Star-Touched Stories

by Roshani Chokshi

  In the narrow hallway, L’Eden’s waitstaff bustled past her. They carried chilled oysters on the half shell; quail eggs floating in bone marrow soup; and steaming coq a vin that left the hall smelling like Burgundy wine and buttery garlic. Without her trademark mask and headdress, not one of them recognized her as the cabaret star L’Enigme. Here, she was just another person, another worker.

  Alone in the baking kitchens, Laila surveyed the marble kitchen counter strewn with culinary scales, paintbrushes, edible pearls in a glass dish and—as of this afternoon—a croquembouche tower nearly four feet high. She had been up at dawn baking choux pastry balls, filling them with sweetened cream, and making sure that each and every sphere was the perfect coin-gold of dawn before rolling them in caramel and stacking them into a pyramid. All that was left was the decoration.

  L’Eden had already won all manner of accolades for its fine dining—Séverin would accept nothing less—but it was the desserts that lit up the guests’ dreams. Laila’s desserts, though absent of Forging, were like edible magic. Her cakes took the shape of ballerinas with outstretched arms—their hair spun sugar and edible gold, their skin pale as cream and strewn with sweet pearl dust.

  Guests called her creations “divine.” When she stepped into the kitchen, that was exactly how she felt. Like a deity surveying the scraps of a universe not yet made. She breathed easier in the kitchen. Sugar and flour and salt had no memory. Here, her touch was just that. A touch. A distance closed, an action brought to an end.

  An hour later, she was putting the finishing touches on a cake when the door slammed open. Laila sighed, but she didn’t look up. She knew who it was.

  Six months after Laila had started working for Séverin, she and Enrique had been playing cards in the star-gazing room when Séverin walked in carrying a dirty, underfed Polish girl with eyes bluer than a candle’s heart. Séverin set her down on the couch, introduced her as his Engineer, and that was that. Only later did Laila discover more about her. Arrested for arson and expelled from University, Zofia possessed a rare Forging affinity for all metals and a sharp mind for numbers.

  When she first came to L’Eden, Zofia spoke only to Séverin and ran—or rather, sprinted—in the opposite direction when anyone else approached her. Laila noticed, however, that when she brought desserts for meetings, Zofia only ate the pale sugar cookies, leaving all the colorfully decorated desserts untouched. So, the next day, Laila left a plate of them outside her door. She did that for three weeks before she got busy one day in the kitchens and forgot. When she opened the door to air the room, she found Zofia holding out an empty plate and staring at her expectantly. That had been a year ago.

  Now, without saying a word, Zofia grabbed a clean mixing bowl, filled it with water and guzzled it on the spot. Zofia dragged her arm across her mouth. Then she reached for a bowl of icing. Laila smacked her hand, lightly, with a rolling pin. Zofia glowered, then dipped an ink-stained finger into the icing anyway. A moment later, she began absentmindedly stacking the measuring cups according to size. Laila waited patiently. With Zofia, conversations were not initiated so much as caught at random and followed through until the other girl grew bored.

  “I set some fires in the House Kore courier’s room.”

  Laila dropped the paintbrush. “What? You were supposed to wake him up without being in the room!”

  “I did? I set them off when I stepped outside. They’re tiny.” When met with Laila’s wide-eyed stare, Zofia abruptly changed the subject. Though, to her, it probably did not seem abrupt at all. “I don’t like crocodile musculature. Séverin wants a decoy of those Sphinx masks—”

  “Can we go back to the fire—”

  “—the mask won’t meld to human facial expressions. I need to make it work. Oh, I also need a new drawing board.”

  “What happened to the last one?”

  Zofia inspected the icing bowl and shrugged.

  “… you broke it,” said Laila.

  “My elbow fell into it.”

  Laila shook her head, and threw her a clean rag. Zofia stared at it, befuddled.

  “Why do I need a rag?”

  “Because there’s gunpowder on your face.”

  “And…”

  “… and that is mildly alarming, my dear. Clean up.”

  Zofia dragged the rag down her face. The ends of the cloth caught on her strange necklace, which looked strung together with knife points.

  “When will they be back?” asked Zofia.

  Laila felt a sharp pang.

  “Enrique and Séverin should be here by nine.”

  “I need to grab my letters.”

  Laila frowned. “This late? It’s already dark out, Zofia.”

  Zofia touched her necklace. “I know.”

  Zofia tossed her the rag. Laila caught it and threw it in the sink. When she turned around, Zofia had grabbed the spoon for the icing.

  “I need that!”

  Zofia stuck the spoon in her mouth.

  “Zofia!”

  The Engineer grinned. Then she swung open the door and ran off, the spoon still sticking out of her mouth.

  Once she finished the dessert, Laila cleaned up and left the kitchen. She was not the official pastry chef, nor did she wish to be, and half the allure of this hobby job was that it was only for pleasure. If she did not wish to make something, she didn’t.

  The farther she walked down the main serving hall, the more the sounds of L’Eden came alive—laughter ribboning between the glassy murmur of the amber chandeliers and champagne flutes, the hum of Forged moths and their stained-glass wings as they shed colored light in their flight. Laila stopped in front of the Mercury Cabinet, the hotel’s messaging service. Small metal boxes marked with the names of the Hotel staff sat inside. Laila opened it with her staff key, not expecting to find anything for her when her fingers brushed against something that felt like cold silk. It was a single, black petal pinned to a one-word note:

  Invidia.

  Even without the flower, Laila would have recognized that cramped and slanted handwriting anywhere: Tristan. She had to force herself not to smile. After all, she was still mad at him.

  But that would not stop her from accepting a present.

  Especially one that he had Forged.

  Forged. It was a word that sat strangely on her tongue when she’d first arrived in Paris. The empires and kingdoms of the West called Tristan and Zofia’s abilities ‘Forging,’ but the artistry had other names in other languages. In India, they called it ‘chhota saans,’ the small breath, for while only gods breathed life into creation; this art was a small sip of such power. Yet, no matter its name, the rules guiding the affinity were the same.

  There were two kinds of Forging affinities: mind and matter. Someone with a matter affinity could influence one of three material states: liquids, solids or gasses. Both Tristan and Zofia had matter affinities, but whereas Zofia’s Forging affinity was for solid matter—mostly metals and crystals—Tristan had an affinity for liquid matter. Specifically, the liquid present in plants.

  All Forging was bound by three conditions: the strength of the artisan’s will, the clarity of the artistic goal, and the boundaries of their chosen mediums’ natural and elemental properties. Which meant that someone with a Forging affinity for solid matter with a specificity in stone would go nowhere without understanding the attendant chemical formulas and properties of the stone they wished to manipulate.

  The affinity manifested in a child no later than thirteen years of age. If the child wished to hone the affinity, he or she could study for years Most Forging artisans studied for years at renowned institutions or held lengthy apprenticeships. Zofia and Tristan, however, had followed neither of those paths. Zofia, because she had been kicked out of school before she had the chance. And Tristan because, well, Tristan had no need of it. His landscape artistry looked like the fever dream of a nature spirit. It was unsettling and beautiful, and Paris couldn’t get enough of him. At the age of sixteen, th
e waiting list for a commission stretched into the hundreds.

  Laila often wondered why Tristan stayed at L’Eden. Perhaps it was loyalty to Séverin. Or because L’Eden allowed Tristan to keep his bizarre arachnid displays. But when Laila stepped into the gardens, she felt the reason. The perfume of the flowers thick in her lungs. The garden turning jagged and wild in the falling dark. And she understood. Tristan’s other clients had so many rules, like House Kore, which had commissioned extravagant topiaries for its upcoming celebration. L’Eden was different. Tristan loved Séverin like a brother, but he stayed here because only in L’Eden could he lift marvels from his mind, free of any demands.

  Once she stepped into the gardens of L’Eden, she was inside Tristan’s imagination. The gardens were no paradise, but a labyrinth of sins. Seven, to be exact.

  The first garden was Lust, or Luxuria as it was known in Latin. Here, red flowers spilled from the hollow mouths of statues. Life-sized shrub sculptures of damned lovers like Paolo and Francesca clung to each other only to be yanked apart by the vines rippling invisibly beneath the grass. In one corner, Cleopatra coughed up garnet amaryllis and pink-frilled anemone. In another, Helen of Troy whispered zinnia and poppies. Laila moved quickly through the labyrinth. Past Gluttony, or Gula, where a sky of glossy blooms that smelled of ambrosia closed tight the moment one reached for them. Then Greed, or Avaritia, where each plant and stem and leaf appeared encased in gold veneer. Next came Sloth, or Acedia, with its slow-moving shrubs; Wrath, or Ira, with its fiery florals; then Pride, or Superbia, with its gargantuan, moving topiaries of green stags with flowering antlers and regal lions with manes of jasmine, until finally she was in Envy. Invidia. Here, a suffusion of greenery. The very shade of sin.

  Laila stopped before the Tezcat Door propped up near the entrance. To anyone who didn’t know its secrets, the Tezcat looked like an ordinary mirror, albeit with a lovely frame that resembled gilded ivy leaves. Tezcat Doors were impossible to distinguish from ordinary mirrors without, according to Zofia, a complicated test involving fire and phosphorous. Luckily, she didn’t have to go through that. To get to the other side, she simply unlocked it by pinching the fourth gilded ivy leaf on the left side of the frame. A hidden doorknob. Her reflection rippled as the silver of the Tezcat Door’s mirror thinned to transparency.

  Inside was Tristan’s workplace. Laila breathed in the scent of earth and roots. All along the walls were small terrariums, landscapes squeezed into miniature form and frozen. Tristan made them almost obsessively. When she asked him once, he told her that it was because he wished the world were easier. Small enough and manageable enough to fit in the hollow of one’s palm.

  “Laila!”

  Tristan walked toward her with a wide smile on his round face, dirt smudged on his clothes and—she breathed a sigh of relief—no sign of his gigantic pet spider.

  But she did not return his smile. Instead, she lifted an eyebrow. Tristan wiped his hands down his smock.

  “Oh … you’re still mad?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Would giving you a present make you less mad?”

  Laila lifted her chin. “Depends on the present. But first, say it.”

  Tristan shifted on his feet. “I am sorry.”

  “For?”

  “… for putting Goliath on your dressing table.”

  “Where does Goliath belong? And for that matter, where do all your pet insects and whatnot belong?”

  Tristan looked wide eyed. “… not in your room?”

  “Close enough.”

  He turned to the work table beside him where a large, frosted glass terrarium took up half the space. He lifted the cover, revealing a single, deep purple rose. The petals looked like snippets of nighttime. She traced their velvet edges softly. They were almost exactly the same shade of Séverin’s eyes. The thought made her draw back her hand, as if stung.

  “Voila! Behold your present, Forged with a little bit of silk taken from one of your costumes—”

  When he caught her frantic gaze, he added:

  “—One of the ones you were going to throw away, promise!”

  Laila relaxed a bit.

  “So … am I forgiven?”

  He already knew he was. But she still decided to draw out the moment a little longer than necessary. She tapped her foot, biding her time.

  Then: “Fine.”

  Tristan let out a whoop of happiness, and Laila couldn’t help but smile. Tristan could get away with anything with those wide, gray eyes.

  “Oh! I came up with a new device. I wanted to show Séverin. Where is he?”

  When he caught sight of her face, Tristan’s grin fell.

  “They’re not back yet?”

  “Yet,” emphasized Laila. “Don’t worry. These things take time. Why don’t you come inside? I’ll make you something to eat.”

  Tristan shook his head. “Maybe later. I have to check on Goliath. I don’t think he’s feeling well.”

  Laila did not ask how Tristan would know the emotional states of a tarantula. Instead, she took her Forged rose and headed back inside the Hotel. As she walked, unease shaded her thoughts. At the top of the stairs, the grandfather clock struck the tenth hour. Laila felt the lost hour like an ache in her bones. They should have been back by now.

  Something was wrong.

  3

  ENRIQUE

  Enrique scowled as he held apart the bear’s jaws. “Remember when you said ‘this will be fun’?”

  “Can this wait?” Séverin grunted through clenched teeth.

  “I suppose.”

  Enrique’s tone was light, but every part of his body felt leaden. The onyx bear held Séverin’s wrist between its teeth. Every passing second, it bore down harder. Blood began to run down his arm. Soon, the pressure of the creature’s jaws wouldn’t just trap his wrist.

  It would snap it in half.

  At least the emerald House Kore eagle hadn’t got involved. That particular stone creature could detect “suspicious” activity and come to life even when its own object was not in question. Enrique nearly muttered a prayer of thanks until he heard a soft caw. Air gusted over his face from the unmistakable flap of wings.

  Well then.

  “Was that the eagle?” winced Séverin.

  He couldn’t twist his body to turn.

  “No, not at all,” said Enrique.

  In front of him, the eagle tilted its head to one side. Enrique pulled more strongly on Séverin’s trapped wrist. Séverin groaned.

  “Forget it,” he wheezed. “I’m stuck. We need to put it to sleep.”

  Enrique agreed, but the only question was how. Because Forged creatures were too dangerous to go unchecked most artisans would have added a last-minute security measure, a failsafe known as ‘slumber mode.’ But even if he found it, it might be further encrypted. Worse, if he let go of the jaws, they’d only crush Séverin’s wrist faster. And if they didn’t get out by the eight-minute limit, the Forged creatures would be the last of their worries.

  Séverin grunted:

  “By all means, take your time. I love a good slow, painful death.”

  Enrique let go. Steadying himself, he circled the onyx bear, ignoring the ever-closer jumping of the obsidian eagle. He ran his hands along the bear’s body, the black haunches and shaggy feet. Nothing.

  “Enrique,” breathed Séverin.

  Séverin fell to his knees. Rivulets of blood streamed, dripping down the creature’s jaws. Enrique swore under his breath. He closed his eyes. Sight wouldn’t help him here. With so little light in the room, he would have to feel for any words. He trailed his fingers across the bear’s haunches and belly until he caught something near its ankles. They were chipped away depressions in the stone; evenly spaced and close together as if it were a line of writing. The letters and words came to life beneath his touch.

  Fiduciam in domum

  “Trust in the House,” translated Enrique. He whispered it again, running scenarios through his h
ead. “I … I have an idea.”

  “Do enlighten me,” managed Séverin.

  The bear lifted one of its heavy, jet paws, casting a shadow over Séverin’s face.

  “You have to … to trust it!” cried Enrique. “Don’t fight it! Push your wrist farther!”

  Séverin didn’t hesitate. He stood up, and pushed. But his hand remained stuck. Séverin growled. He threw himself against the creature. His shoulder popped wetly. Every second felt like a blade pressed tight against Enrique’s skin. Just then, the eagle took off in the air. It circled the room, then swooped, talons out. Enrique ducked just as the jewel claws grazed his neck. He wouldn’t be so lucky the next time. Once more, claws rasped at his neck. The eagle’s talons tugged him upwards, his heels lifted off the ground. Enrique shut his eyes tight.

  “Just mind the hair—” he started.

  Abruptly, he dropped to the ground. He opened his eyes a crack. A bare ceiling met his gaze. Behind him, he heard the shuffling of talons on a podium. He raised himself up on his elbows.

  The eagle had gone statue still.

  Séverin heaved and rose to a stand. He clutched his wrist. Then, yanking his arm, he swung it forward. Enrique grimaced at the wet snick of joints popping back into place. Séverin wiped the blood on his pants and yanked out the Forged compass from the mouth of the still onyx bear. He slid it into his jacket, and smoothed back his hair.

  “Well,” he said, finally. “At least it wasn’t like Nisyros Island.”

  “Are you serious?” demanded Enrique. He limped after his friend to the door. “It’ll be ‘like dreaming’ you said. As ‘easy as sleep!’”

  “Nightmares are part of the spectrum of sleep.”

  “Is that a joke?” demanded Enrique. “You do realize your hand is mangled.”

  “I am aware.”

  “You almost got eaten by a bear.”

  “Not a real one.”

  “The dismemberment would’ve been real enough.”

  Séverin only grinned.

  “See you in a bit,” he said, and slipped out of the door.