The Silvered Serpents

by Roshani Chokshi

  Each time she’d thought to tell him, fury stilled her tongue. She couldn’t live with his pity, and she would die at his apathy. All that remained was his silence. Laila wondered if that was the truest death—being slowly rendered invisible so that all she inspired was indifference.

  Laila glanced at the invitation on her vanity. The theme of the Winter Conclave was dusk and dawn … to herald the transition of a new year.

  For tonight, she selected a gown steeped in midnight. The Forged silk clung to every contour. Its only nod to opulence was the ends of the gown, the tendrils of which appeared like ribbons of ink suspended in water. If she leaned forward, the top of the long scar down her spine peeked out. It used to make her feel like a doll hastily put together; now, she merely felt like she wasn’t hiding her truth. Laila fastened the cold diamonds to her throat.

  Now what?

  “Now,” said Laila, more to herself than to anyone else. “Now, I dance.”

  At the top of the staircase, the loud sounds of revelry reached her, thrumming with urgency and desperation. Candles lined the stair banister, Forged to appear like gleaming suns. Lustrous moons crowded the ceiling, and silver confetti spiraled slowly through the air so that it was like watching a constellation explode in slow motion. The members of the Order of Babel had dressed as gods and goddesses, demons and seraphs … all of whom embodied dusk or dawn.

  Laila scanned the crowd, looking for the others. From the Midnight Auction’s podium, Hypnos led the crowd in chanting the lyrics to a bawdy song while the auctioneer looked increasingly distressed and kept gesturing to the time. When Hypnos saw her, he winked. Not an uncommon gesture coming from him, but it made her pause. It felt intentional, like he was deliberately distracting the crowd. But to what purpose?

  “Mademoiselle L’Énigme,” said a familiar voice at her side.

  Laila turned to see Eva, dressed in a ball gown of brightest green. Her red hair was arranged in a cascading coiffure, with a gold headpiece unfurling behind her ears like slender wings. Eva crossed her arms, and Laila caught the glint of her silver ring sheathing her pinky like a claw. Eva caught her looking and smiled. It was a cat’s smile with all her small, sharp teeth. Eva opened her mouth, but Laila spoke before her.

  “You look beautiful, Eva.”

  Eva paused, almost flinching at the compliment. Abruptly, her hand went to the ballerina pendant at her neck before she dropped it.

  “We could still be friends,” said Laila.

  Death’s shadow robbed her of subtlety, and she watched as Eva’s eyes widened almost guiltily before she snapped back to herself.

  “You have too many things I want, Mademoiselle,” she said coldly, and then tilted her head. “Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to be you.”

  Laila smiled. “A short-lived wonder, I imagine.”

  Eva frowned.

  “Who are you supposed to be?” she asked. “A goddess of night?”

  Laila hadn’t really considered herself dressed as a goddess, but now she thought of the stories her mother had told her, tales of star-touched queens who trailed nighttime in their shadows.

  “Why not,” she said. “And you?”

  Eva gestured at the green of her gown, and only then did Laila notice the delicate pattern of insect wings.

  “Tithonus,” said Eva. “The ill-fated lover of Eos, goddess of the dawn.”

  When she saw the confusion on Laila’s face, she said, “Tithonus was so beloved of the goddess of dawn that she begged Zeus for his immortality, so that he might stay with her forever … but she forgot to ask for eternal youth. He grew old and hideous, and pleaded for death that no god could grant until Eos took pity on him and turned him into a cricket.”

  The story raised goose bumps on Laila’s skin.

  “You’re dressed as a warning, then?”

  “Why not,” said Eva, lifting one shoulder. “A warning to be careful of what we demand from the gods.”

  From the podium, Hypnos struck a gong and pointed at the musicians. “A dance before we divide our treasures!”

  The crowd clapped. The auctioneer threw up his hands in surrender just as the musicians struck up a lively tune. When Laila turned back to Eva, she realized the other girl had moved closer, until she was hardly a handspan away from her.

  “That necklace is beautiful,” said Eva, tilting her head. “But it’s gotten turned, and the clasp is at the front. Allow me to adjust it.”

  Without waiting for her answer, Eva reached out to her throat, freezing fingers slipping under Laila’s necklace. Laila gasped from the cold, but it turned to a wince in her mouth as something sharp grazed her skin.

  “There, all better now,” said Eva. “Enjoy the party.”

  Eva turned, disappearing into the crowd of wings and haloes. Only then did Laila feel a slight trickle of blood at her neck.

  Eva’s ring had left a tiny cut. Laila touched it, confusion giving way to scorn. She had no time for Eva’s small acts of spite.

  Around her, the members of the Order of Babel had begun to dance. Dozens of participants wore Forged masks of ice—elaborate, glittering feathers, or cruel things with hooked beaks. Some of them had smeared gold paint across their mouths, as if they were gods recklessly bleeding out their own rich blood.

  Laila stumbled back, only for a man wearing a crown of the sun’s rays to catch her up in his arms. She hesitated an instant before surrendering to the dance. Her very pulse became an intoxicating cadence. More, she begged of her heartbeats. Laila danced for nearly an hour, switching from partner to partner, pausing only to sip the sweet ice wine in crystal glasses. She danced until her feet slipped out from beneath her, and she lurched forward, flinging out her arms before someone yanked her back at the last second.

  “Are you all right, my dear?” asked a familiar voice.

  Laila turned to see Ruslan, his uninjured hand still outstretched from breaking her fall.

  Her heartbeat thundered loudly in her ears. “Yes, thanks to you.”

  “I was rather hoping I would see you,” he said shyly. “May I convince you to take one more turn around the room?”

  “I never need much convincing to dance,” said Laila, smiling.

  Ruslan beamed. As they danced, he held his injured arm close to his chest, though he was no less graceful because of it. His Babel Ring caught the light, and for the first time, Laila noticed a bluish tinge to the skin. His hand looked far too stiff.

  “Does it hurt?”

  His eyes softened. “Do you know … you’re the only person who has asked me that. I wish there could be more people like you, Mademoiselle.”

  He spun her in a small circle, only to be interrupted by a server wearing a white rabbit mask and holding a bloodred platter piled with onyx glasses.

  “May I interest you in some refreshment?” asked the server, holding out a bitter-smelling drink. “Specially made blood Forged drinks in honor of the Winter Conclave.” The server grinned, and Laila noticed his teeth had a scarlet tinge to them. “To consume a drop of one’s own blood allows you to submit to your innermost desires … a drop of another’s blood and you could even wear their face for an hour.”

  Laila recoiled. “No, thank you.”

  Ruslan also declined, but he stared almost longingly after the drinks. “Too eerie for my taste, although it would be nice to look different for a change…”

  He sighed, patting the top of his head.

  “I quite like my own face,” said Laila wryly.

  “I am sure Monsieur Montagnet-Alarie would agree,” said Ruslan, winking. “Might I ask where Mademoiselle Boguska and Monsieur Mercado-Lopez are for the evening?”

  “Preoccupied, I believe,” said Laila, staring after the platter of blood Forged drinks. “Poring over the recent treasures excavated from the metal leviathan before the Midnight Auction.”

  “Midnight is a flexible hour it seems,” said Ruslan. “But it gives time for others to follow your lead, perhaps even change their attire.
”

  Laila frowned. “How do you mean?”

  “Well, not thirty minutes ago, I saw you dressed in a lovely green gown,” said Ruslan. “You and Monsieur Montagnet-Alarie were heading to your suite—to change, I imagine, and, ah, well…”

  Ruslan turned red, fumbling to finish his sentence, but Laila had stopped listening.

  A green dress. An image of Eva’s kitten-teeth smile flashed through her mind. She remembered the sensation of cold fingers on her neck, and the hot slick of her own blood on her fingers. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to be you.

  “I have to go,” said Laila abruptly, turning on her heel.

  Ruslan called out after her, but Laila ignored him. She ran back through the crowd, up the stairs. Her skin felt tight and burning, and as she raced up the stairs, she wondered whether they might just melt out from beneath her.

  At the top of the stairs and down the hall leading to their suite, she saw their door had been left ajar. Laila pushed it open. The smell of spiced wine hit her nose, and the first thing she saw were two black goblets. Two pairs of shoes. Neither of them her own. Acid rushed through Laila’s gut as she lifted her gaze from the floor and heard a soft groan coming from the bed. The curtains of the ice canopy shifted, and the sight froze her to the spot. Séverin’s head was bent into the crook of a girl’s neck, his hands digging into her waist … the girl looked up at the sound of the door scraping against the floor.

  She was wearing Laila’s face.

  When their eyes met, she smiled one of Laila’s smiles, but it looked all wrong on her. It was too sly.

  “I had to sate my curiosity somehow,” she said.

  The girl was wearing Eva’s dress … but spoke with Laila’s voice. And around her pinky finger, Laila spied the sharp-taloned silver ring. The same ring that had punctured her skin and drawn blood. Laila advanced toward her. Eva’s fright flickered across her own face as she scrambled backward on the bed. Séverin lifted his head, looking between the false Laila on the bed and the true Laila. Shock widened his eyes. He touched his mouth, disbelief slowly giving way to a look of blank horror.

  Eva leapt to the floor, clutching her ring and circling Laila.

  “Leave,” said Laila.

  “You should feel flattered,” said Eva quickly.

  “And you should feel my heel in your ribs,” said Laila.

  Eva stumbled back. She tried to grab her shoes, but Laila grabbed a candelabra from the top of a nearby dresser. Eva’s eyes widened.

  “You wouldn’t.”

  “Just because you wear my face doesn’t mean you know me,” she growled.

  Eva looked at her shoes and necklace, then back at Laila.

  “Go,” said Laila one last time.

  Eva skittered around her, pressed against the wall before she raced out of the room. Laila slammed the door shut behind her. Fury vibrated through her. Fury and—though it felt like a cruel twist—want. That was supposed to be her on that bed, braced between his arms.

  “How could you think that was me?” she demanded.

  Or worse … had he known all along it was never her? Séverin looked at her, and the expression there, as if he’d been laid bare, banished her doubt. His shirt was undone, pulled from his trousers, and the topmost buttons exposed the bronze of his throat. He had the look of someone gloriously defiant even in his defeat, like a seraph freshly flung out of heaven.

  “I saw what I wanted to see,” he said, hoarse. “Only a desperate man trusts a mirage in the desert and I am desperate, Laila. Everything I came here for … it was nothing. And because it was nothing, I had no excuses left.”

  “Excuses?” repeated Laila. “Excuses for what?”

  She moved closer, noticing the smudged line of blood on his neck and the blush tinge at his mouth. Dimly, she remembered the two goblets on the floor, and the server’s words: To consume one’s own blood allows one to submit to their innermost desires.

  “Excuses to stay away from you,” he said, the words rushing out of him. “Excuses to tell you that you’re a poison I’ve come to crave. Excuses to tell you that you terrify me out of my senses, and how I’m fairly certain you’ll be the death of me, Laila, and yet I can’t bring myself to mind.”

  The words shuddered through her, and Laila felt a flicker of power in her veins. It was that same thrum of energy that she had once felt in the dance theatre of House Kore when he had watched her … his posture like that of a bored emperor, his stare like that of someone starved. She stared at Séverin now, propped against the pillows, his expression desperate and raw. The more she looked at him, the more a dangerous molten heat spread through her.

  Laila turned her ring—and all its dwindling days—toward her palm, hiding it from herself. She hardly knew what she was doing, only that she couldn’t stop herself. She climbed onto the bed, her pulse going jagged the second his eyes widened.

  “How do you know I’m not a mirage … how do you know I’m real this time, Séverin?” asked Laila. “You said so yourself I wasn’t.”

  As she spoke, she straddled him, her hips above his. Séverin’s mouth twisted up, dark and lupine.

  “Perhaps,” he said, his voice low. He trailed his hand up her thigh. “All goddesses are just beliefs draped on the scaffolding of ideas. I can’t touch what’s not real.” Séverin looked up at her. His pupils were blown out. “But I can worship it all the same.”

  Laila’s hands went to his shoulders … his neck.

  “Can I, Laila?” he asked. His eyes burned. “Will you let me?”

  Laila dug her fingers in his hair, tugging backwards so he couldn’t look away from her. He winced slightly, the corner of his mouth twisting into a smile when she finally let herself say, “Yes.”

  Barely a second after she’d spoken, his hands went to her waist, dragging her swiftly off his lap so she fell to the bed. There was a moment when the perpetual twilight outside snuck across her vision … but it disappeared when Séverin moved over her and became her night.

  * * *

  LAILA WOKE UP WITH an unfamiliar ache in her chest. She brought her fingers to her throat, checking her pulse: one, two … one, two … one, two …

  Her heartbeat was normal. So then what was this ache? Beside her, Séverin stirred. His arm slung across her waist curved, drawing her against him. Against his heartbeat. In sleep, he pressed a kiss to her scar, and finally Laila recognized the shape and flutter of this ache.

  Hope.

  It felt like the flicker of newly made wings, thin and chrysalis-slick, dangerous in its new power. Hope hurt. She’d forgotten the pain of it. Laila stared at her hand on Séverin’s. Slowly, she twined her fingers in his, and that ache roared sharply the tighter he held their clasped hands.

  They had seen the other bared before, but not like this. Séverin had revealed a corner of his soul, and Laila wanted to answer that strength. She wanted to wake him, to tell him of the handful of days she had left. She didn’t want to give up in their search, but renew it. Together.

  Giddy, she slipped out of bed. She refused to say anything to him with her hair in this state; her mother would’ve rioted. She reached for her robe on the floor when her fingers brushed against something cold … something simmering with pain and fury right beneath the metal. Laila yelped, then looked down; it was Eva’s ballerina necklace and pendant.

  She stared at it, then looked back at Séverin sleeping in the bed.

  It felt wrong to spy into this part of Eva with Séverin so close to her. Gingerly, Laila pulled on her robe, then stepped out into the hallway and down the passage to the stair’s landing. Eva’s necklace vibrated with emotion, and the moment she touched it, the sensation of being hunted overwhelmed her, turning her pulse rabbit-quick with panic. Its most recent action had been last night, when Eva had removed it from her neck and concealed it in the palm of her hand after Séverin consumed the blood Forged drink. But there was a deeper memory within it. Laila closed her eyes, searching out the object’s truths—r />
  A small, red-haired Eva twirling before a painting of a beautiful ballerina with identical hair. She was in a room full of paintings and statues.

  “I want to dance like Mama!” she said.

  “You will never end up like your mama. Do you understand, Eva?”

  Even in the memory, Laila recognized the voice … Mikhail Vasiliev. The art dealer from St. Petersburg. An image of a portrait flashed through her head of a beautiful ballerina, Vasiliev’s lover who had killed herself after the birth of their illegitimate child. All this time they had thought the child was dead. They were wrong.

  Laila remembered Vasiliev’s last words in the salon:

  She will find you.

  It was never the matriarch. It was Eva, Vasiliev’s own daughter.

  Laila pressed the pendant harder, and the memories rushed forth—

  A long, hot knife taken to Eva’s leg. Her shrill screams as she pleaded for them to stop.

  “I can’t let you be like your mother. I’m doing this to protect you, child, you understand? I do this because I love you.”

  Tears prickled Laila’s eyes … but it was nothing compared to the panic she suddenly felt when the memory changed. The memories before had been deep-seated … but this … this was within the past year.

  “I know you want freedom, Eva Yefremovna. Do as I say, and I will give it to you. No more curfews, no more hiding, no more darkness. The Fallen House is depending on you.”

  The pendant fell from Laila’s hand with a small, metallic chime. Too many thoughts raced through her head, but it was the sound that caught her attention. The Winter Conclave revels were said to go on for hours. It shouldn’t be this silent.

  “You should have stayed in bed,” said Eva from the bottom of the staircase.

  The other girl had changed out of her green ballroom gown to an outfit of a soldier. Slim, black trousers and a close-fitting jacket.