The Silvered Serpents

by Roshani Chokshi

  “What are we looking for?” asked Zofia, walking to one of the tables laden with treasure. “Where else could the book be?”

  Zofia reached out, touching a delicate Medusa crown, a Forged object from ancient Greece capable of rendering small objects to stone. One of the little stone serpents recoiled at her touch, and its body tightened to a sharp crimp … the shape struck Enrique as deeply familiar. Like a figure eight. It looked like something he’d seen only moments ago. He walked to the nearest muse, studying the sign he’d found etched on each of their palms days ago:

  He held his notebook up to the symbol, and then … turned it to the side, the way he’d seen the Forged snake only moments ago.

  His pulse fluttered. When the symbol was turned, it wasn’t a backwards three at all, but the lowercase form of the last letter of the Greek alphabet, omega. Alpha and omega. All he had to do was extend and curve the lines just so, and it was nearly identical to the lemniscate symbol, which was the mathematical representation of infinity. Supposedly, the lemniscate’s figure eight shape was derived from the lowercase form of omega, which in Greek translated to only one thing:

  “The first and the last, the beginning and the end,” whispered Enrique.

  The literal power of God, the power that The Divine Lyrics was supposed to access. And he knew he’d seen it before somewhere.

  “Zofia, can you get the tome?” he asked.

  Zofia reached for it on the table and brought it over. There, embossed on the surface was that identical W shape … a buried lemniscate.

  “See that?” he asked.

  “The symbol for the first transfinite ordinal number,” said Zofia.

  Enrique had no idea what that meant. “Perhaps, but also—”

  “A lowercase omega.”

  “Yes, precisely!” said Enrique, excitedly. “It also represents—”

  “The first and the last, the beginning and the end,” recited Zofia. “That’s what you said last year the first time you noticed the symbol. You said ‘in other words, the power of God.’ Yes?”

  Enrique blinked at her, and she shrugged.

  “What? I was listening to you,” she said.

  Enrique merely stared at her. She’d listened. That small sentence held a strange and unfamiliar warmth. Zofia opened the tome, pressing her pale hand to the hollow where the pages of The Divine Lyrics would have been.

  “It looks more like a box than a book,” she said.

  Enrique studied the cavity, tracing the inside of the spine. As a book, it should have held thread or some other sign that the pages had once been bound together, but it was smooth.

  “If it was always hollow and held something … then what if this symbol is what links it all together?” he asked, pointing to the lemniscate on the surface.

  “Like a book inside of a book?” asked Zofia.

  “It’s the only thing that makes sense,” said Enrique.

  Whatever they were looking for had to bear the same symbol. Together, they turned and faced the piles of treasure heaped onto the tables.

  Now, they just had to start searching.

  28

  ZOFIA

  Two hours before midnight …

  Zofia did not count the passage of hours as she and Enrique worked. But she did not have to count to hear how the sounds outside the library grew louder in anticipation of the Midnight Auction. All those people. It made her shudder. Zofia had hated being outside to welcome the Order of Babel. She didn’t like everyone pressed close together, and she did not like that her height forced her to be eye level with the back of people’s heads.

  What she liked now was the stillness and the set tasks before them: pick up an object; look for the lemniscate symbol; move on when it wasn’t there. At least she was doing something. Before, when she found out that there was no Divine Lyrics, she could not speak. Tears ran down her face. But it was not sorrow. She had felt this way once before, when her family had taken a trip to one of the lakes in summertime. She had swum too far, happy that under water, she couldn’t hear the loudness of the other children. But somewhere in the lake, her foot caught on a net, and she could not keep her head above the surface for longer than a few seconds at a time. By chance, Hela had seen her struggling and called out to their father who had rushed into the lake and saved her.

  Zofia never forgot how it felt—kicking out her legs, hitting the water with her hands, spitting out lake water, and gulping down air. She never forgot the frustration of powerlessness, the awareness that her movements made no difference, and that the water—vast and dark—did not care.

  That was how she felt realizing Laila would die.

  Nothing she did had made a difference, thought Zofia as she put down one object. But maybe this time, she hoped, reaching for a different artifact. There were 212 objects left to examine, and in each unexamined object, Zofia reached for the comfort of numbers, for the knowledge that no matter how small the chance, discovering a lemniscate symbol was not out of the statistical realm of probability.

  Beside her, Enrique worked in semi-silence. He hummed to himself, and though Zofia normally preferred silence, she found the background hum an agreeable constant. Enrique talked to himself too, and Zofia realized that just as she found comfort in numbers, he found solace in conversation.

  By now, they had tackled two of the seven tables with no results. When Zofia moved to a different table, Enrique shook his head.

  “Save that one for later.”

  “Why?”

  Enrique gestured to a different table. Zofia scanned the contents. Among them were a small notebook with a golden varnish; a collection of gleaming feathers in a jar; a harp; a string of jade beads carved with the faces of beasts; and a pair of scales. It was no different from the other tables littered with similar objects. It possessed no greater likelihood of hiding a lemniscate symbol.

  “Do you smell that, phoenix?”

  Zofia sniffed the air. She smelled metal and smoke. She moved closer to where he was standing and caught a whiff of something else … something sweet, like apple peels thrown into a fire.

  “The scent of perfume,” said Enrique.

  “Scent is irrelevant to this,” said Zofia, turning back toward the other table.

  “But the context … the context makes the difference,” said Enrique. “The word ‘perfume’ comes from the Latin perfumare … to smoke through. Scent was a medium through which the ancients communicated to the gods.”

  Enrique pointed at the objects strewn on the table.

  “Séverin was the one who explained how the whole place was designed like a temple, even their … their sacrifice altar,” he said, shuddering. “My guess is they would have only used incense for their most precious objects, especially whatever was inside The Divine Lyrics, which makes me think we should look through whatever is here before we try elsewhere.”

  Zofia stared at the table, then stared at him. “How did you come to that conclusion?”

  Enrique grinned at her. “Oh, you know … superstitions, stories.” He paused. “A gut instinct.”

  He’d said something like that to her before, and it annoyed her no less than it did now.

  Zofia reached for a new object. They had only just examined the first two objects—a goblet and a cornucopia—when a gong sounded from outside. Enrique looked up, his eyes narrowing.

  “This isn’t good,” he said. “We don’t have much time before the auctioneer starts coming in and taking away the objects for sale, and I want to take a look inside the grotto and the leviathan once more.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s this symbol…”

  Enrique picked up his notebook, tracing the sign once more.

  “Now that we know what we’re looking for, I just want to make sure we haven’t missed any hints.”

  Zofia frowned. They wouldn’t have enough time to go to the leviathan, search the premises, and return. One of them needed to go alone. One of them needed to try and buy more time.


  The thought of venturing into that crowd turned Zofia’s stomach.

  But it was nothing compared to the thought of losing Laila.

  Zofia stood straighter and felt the heavy, unopened envelope pressing against her chest. She had not recognized the envelope seal, and the penmanship did not look like Hela’s. The unfamiliarity of it filled her with a strange unease that she couldn’t name, stopping her hand each time she gathered the courage to read it.

  Beside her, Enrique was talking to himself.

  “If we could get Hypnos to come back, we could go, but he hates being left alone, and we can’t ask Laila … she’s been lying down and the sight of this will only upset her … and I have no idea where Séverin is … Ruslan could do it, but Séverin usually approves who knows what and how much time would we lose if—”

  “I can go alone.”

  Enrique’s gaze snapped to hers. For a second, Zofia barely registered that she had uttered such a thing. But the moment it was said, it calmed her.

  “No, I couldn’t ask you to do that,” said Enrique. “I know how hard new situations can be for you. I’ll go.”

  The words struck Zofia. She remembered Hela’s earlier letters: Oh, don’t make them worry, Zosia. They might start fretting over who would have to take care of you when I’m gone.

  She was not a child who needed constant minding.

  “I will go alone. You are better suited here.”

  Enrique held her gaze only a moment longer, and then nodded. “I’m certain the grotto will be empty. All you have to do is a quick search for the lemniscate symbol. If you can, on the way, try and buy us time? I’ll work as fast as I can and join you as soon as I have something.”

  Zofia nodded and headed for the door. But just as she reached for the handle, Enrique called out to her:

  “Phoenix?”

  She turned and saw Enrique leaning against one of the tables, an object in one hand, a notebook tucked under his other arm. When he smiled, Zofia noticed the left corner of his lips quirked higher than the right. She liked that detail despite its asymmetry. Hypnos must like that detail too, she thought, remembering how he had kissed him right before they searched the leviathan. An uncomfortable pang hit her stomach.

  “What?” she asked.

  “You’re a lot braver than most of the people outside,” said Enrique. “None of them could build a bomb with their eyes closed and wander into a metal monster and still want to name it ‘David.’ Trust in yourself, Phoenix.”

  Zofia nodded and had the irrational desire to wish that some words could be solid and picked up off the ground and held close, so that she could reach for them whenever she needed.

  “I will.”

  * * *

  WHEN ZOFIA STEPPED OUTSIDE, the Sleeping Palace had changed.

  Once calm, the gigantic atrium had transformed. Zofia lost count of the silver orbs covering the ceiling. She counted no less than eleven of the Sphinx patrolling the perimeter. The translucent floor had become another stage. Thirteen Forged illusions of rusałka, maidens from Polish folklore, dragged themselves out of the floor and appeared to wrap their arms around the dozens of laughing men and women gliding through the ballroom.

  Beside the hallway that led to the library loomed a white tent. Zofia had no choice but to cross through it to reach the hall that housed her laboratory. She stepped over the sprawled out guests reclinining against pale cushions and swirling goblets in their hands. Chased-silver contraptions sheathed their pinky fingers, each ending in a sharp talon. They looked just like Eva’s ring, and Zofia realized they were instruments of blood Forging. In one corner, two women laughed and then—at the same time—dug the talon into the other person’s wrist. Blood beaded to the surface and the women crossed their hands, letting their blood drop into the other’s goblet. Zofia moved quickly to the exit when another group blocked her path. Two men and a girl no older than Laila. The girl had her back turned to them, and the two men wore matching grins. One man threw back his drink. Instantly, his visage shuddered and twisted, until he looked identical to the other man.

  “Tell us apart, love,” said the one beside him, spinning the girl around. “Or perhaps you need the assistance of touch?”

  One of the men looked up at Zofia and held out his goblet.

  “You are more than welcome to join, lovely little fae.”

  Zofia shook her head and stumbled out of the tent as fast as she could to get to her laboratory. Once inside, it took a moment to catch her breath. Blood Forging confused her. She knew it was the science of pleasure and pain, and she knew that lovers enjoyed its artistry. Was she supposed to want … that? Bodies operated like machines, and she wondered at her own machinations that nothing in that tent interested her. At least, not with those people.

  Zofia shoved aside the small twinge of pain, and hurriedly gathered heat lamps, more phosphorous pendants, a Mnemo bug, several pieces of rope, and a new matchbox. When she stepped back into the hall, she realized she was not alone.

  Hypnos was slumped on the ground, his back against the wall, a bottle of wine tucked under his arm, and an emptied glass in his hand. When he saw her, he looked up and flashed a lopsided smile. It matched Enrique’s own quirked smile in its asymmetry.

  The pattern jolted through Zofia, opening up a chasm of heat within her. She remembered the day she had accidentally glimpsed them in the hallway of L’Eden. She was wearing a silk dress Laila had bought for her. After that, she could not bear the touch of silk. She remembered, also, Hypnos and Enrique’s kiss in the ice grotto: brief and uncomplicated. Hypnos had often said it was not his fault most people wanted to kiss him just as it was not her fault she felt no compulsion to kiss most people. However, the one person who made her entertain such thoughts looked not to her, but Hypnos. Statistically, it made sense. Hypnos attracted far more people than Zofia did. Such a realization should cause no pain, and yet she felt a sharp twist behind the bones of her chest, and she did not know how to make it stop.

  “Am I a terrible person?” asked Hypnos. He hiccuped loudly. “I didn’t mean to use anyone. I thought it was fine?” He shook his head. “No, it was never fine.”

  There was a vague blurriness to his words that Zofia recognized as intoxication. Hypnos did not wait for her to answer his queries. Instead, he took another swig from his glass.

  “I’m going back to the ice grotto—” started Zofia.

  Hypnos shuddered. “It’s eerie, cold, damp, and without food and drink. Why in the hell—”

  “I have to,” said Zofia. “I have to protect someone.”

  “Keeping secrets, are we?” asked Hypnos.

  Zofia nodded. Hypnos let out a laugh, clutching his glass. His eyes looked glossy, and the corners of his mouth tugged down. He was sad.

  “Secrets within the group which, I suppose, I will never be privy to,” he said. “I envy whoever they are, to be worthy of such secrecy. And I envy you, too, for enjoying such trust. For being so”—he circled his glass, frowning—“wanted.”

  Wanted.

  It struck Zofia that they could be envious of the same quality. She remembered every time Hypnos had tried to help: when he brought them mismatched snacks, when he proposed a toast in the St. Petersburg warehouse, when he had hovered at her side and all she had thought to say was that he was throwing a shadow over her work. Tristan had done the same when he was alive. He had tried to be there, and she had not told him enough that while his presence did not improve the efficiency of her work, it was not unwanted.

  “I thought we were friends,” said Hypnos, hiccuping. “Notwithstanding cat sacrifice on Wednesdays, etcetera.”

  “We are friends,” said Zofia.

  She meant it. Zofia wished Laila were here. She would know what to say. Zofia gave her best effort and brought out her matchbox.

  “Want to set something on fire?” she asked.

  Hypnos snorted. “A rather dangerous suggestion given my current inebriation.”

  “You’re alway
s inebriated.”

  He pondered this. “True. Give me a match.”

  Zofia struck one and handed it to him. He squinted as he watched the flame eat its way down the wood until the spark extinguished and smoke unspooled from the burnt end.

  “That is rather calming,” he said, shrugging. “But I’d rather help than scavenge around for flammable things.”

  Enrique’s words drifted back to Zofia: If you can, on the way, try and buy us time.

  “I know how you can help,” said Zofia.

  Hypnos clapped his hands. “Do tell!”

  “Make others drunk,” said Zofia. “Delay the Midnight Auction. That will be the greatest help.”

  “Help!” Hypnos hiccuped and grinned. “Cause a drunken distraction? Bawdy songs? Impromptu waltzes? I love waltzes.”

  “Would you?”

  A wide smile tugged at Hypnos’s mouth. “Would I prove that I’d do anything to help my friends? Oui, ma chère, I would.” He waved his hand. “Besides, you know I live for antics.”

  * * *

  ZOFIA USED THE SERVANT ENTRYWAYS to avoid the main atrium. She did not want to see that white tent again. Two uniformed guards protected the hall leading to the ice grotto. An unfamiliar Order of Babel insignia was emblazoned on the front of their jackets.

  Zofia considered the various scripts she had memorized over the past two years of working on acquisitions with Séverin. She set her teeth and touched her heart, not out of sentimentality but for the reminder of the letter from Hela pressed against her chest. Sometimes she needed help, but that did not make her helpless.

  Zofia marched up to the guards.

  “And who are you?” asked one of them.

  “I am one of the Forging engineers who supervised the removal of treasure,” said Zofia, in her best approximation of a haughty voice. “I was asked by the auctioneer to sweep the ice grotto for any remaining treasure.”

  The other one shook his head. “They already have someone doing that right now.”