Enrique winced, and Hypnos sighed and shook his head.

“And you’ve apologized…?” asked Hypnos.

“Obviously.”

“And reminded her about the, um—” Hypnos wiggled his ring finger.

“Interestingly enough, reminding the woman I love that she’s been carrying around a death sentence didn’t factor into my romantic agenda,” said Séverin coldly.

Enrique smacked Hypnos on the back of his head.

“Ow!” said Hypnos. “It was just a thought! Near-fatal situations make me, ah, comment dire, very amorous, non? Hungry for life! All the more so when you know your situation will soon be remedied.”

“I doubt she would feel similarly,” said Séverin.

Hypnos frowned then snapped his fingers triumphantly. “I know! You should try showing up naked in her bedroom. I call it, La Méthode de L’Homme Nu.”

Séverin and Enrique stopped walking and stared at him.

“The Naked Man Method?” asked Enrique. “Are you serious?”

“I’d rather be naked.” Hypnos crossed his arms. “Trust me, it works. If the lady or gentleman is not intrigued, then they leave the room.”

“And probably burn their bedsheets for good measure,” muttered Enrique.

“And if they consent, well, then you have made the process of intimacy that much easier. You should try it.”

“No,” said Séverin and Enrique at the same time.

Hypnos huffed. “Enjoy your utter lack of inspiration.”

By then, the lovely mercato had changed. The baking smells and perfume of sliced fruit soured as they approached the pescheria. Housed beneath lichen-splattered vaulted Gothic arches on the banks of the Grand Canal, the fish market was a smelly landmark of the city and, for better or for worse, the meeting place for their transport. Even from a distance, Séverin could see the pale, writhing piles of freshwater eels. Water Forging artists walked among the fish stalls, levitating blocks of ice into the stalls to keep the catch fresh.

“There he is,” said Hypnos, pointing his chin at a grizzled man leaning against one of the pillars. The fisherman nodded in acknowledgment.

“I’ll finalize payment, and then we’ll be off,” said Hypnos, walking toward the fish market.

Séverin couldn’t remember the last time he’d been alone with Enrique. Before, they used to have an easy camaraderie … but now, every sentence felt like a heavy step on thin ice. Enrique didn’t look at him. He had turned his attention back to the stretch of market kiosks before the street turned into fish stalls.

“She likes flowers,” said Enrique quietly. “You could start with that?”

Séverin followed Enrique’s gaze to a little market stall operated by an old woman who was already dozing even though the market had just opened. On the table before her was spread out a handful of delicate, glass artwork: chrysanthemums with milky quartz petals, roses carved from thin slices of carnelian stone. Séverin’s eyes fell on a glass lily, its artistry so vivid that each petal looked snipped from a flame

Enrique nudged him. “Go on.”

Séverin hesitated. “You don’t think it’s a lost cause?”

“If I believed in lost causes, you would be at the bottom of the lagoon,” said Enrique primly.

“Fair enough. And what about yourself? You don’t want to get her flowers?”

“Who? Oh…” Enrique glanced away. “Is it that obvious?”

“Only when you stare, unblinking, at her.”

“I think she’d be more interested in the mathematical ratios of the petals than the flower itself. I have to find something that would be like a flower to her.” Enrique frowned. “Something flammable, I’m afraid.”

“I’d be afraid too.”

“You are not helping.”

* * *

A FEW HOURS later, Séverin made an uncomfortable discovery: the divine lyre had a heartbeat. It was as if the instrument was slowly coming alive the closer they got to Poveglia. Séverin could feel it against his own pulse, a persistent thump, thump, thump.

If hope had a sound, this would be it.

His friends looked cold and miserable in the dingy boat. At the helm, the fisherman did not spare them a glance and had been adamant about his responsibility to them.

“I will get there as fast as I can, and I will not wait for you. How you make your way back is on your head, God help you.”

As the wind whipped around them, Séverin imagined his mother’s voice carried along its path. In your hands lie the gates of godhood. Let none pass.

He was meant to play the lyre.

He was meant to save Laila.

He was meant to protect his friends.

Séverin risked a glance at Laila. She managed to look regal even in this dingy boat. Her back was ramrod straight, the fur of her jacket ruffling around her neck as she twisted her garnet ring. She had pulled her hair back in a braid, but strands of black silk twisted free to frame her face. Her full mouth was pursed tight, and he noticed the rich brown of her skin had lost its sheen overnight.

When he looked at her, all that power he’d felt tipped uneasily inside him.

He had failed her a thousand times, but in this, he would succeed.

The islands of Lido and Poveglia ahead of them turned sharper, larger. Silver brume clouded the water, swallowing the silhouettes of cathedrals and docks, so that it looked like a residence for ghosts.

“I don’t understand why this place has to be on a plague island,” grumbled Hypnos.

Enrique, who had grabbed a rather crusty-looking blanket, now peered at them from underneath it. “Did you know—”

Hypnos groaned. “Here we go.”

From under a waterproof rubber tarp, Zofia poked her head out curiously to listen to Enrique.

“The word ‘quarantine’ comes from the Italian ‘quaranta giorni’ for ‘forty days,’ which was the number of days that a ship must stay away from Venice if it was suspected of harboring plague. Islands like Poveglia were one of the first lazaret, or quarantine colonies. Isn’t that fascinating?”

Even in the rainy, frigid gloom, Enrique beamed expectantly at everyone.

Séverin sat up a little straighter. Enrique had doubted his support. He would do better this time.

“Fascinating!” he said loudly, clapping his hands.

Everyone stared at him.

Too late, he suspected his actions lacked a certain subtlety.

He looked at Enrique. For the first time, the historian looked as if he were holding back not a scold … but a laugh.

“How … enlightening?” tried Laila.

“Why the number forty?” asked Zofia.

“That I don’t know,” said Enrique.

Zofia frowned, disappearing under the tarp once more.

“I feel like I’m going to get the plague the longer I stay on this godforsaken boat,” muttered Hypnos.

Eventually, the boat came to a stop, docking beside a curious statue of an angel with her wings hunched and folded around her head. The moment the fisherman threw down the anchor, the statue drew back its wings and raised one stony arm that pointed back to Venice. The message was clear: