The Gilded Wolves by Roshani Chokshi

Author:Roshani Chokshi
Language: eng
Format: epub, pdf
Publisher: St. Martin’s Press

16

LAILA

Laila fumbled in the dark, her breaths shallow and quick.

If you panic, you’ll lose even more.

The taste of metal filled her mouth. She winced. The sharp lock pick had scraped the inside of her cheek. She spat it into her hand, then started feeling around for the hinges.

In a way, this was her fault. Three weeks ago, she’d ruined a cake. Séverin, perhaps trying to console her, or more likely get her out of his study, had said, “It’s just cake. It’s not like there’s anything valuable inside it.”

“Oh really?” she had demanded.

She’d baked his favorite snake seal into a fruit tart, and left it on his desk with a note: You’re wrong.

So who was she to blame when Séverin had slid the note she’d written across her kitchen counter, told her about his plan, and grinningly said, “Prove it.”

And here she was.

Trapped in a cake.

Sneaking herself into the base had been easy once the whole thing had been assembled. The final task—locking it shut—required Zofia.

Her fingers fumbled until they finally found the clasp. Sweat slicked her palms. The metal needles were wet with spit and kept sliding from her hands. All she could hear was her heartbeat. And then the pick notched into something. She stilled. Listening. Listening for the slight gasp of metal, the muffled snick of things aligning …

Pop.

The hinges came undone, clanging to the bottom of the base. Laila grinned.

And then she pushed. But the compartment wouldn’t budge. She pushed harder, but there was something blocking her. Wedging the small metal piece between the edges, Laila pried. A gap opened, just enough for her to glimpse what was blocking her exit.

The servant who had wheeled her in must have placed the base of the cake against the bookshelf.

She was trapped.

Outside, the clock chimed eight in the evening. The sound of the nautch dancers’ anklet bells chimed through the halls. Her heart lurched as she heard the familiar straining of a sitar in the distance, the musicians tuning their instruments for the dancers. Any second now, and Séverin would be standing outside, waiting to help the lost dancer while she slipped him the key.

But there was no way she could get out in time.

Laila threw her weight against the metal board, but nothing gave way. Another bell chimed. Shoes shuffling outside the door. If Séverin had been waiting for her to slip him the key, he’d left by now.

Folded onto her side in the dark, Laila reached down to remove her slippers. The right slid off. Then the left. She shoved one slipper into the other, twisting them through the gap in the cake base. Her arms shook as she pushed all her weight into those interlocked shoes braced against the bookcase.

At first, nothing happened. The cart didn’t budge. And then an inch gave way. More light slid through the base. Laila pushed again, scraping open her elbow.

The wheels of the cart squeaked, rolling backward and giving just enough room for Laila to slide out one leg, then the next, before she finally uncrumpled onto the carpet.

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