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The carved mahogany door groans open under my touch, and I step into the bedroom's heavy, perfumed air. The tray in my hands feels suddenly precarious. Elara and Lyra are reclined on a mountain of velvet cushions, their bodies—taller than any person has a right to be—curved against the silk. They wear little: scraps of fabric that emphasize every impossible line. Lyra snatches a biscuit from the tray before I can even set it down, leaving a dusting of crumbs on the bedspread. Elara doesn't move, just watches me over the rim of her wine glass, her black eyes cool and assessing, a ghost of a smile touching her lips as she takes in my unsteady composure.