Sweat trickled down the back of Nikolai’s neck. His jaw cramped as he pressed onward, fighting the hostility of the waves and extending the dock’s posts into the floor of the bay. Finally, he embedded them deep in the sandy bottom.

Then he collapsed on the shore and lay on his back, panting.

But there was no time to rest. There was so much more to do before daybreak. Nikolai gave himself another moment to catch his breath and then climbed back to his feet, picked up his bag, and dragged himself to the center of the island.

Now for another enchantment.

Wire. Nikolai snapped his fingers.

And paper. He snapped again. And there, in the midst of all the trees, a spool of wire and a large sheet of crepe paper appeared in the air.

Nikolai began to hum a snake-charming song, an eerie, hollow tune. The wire unfurled and twisted up in wide spirals, as if it were a cobra at Nikolai’s command. When it was round and full, like the circular ribs inside a globe, Nikolai halted his melody.

The crepe paper came next. With a flick of his wrist, the white paper wrapped itself around the wire and instantly, the metal frame turned into a paper lantern. Nikolai tapped the top of the lantern, and it lit up, despite having no candle inside.

“Now I need about a thousand more.”

The lantern leaped to action and flew straight up into the sky. There, it began to multiply. Two, four, eight, sixteen, on and on until they had doubled ten times and reached a thousand and twenty-four. Nikolai pointed in every direction, and that sent each of them zipping to a different part of the garden, the island now lit up by a seemingly endless string of glowing paper orbs.

“Voilà,” he whispered. He hardly had enough energy to speak.

And yet, he produced a tiny bench from the satchel, purchased as part of a dollhouse set, and put it on the ground. Then he blew on the bench, and where there had been one, there were suddenly ten. Nikolai flung his arm outward, and the benches shot off and planted themselves along the main promenade, each bench equidistant from the next. There, they began to enlarge, like the model dock and the jack-in-the-box and ballerina had done before.

When the benches had grown to full size, Nikolai fell to his knees, all his muscles shaking. His shirt was drenched with sweat, his hair damp against his forehead. He wanted to lie down right there, melt into the gravel, and sleep for days. He could use his overcoat as a blanket. The waves slamming against the shore would be a fitting, violent lullaby.

But it was already past midnight, and there was still so much, too much, to be done before the sun rose in seven hours. At least the next part of his turn could be accomplished in his sleep. It would be a fitful sleep, but Nikolai would be able to recover a little while he worked. In theory.

He scraped himself off the ground and staggered to the nearest bench. There, he shrugged off his overcoat and laid it on top of the seat, then lay down and stretched out his legs, thankful he’d decided to make the benches extra long. He pulled his satchel under his head, like a pillow, and closed his eyes to sleep. But before he drifted off, he reached over and drummed his fingers several times on the armrest, and he whispered to the bench, “Moscow. This one is Moscow.”

And then his entire body relaxed, and he fell into a dream.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

At dawn, Vika’s scar flared, and she knew that Nikolai’s move had been made. She was also certain it was on the island, as sure as she knew that her hair was red. What Vika didn’t know was how Nikolai had interpreted her island. She didn’t even know herself whether she’d intended it as a means to cooperate or merely the next step in one-upmanship. Had she ruined their connection by fleeing the masquerade? Was Nikolai still merely an opponent? Or was he something more? Vika both feared and hoped for the latter option.

She climbed out of bed and peeked out of her curtains. It was barely light outside. And yet, she couldn’t wait several more hours until the ferries began to run and someone could be convinced to take her to the island. She could, of course, go down to the dock and commandeer a boat for herself. But even that seemed too slow. If only she could evanesce.

But why not try? Ever since the Game began—ever since she’d moved to Saint Petersburg—Vika had felt stronger. Maybe it was being close to Nikolai, their magic magnifying against each other. Or maybe the challenge of the Game simply pushed her to be better. But whatever it was, it allowed her to perform enchantments greater than she’d ever created before and to get by on almost no sleep, even after conjuring an entire island.

Of course, in the past, she’d only been able to evanesce a few feet, and it would be a few miles to the island. But it was worth an attempt. If it didn’t work, there was always a boat to steal.

Vika closed her eyes. She imagined herself disappearing and reappearing again on the new island.

Do it.

Do it.

Go . . .

She squeezed her eyes shut tighter. Nothing happened except everything got blacker.

Vika huffed and opened her eyes. Perhaps she would have to steal a boat.

Except I don’t want to, she thought. She really, really wanted to evanesce. In fact, this intensity of wanting reminded her of the same spark she used to feel right before she mastered a new skill, like mending a fox’s sprained ankle or beckoning the snow. It was a combination of pure will and the right moment that had allowed her to do those things. And now, with this increased power, with all this new energy from the Game . . . this was the moment. Vika knew this would be the moment she would learn to evanesce. It had to be.

Perhaps she needed to approach it differently. Rather than jumping from one place to the next, perhaps Vika needed to feel the sensation of evanescing, in order to coax it to happen. Provide her body with actual instructions, so to speak.

She closed her eyes again. But this time, instead of commanding her body to disappear and simply reappear, Vika first envisioned her body, whole, and then, when she could see every detail of herself, she began to think of her body not as one, but as an infinity of tiny pieces.

I am no longer Vika Andreyeva, she thought. I am composed of minuscule bubbles.

She felt herself begin to disintegrate.

And then she really did become those bubbles. I am effervescent! It made so much sense now. Vika was a master of the elements, and now she had become an element herself. She’d become a fizzy, magical rain.

The wind heard her desire to evanesce, and it whooshed through her window and blew her away.