In that second, he made a decision.

He would not merely want … he would do. Even if it meant opening himself up to hurt once more.

On the other side of the door, someone rapped lightly. “Enrique?”

Zofia.

When Enrique opened the door, he found himself face-to-face with Hypnos and Zofia. Of course, he’d spoken to and seen both of them earlier, but it only dawned on him at this second that he was staring at the two people he’d most enjoyed kissing in the entirety of his existence. And he had never noticed until now how similar and yet different their eyes were. Two shades of blue: one like the heart of a candle flame, the other the hue of winter.

“Are you … done?” asked Zofia.

The blunt question knocked the whimsy out of him. He sighed, nodding. “I’m ready.”

“Thank every pantheon,” said Hypnos. “This much responsibility ages me.”

* * *

WHEN THEY ENTERED the salon, Séverin practically leapt out of his chair. Enrique’s old hurts roared back at him, but he couldn’t ignore the painful hope in the other boy’s eyes.

“Growth and remorse are rather like stars … the surrounding dark makes them vivid enough to notice,” said Enrique, before arching an eyebrow. “Which is to say that I expect a damn constellation out of you in the future, Séverin.”

Séverin’s eyes widened. A fragile smile lifted the corner of his mouth, and although it felt like an unsteady step in the dark to Enrique, it was a step forward all the same.

“And you will have it,” said Séverin quietly.

“Where did Laila go?” asked Hypnos.

“She said she needed to get something, and that we should feel free to start examining the map without her,” said Zofia.

Enrique looked to the long, wooden table strewn with his research. The world cinched around the lyre and the small, gold-filigreed box beside it which held the mind Forged map. Enrique didn’t blame Laila for not wanting to be here. He couldn’t imagine staring so closely at his last hope.

Across the room, Séverin met his gaze and lifted one eyebrow.

Oh, thought Enrique, turning to face the room. In the past, Hypnos and Zofia would look only to Séverin. But now, their gazes were divided between them. Enrique felt as if some hidden light shone more closely on him.

“The matriarch of House Kore left plenty of documents containing rumors of what we might find. I’ve compiled my own research, but I think it’s most useful to compare it to what we can gather from the map,” said Enrique. When Séverin nodded at him, Enrique gestured to the box. “Shall we?”

As Séverin reached to unstopper the mind Forged perfume, a shudder ran down Enrique’s spine. The others might laugh at his fear, but Plague Island unsettled him. He couldn’t help but imagine the soft ash of human remains coating the ground. It seemed an unlikely place for a temple capable of tapping into such divine power … but what did he know of the preferences of gods?

“These sensations can get overwhelming,” said Séverin. “Remember … what you see is real but not presently before you. Nothing inside it can hurt you.”

“Yet,” muttered Hypnos.

Séverin twisted the top of the perfume bottle, and air hissed from the sudden opening. Enrique dug his fingers into the frayed silk of the armchair, bracing himself as fat ribbons of smoke rose, spreading across the ceiling. Then, it slowly dissolved … disintegrating into something like rain. The moment the droplets hit his skin, gray slivers of awareness wrapped around his senses.

Dimly he heard Séverin call out:

“Reattaching stopper now—”

But the sound of rushing water and bird calls lapped over Séverin’s voice until it seemed like an uncanny twist of the wind. Enrique blinked. He no longer felt the scratched-up satin of the armchair beneath his arms or the notebook in his lap or the smooth metal of the pen clutched in his hand, even as a corner of his mind whispered that he was still sitting in the palazzo’s salon. He was standing on an unkempt sidewalk, thorns and nettle jutting out from a tangle of wild grass. The pointed scaffolding of roofs thrust into the skyline. Villagers moved in the early light, their garments little more than animal skins and crude cloth.

The mind Forged visions around him sped up, winding his consciousness along the canals before they were ever canals, past hastily constructed temples and down a passageway until he stood before a statue bust of a woman. Her lips were pressed tight, her blank eyes opened wide in fury. He could just discern the carved feathers sprouting from her cheekbones when her jaw suddenly unhinged. The dais on which the bust stood lurched. Down, down, down he went, plummeting at least thirty meters or more into an underground tunnel. Here, the smell of unstirred, still water hit Enrique’s nose. His vision adjusted to the dimness of a vast cave. Pale stalactites studded its rooty ceiling, as sharp and numerous as teeth. Ankle-high brackish water stretched out nearly half a kilometer before him.

His consciousness was tugged down to something at his feet, and horror slowly crawled up his throat.

A trail of light blinked through the water, as if something were slowly waking. A humming sound rang through the cave, shaking droplets of water from the stalactites, so the cave felt like a thing that had begun to salivate in hunger. Now, he could see clearly through the illuminated water—the domed curve of a skull, a gnawed tibia, a slim bridge made of hooked jawbones. And at his feet, one skeletal arm was outflung—

The remains of a woman.

Enrique’s gaze snapped over the details. The shroud clinging to her sunken chest. The wisps of blond hair on her skull from which boney protrusions curled back from her forehead. Someone had gilded her bones, so they shone even in the dark. In her cracked open jaw, a sign etched into a paper-thin slab of marble:

Mε συγχωρείτε.

Forgive me.

* * *

ENRIQUE SNAPPED BACK into himself at the sound of shattering glass. He blinked, looking around. He was no longer in his armchair, but crouched on the floor, his notebook and pen scattered around him. The shattering glass sound had come from Hypnos who had dropped his wineglass. Beside him, Zofia was breathing hard, the grip on her chair white-knuckled. Séverin looked faintly nauseous, but there was an unmistakable gleam of curiosity to his eyes.

He looked up at them.

“What did you see? Let’s start with the entrance.”

“The people were … not of this time,” said Zofia.

Séverin nodded. “Makes sense, the temple would be far older than Poveglia. What year would you place this at, Enrique?”

Enrique envied his calm. When he first tried to speak, his voice seemed stuck in his throat. He tried again:

“Sixth century, I believe … the people were most likely refugees from Padua during the early barbarian invasions,” he managed. “The statue of the woman … might be older.”

“Woman?” said Hypnos. “She was mostly feathers!”

“Depictions of ancient deities often straddle the wild and mortal worlds,” said Enrique.

“Did you notice her lips?” mused Séverin. “They were pursed so tightly, like someone trying not to speak.”