly transferred. Every eight hours, twenty guards are switched out.”

  “And the outdoor grounds facing the library?” asked Séverin.

  “All blanks in their shotguns.”

  Enrique and Zofia looked shocked.

  “How did you figure that out without firing their rifles?”

  “I rummaged through their artillery and wardrobe room. It’s right next to the maids’ quarters,” said Laila.

  “But why does the matriarch have her best men guarding her flowers?” demanded Enrique. “Does that mean she doesn’t care about the objects at all? Maybe the Horus Eye was moved somewhere else—”

  “No,” said Séverin. “It’s here. On these grounds.”

  “Then why wouldn’t she be hiding it in the library where she said it was?”

  “It is in a library,” said Séverin, thinking of the mud. “She has another one.”

  “In the greenhouse?” asked E
nrique flatly.

  “No,” said Séverin, grinning. “Beneath it.”

  “How do you figure that?”

  “I saw the mud on her shoes. Besides, you’ve seen the blueprints. The dimensions of the library are too small for the size of the rumored collection. She has to be accessing the real library underground. That must be why the guns are guarding the gardens. Which is where our next stage comes into play. Enrique and Tristan, are you all set to release the piranha solution?”

  They nodded.

  “Good. The solution will take about eight hours to work. Laila. What happened with the icebox?”

  But Laila didn’t have a chance to answer.

  “It’s all set to be debuted as a surprise to the matriarch for tomorrow evening!” said Hypnos. “I’ve even arranged for it to be wheeled into the office where the matriarch keeps the physical key to the vault. She can’t access it using her Ring anymore, so it’s not Forged. Laila’s nautch dancer costume has already been hidden under the cushion of the chaise lounge. Once she has the key, she can exit the office dressed as a nautch dancer who presumably got lost. Then, Séverin, the ever helpful gentleman, assists in finding her way while she slips him the key. He gives the key to Zofia, who makes a copy. At dinner, Zofia gives the key to me, and I return it to the study. Me and Séverin go through the House access, while the others go through the greenhouse and we meet in the library vault!”

  “Hypnos?”

  “Yes?”

  “Are you Laila?”

  Hypnos hung his head. “… No.”

  “Laila?”

  Laila pointed at Hypnos. “What he said.”

  “Are we clear?” asked Séverin. “Laila gets the key. Zofia makes the copy. Me and Hypnos take the library route, meet you in the underground vault. We get the Horus Eye, and we’re out no later than an hour after midnight when our transport comes.”

  Hypnos, Enrique, Zofia, and Laila nodded as one. Tristan, who had silently been curled up on the bed, was the last to nod.

  Enrique left first, escaping down the laundry chute armed with Forged bells that muffled his sounds. Next went Hypnos and Zofia, their heads bent close. Which left Tristan and Laila.

  “Stay a moment, Laila?” asked Séverin.

  She frowned, but nodded.

  Tristan shuffled to him. Séverin shoved his hands in his pockets and looked down at him.

  “Listen—” started Tristan.

  At the same time Séverin said, “I forgive you.”

  Tristan paused. “I’m not asking for forgiveness.” He swallowed hard, then lifted his gaze. His gray eyes looked bleak. Sleepless. “I don’t trust Hypnos. I don’t trust the Order.”

  Séverin groaned. “Not this again.”

  “I’m serious this time. I just … I have a feeling and I need you to listen to me—”

  “Tristan.” Séverin gripped his shoulders. “You’re my family, and I will always protect you. But I won’t hear this.”

  “But—”

  “Another word and I will find a way to get you off this acquisition and send you straight back to L’Eden. Is that what you want?”

  Tristan’s face burned red. Without another word, he stalked out of the room. Séverin stared at the closed door.

  “You shouldn’t dismiss him like that,” said Laila.

  He closed his eyes, exhaustion dragging through his bones. “He didn’t give me much of a choice.”

  “There’s always a choice, Majnun.”

  Madman. That name meant only for him. On her lips, it sounded like a talisman. Something that could protect him. Chew up the dark.

  He caught her scent as she came closer. Sugar and rosewater. Had she packed that vial of perfume with her? Swiped it down her throat and across her wrists as the train pulled to a stop? Those mysteries were for some other man to uncover. Not him. And then he remembered that he hadn’t been alone in a bedroom with her since that night …

  “Majnun?” she asked, tilting her head.

  “I’ve never asked why you call me that,” he said, fumbling for something to say.

  “That’s a secret you haven’t earned.”

  She smiled. Her mouth was red. Not by rouge, but by blood-rush. On her full lower lip, he could see the faint indents of teethmarks. They held him in thrall.

  “What will it take?” he asked. His voice was roughened by lack of sleep, and it came out gruffer than he meant it to.

  “What will you offer?” teased Laila.

  Her hair had come undone from its chignon. He liked her hair best like this: a little feral. A little soft. Wholly her. Wisps of black silk curled around her long neck. She tucked a strand behind her ear, and Séverin wished a strong wind would blow through the room if only so that she’d do it again.

  “What do you want, Laila?” he asked. “A feather from a legendary bird? Magic apple?”

  “Please,” said Laila. “I hate repeats in my wardrobe.”

  Séverin paused. Wardrobe. The word brought him back to himself. That’s what he wanted to talk to her about. The wardrobe was how she’d accessed the guard uniforms.

  “Laila, in the guards’ wardrobes, I think you could only read the uniforms for the incoming guards. Not the outgoing. I need you to double-check,” he said. “We can’t have any surprises.”

  For a second, it looked as if she wanted to say something else. But in the end, she only nodded. “Of course. I’ll go right now.”

  After Laila left, Séverin didn’t move from his spot on the wall. He thought of the matriarch’s gloved hands, the way he could have crumpled her broken fingers if he wanted to. Even if Enrique hadn’t ruined his pillows, Séverin couldn’t bring himself to climb into House Kore’s bed. What if he’d slept in it once as a child and simply couldn’t remember? He fell asleep where he sat, slumped with his head against the wall. And as he did, he dreamt of the snap of ortolan bones and teethmarks on Laila’s bloodred mouth.

  15

  ENRIQUE

  Enrique held his walking stick just slightly off the ground, careful not to drop the light bomb on anything. The greenhouse was on the other side of the lawns. Revelers swirled around him. Women in velvet bodices with wolf masks. Men in tailored suits with wings affixed to their shoulders. Around him, waiters and waitresses wearing fox and rabbit masks weaved through the crowd, carrying platters of a steaming drink that granted kaleidoscopic visions. As they walked, some of the waiters changed height, abruptly shooting up into the air on the Forged stilts concealed in their heels and pouring bottles of champagne in slender streams into the laughing, open mouths of guests. Platters of food drifted through the crowd without anyone to carry them. On their surfaces, Enrique spied hollowed pomegranates and pale cakes, oysters on the half shell served on dripping panes of ice.

  Unlike the Order of Babel auction, hardly anyone here had darker skin or a lilting accent. And yet, he recognized the decoration. Lovely and monstrous things plucked from tales that grew on the other side of the world. There were Forged dragons out of myths from the Orient, Sirenas with heavy-lidded eyes, bhuts with backwards feet. And though they were not all his tales, he saw himself in them: pushed to the corners of the dark. He was just like them. As solid as smoke and just as powerless.

  He didn’t even look like himself. Or like any man from China that he’d met in the past. He was hiding in a caricature, and it let him pass without comment. Maybe it was an ugly thing to hide behind, but that was why he was here … so that he wouldn’t have to hide any longer.

  The greenhouse loomed ahead. In the dimness, he could make out the strange symbols carved around it. Examples of sacred geometry. Even the footpath beneath him was covered in distinct symbols, tessellated stars inside circles, fractals of stars hidden in the trees. The very eaves of House Kore’s mansions spoke of ancient symbology with their repeated nautilus coils.

  Enrique was nearly at the greenhouse when he felt someone grab his shoulder. He yelped, almost jumping in the air. He spun around to see Laila hiding behind
a tree.

  “Glad I caught you,” she breathed. Laila slipped something in his hand. “I found these in the guards’ uniforms, but only for the ones guarding the greenhouse.”

  When Enrique opened his hand, all he saw was a candied violet.

  “I don’t have much of a sweet tooth at the moment, but—”

  “Turning down food?” Laila went wide-eyed. “You must be nervous. This isn’t candy. It’s an antidote.”

  “For what?”

  “For the venom,” she said, frowning. “Didn’t Tristan tell you?”

  Faintly, he heard the snap of something underfoot. Laila turned her head sharply and groaned. “I have to go. I think I’m being followed.”

  Enrique scowled. Laila dealt with this all the time at the Palais, but he thought she’d at least be free of it here for a change.

  “Idiot drunks. You have a blade?”

  “Multiple.”

  Laila touched his cheek once, then melted into the night.

  The air around the greenhouse sweltered. No revelers came this far, which made sense. Fifty guards with shining bayonets was not exactly what he would call inviting. The greenhouse itself was a massive, imposing structure. Frosted glass, with clear roofs. That earthen, wet smell seeped into the air around it. Along the walls, he saw a familiar pattern. The same one that had been on the gilded mirror of the Palais Garnier: a six-pointed star, or hexagram, intertwined with crescent moons and pointed thorns and a great snake biting its own tail. Symbols of all four original Houses. There was something about that star that jolted him, though. The star was the sign of the Fallen House, the House that had dared not to protect the Babel Fragment, but use it, all because they thought God wanted them to. The hairs on the back of Enrique’s neck prickled.

  A guard stopped him outside the greenhouse. “And you are?”