“You never said what he was like when you saw him. Should we truly trust him?”

Laila lifted her chin. An imperial indifference settled over her features.

“He was … contrite,” she said. “And I do believe he means to help us, but he seems possessed by his idea. Like a man half-maddened. And yet underneath there were glimpses of…”

Laila broke off, shaking her head. Enrique knew what she had been about to say.

Glimpses of who he had once been.

But they both knew those were dangerous grounds for hope. And even if Séverin had found his way back to who he had been, Enrique refused to be the person he had once been, the foolish, wide-eyed historian whose trust was easily bought simply by indulging him. He wouldn’t be that fool. And he didn’t want to look like it either.

In a few minutes, he would have to leave for the piazza. Enrique studied his appearance one more time, turning his chin this way and that.

“You know,” said a voice at the entrance. “You are perhaps the only person I know who could look ravishing with one less ear.”

Enrique felt a dull pang of warmth as Hypnos—beautiful and immaculately dressed as always—stepped into the room. For the past few days, they had circled each other cautiously. Even on the evenings when Hypnos tried to enliven the group with some music, Enrique would not let a smile cross his lips.

“One, don’t toy with me,” said Enrique. “Two … since when are you awake before dawn?”

Hypnos didn’t answer him. Instead, he walked toward him slowly. The closer he got, the more Enrique felt as though he were testing a bruise. Did this hurt? What about now? A part of him winced at the other boy’s closeness, but it was no longer a jagged wound.

The truth was that Hypnos had always been honest with him. It was Enrique who hadn’t been honest with himself. Which made it all the more confusing when Hypnos reached out to cup his face, his fingers circling the outer edge of his bandages.

Enrique went still. “… What are you doing?”

“I’m not sure yet,” said Hypnos thoughtfully. “I believe it’s called ‘comforting,’ though such emotional exertion seems exhausting. If you require a distraction instead, you know I enjoy distracting you.”

A long dead flicker of something stirred weakly in Enrique’s heart. He pushed away Hypnos’s hand. That wasn’t what he wanted from him.

“I know I behaved badly,” said Hypnos.

Around them, the house was quiet. The candles in their sconces flickered. It felt like time could not touch them here, and perhaps that was what moved him to speak the truth.

“And I know I saw what I wanted to,” said Enrique.

Hypnos looked up at him. His frost-colored eyes looked unexpectedly warm. “When I said that I could learn to love you … I meant that … that someone like me needs time.”

Enrique stared at him. When Hypnos had spoken those words to him a few days ago, that was not how he had interpreted them. The words had hit him like a rejection, as if he were someone difficult to love. Now, a confused warmth spread through his chest.

“I—”

Hypnos shook his head. “I know now is not the time, mon cher. I merely wanted you to understand what I meant…” The other boy reached out, gently brushing the back of his hand against his bandage. “I am not here to hurt you. I am not here to tell you what a future such as ours might look like. I merely wanted you to know that at the very least, I can be your friend. I can hold your secrets, if you’d let me.”

A sigh loosed from Enrique. He did not move away when Hypnos stroked his face. An ache he did not realize he’d carried eased off of him.

“Thank you,” he said.

“Does that mean we are friends at least?” asked Hypnos hopefully.

At least. His mind would have to untangle that … later. Perhaps days later.

Enrique sighed. “I suppose.”

“Excellent,” said Hypnos. “Now. As your friend, it is my duty to tell you that your outfit is abominable, and as I fully expected this, I have another one already steamed, pressed, and ready for you to wear.”

* * *

TEN MINUTES AND some cursing later, Enrique—in a completely different set of clothes—waited in the Piazza San Marco.

Normally the piazza was crammed with people, but the day was cold, and the sunrise was little more than a wisp of gold on the lagoons. And so, for the past twenty minutes, he shared the view with no one but the pigeons. Eventually, the pigeons realized he had no food and abandoned him with a coo and a huff, fleeing for the gilded eaves of St. Mark’s Basilica which crowned the public square.

For a long while, Enrique could do nothing but stare at the piazza. This early, the square was alive with magic. The pale basilica seemed carved of antique moonlight and old snow. Its half-moon archways bore scenes of St. Mark’s bones arriving in Venice. Atop the precious porphyry marble columns, the four bronze horses stolen from the thirteenth century sack of Constantinople looked ready to burst from the church’s facade and take flight. Enrique had been to the piazza before, but he had never experienced it like this … as if history had pinned him to one place.

On one side of the basilica stood the Doge’s Palace—with its hundreds of columns and arches like frozen lace—and the rust-colored bell tower on the other. Around him, the square seemed to whisper in a thousand languages and traditions. Domed Islamic lanterns and jewel-encrusted North African alfiz arches stood side by side with the grand basilica. Inside it, the bright Byzantine gilding tempted one to imagine that the church had sliced out squares of sunshine and fixed the pieces one by one to form the cupolas’ gleaming bellies. Here, time had softened the lines of history and alchemized them into a collective story of humanity.

In that second, Enrique felt as though the buildings were watching him.

“Tabi tabi po,” he whispered.

Please excuse me.

He hoped his lola’s words worked, that the spirits in the buildings regarded him not as a trespasser but a humble visitor. Or perhaps a pilgrim. Someone looking for their place in the world.

His ear throbbed in the winter air, and Enrique touched it gingerly.

“Could you give me a sign?” he asked the silent buildings. “Please?”

Enrique closed his eyes. He felt the wind on his face. The stark February sun folding away the mist—

Something tugged at his jacket. Enrique’s eyes flew open. For a second, he almost imagined an enkanto peering up at him … its long fingers holding out a prize. We accept the trade, it would say, eyeing his lost ear.

But it was not an enkanto that stared up at him, it was a child. A boy no older than eight, wearing dirtied pants. His unruly hair was shoved under his cap.

“Per te,” said the child, dropping a red apple in his hand.

Enrique frowned, trying to hand the child back the apple. “No, grazie—”

The boy stepped back, scowling. “L’uomo ha detto che questo è per te.”

Without a second glance, the boy fled the square, leaving Enrique with the apple. Enrique’s Italian was fairly decent, but it took him a moment to parse the words:

The man said this is for you.

All this time he’d been expecting Séverin, but he hadn’t shown. On the one hand, it would’ve been too difficult otherwise. And yet, Enrique felt a little foolish staring down at his carefully chosen clothes and polished shoes … on some level, all of his armor had been for nothing. And yet, when he stared up at the buildings, he felt oddly watched. As if he had caught the attention of something greater than himself, and so perhaps his finery was not a waste.