FOR THE NEXT eighteen hours, none of them slept. Enrique spent so much time scouring books in the library that Laila had arranged for his bedding to be sent there. Hypnos was scarcely seen without a drink in his hand—the better to help me think!—and spent all his time corresponding with his own spies, accomplices, and guards. Zofia, meanwhile, lived up to her nickname, for she spent half the day submerged behind veils of smoke. And Laila … Laila kept them alive. Her hands were always working … pouring tea, offering food, rubbing tired scalps, grazing the edges of objects, while her smile stayed as still and knowing as ever.

One day, then two, and now midnight was nearly upon them.

Far away from the glitter and glamour, midnight soaked the gritty streets. Beggars slept huddled in corners, and skinny cats slipped around stone corners. Séverin and Laila walked lightly, their shoulders hunched against any curious glares. Séverin had never had any interest in seeing the catacombs. He knew that it was an underground ossuary holding the remains of millions. Cradled in its earth were the bodies of duchesses and aristocrats, plague victims, and those whose heads had been snapped off by a guillotine’s teeth. Countless, unnamed individuals who were now nothing more than ghastly halls and arches made from grinning skulls and cracked jaws.

Laila shivered as they got close. Slowly, she plucked off her gloves, then reached down to touch the metal fence surrounding the entrance. She closed her eyes, then gave a tight nod. Roux-Joubert was here. Calm washed over him then. He thought of the stories he’d heard growing up about the underworld. The tale of Orpheus, who looked behind him and lost everything. He wouldn’t be that. He would descend and ascend, and lose nothing but a handful of time. He swallowed hard against the doubt lodged at the back of his throat and took the stairs. Above his head, a sign carved in stone declared.

Arrète! C’est ici l’empire de la mort.

Stop! This is the empire of death.