Yrsa had saved us in the end. Her body lay crushed under a large, splintered piece of wood that must have shot out in the blast. A ceiling beam. It ended mere inches from my neck. Next to her motionless hand rested the shattered remains of the teacup atop a frozen puddle of not-milk.
Whatever enchantment was done to Zosa’s porcelain finger must have broken when the teacup smashed. I couldn’t think of any other explanation.
I sat up and winced when my kitchen frock snapped like a crust of ice from the floor. Taking a painful breath, I looked around.
Salon d’Amusements lay in ruins.
The center of the room, where Issig had stood, fared the worst. Behind it, the great marble bar appeared whole, except that every glass vial had burst from the cold, contents shooting into the air and freezing solid in an instant. The thing looked like the sculptural aftermath of a great frozen fountain. It was strangely beautiful. From where I sat, I could make out a vein of silver nightmare shooting up from the colored ice.
Snow fell everywhere, drifting down from the ceiling, clumping on the floor. The glass wall dividing the salon from the lobby now hung in gnarled pieces, blasted apart. Great billows of white blew through the gaping hole, over the ravaged mess of lacquered wood tables, mangled and blanketed with snow.
I scooped a clump next to my feet and pressed it against the heat of my chest. The ice melted away, leaving behind a glob of soggy paper. My breath hitched when I caught a few pieces flecked with purple.
The paper snow blew everywhere, coating the air. The endless catalogues of artéfacts, enchantments, contracts—everything penned with purple ink inside that ledger—had been destroyed.
I touched my head, remembering that blanket of fog over my mind a mere minute ago. It was gone, my mind clear. With a shudder, I remembered how easily my mind had clouded over the moment I put the necklace around Issig’s neck.
Through the ringing in my ears, I could hear shouts. My name.
Béatrice stood amid shattered bits of crystal. Her gag had fallen away. She was covered, head to toe, in clumps of paper snow as she picked her way through the broken debris. When she got to me, she stopped, staring—at my face, my hands, the trembling bird at my neck—in disbelief. Blood dripped from a gash at her brow, but otherwise she seemed unharmed. Thank god she wasn’t close to Issig when he summoned the blast. I threw an arm around her. Tears flowed then froze in an instant down our cheeks.
“I remember now.” A sob shook her chest. “My sister—”
“Is alive.”
“What?”
“She lives in the blue city north of the continent, the one we stopped at. Bel introduced me to her.”
Béatrice appeared to be at a loss for words. I wanted to ask her more about Margot, but now was not the time.
“Here,” I said. The tin of gears hummed when I fished them from my pocket and placed them in her cold, open palm.
Zosa cooed.
“I should go check on the others,” Béatrice said, wiping her face. “Give you two time.” She turned away, shouting more names, using her gears to clear rubble.
After she left, I pulled a finger down Zosa’s neck. She trembled, but when she pecked at me, I knew she was unscathed. Her tiny eyes widened when the talon touched down on the edge of her wing.
In an instant, Zosa unfurled into a person. It was so sudden, I had no time to set her down. Before I could think, I lay sprawled on the floor, Zosa seated on my chest, legs akimbo, sopping golden feathers from her dress tickling my nose. I sat up and grabbed her shoulders for the first time in weeks. She threw her arms around me and squeezed me so tight, a muscle popped.
“Too tight,” I said, and she laughed until I reached down and took her hands, felt her missing fingers, felt her. “Can I see?” I asked, but her head shook. She dragged her hand from mine and hid it in her damp skirt. I thought about snatching it back, inspecting it, but decided against it. She’d show me when she wanted to, and in her own time.
After a moment, she looked down, suddenly shy. Besides the day she lost her fingers, it had been weeks since we’d truly spoken.
“You helped with all this, you know,” I said. “It wouldn’t have happened without you.”
“So I’m useful?” Her mouth quirked.
I wiped a tear. “And pushy.”
She pinched my nose and I began to weep, and she was laughing. Then we were both soggy and damp, dripping with tears and giddy, digging up handfuls of melting paper snow. After a few minutes, Zosa grew quiet, picking paper from under a nail.