Enrique imagined long, slender fingers made of music dragging up his rib cage, strumming his bones as if they were the strings of a lute, as if it could turn him into a note that was part of the song that moved the universe.

36

SÉVERIN

Séverin Montagnet-Alarie was no stranger to death.

Death treated him like a son. Death roused him from sleep, coaxed him to test his ambitions, and reassured him—the way a mother might push the hair from her son’s brow and tuck a blanket up to his chin—that there was no ambition too great. After all, Death would always be there. And no fear compared to her.

But in the moments when Séverin reached down to strum the divine lyre, he experienced a death he was not prepared for.

Here, on the stone steps of the ancient temple, Séverin experienced the death of certainty.

It was the moment when conviction crumpled into confusion, and Séverin had no choice but to grasp hold of weak-winged hope.

Séverin knew he was meant for godhood, but doubt’s cold fingers hung new words at the end of that knowledge:

Séverin knew he was meant for godhood … wasn’t he?

Ever since he had discovered the truth of his lineage and taken possession of the lyre, Séverin had imagined this moment every hour of every day. Every morning, he had turned the instrument in his hand and stared at the lavender lines on the inside of his wrist, knowing the promise that pulsed through his blood: In your hands lie the gates of godhood …

Was that not destiny?

Was that not the glorious purpose he was always intended to fulfill? Was that not the reason why his parents had died, why the seven sins had raised him and trained his tongue to be accustomed to bitterness, why he had held Tristan in his arms and did not move even when the blood started to cool on his own skin, why the woman he loved had been unraveling from the day they met?

But then why did his imaginings not match up to the scene around him?

He had imagined he would ascend these steps, clean and shining, his heart light. He had imagined Enrique grinning, Hypnos winking, Zofia smiling, and Laila … living.

And now?

Séverin could not even turn his head, but he sensed their broken spirits around him. He heard Hypnos softly weeping, and Zofia’s panicked quiet. He heard Enrique murmuring prayers, and above all of it, the silence of Laila’s soul.

This was not how it was supposed to be.

“I can fix this,” said Séverin, keeping his head bowed.

The temple crumbled around him. His throat ached. His ears pounded. He raised his hand, touching the gleaming strings of the lyre—

“I can fix everything,” he whispered. “… Can’t I?”

Those words no longer felt like knowledge to Séverin.

It felt like a belief.

And it was here, in this space between fact and faith, that Séverin found himself praying for the first time in more than a decade.

“Please,” he begged as his fingers strummed the instrument.

Please show me I was right.

Please fix this.

Please—

Something engulfed him, and Séverin felt as though he had been temporarily unmoored from time itself. In a few moments he would learn that he had been wrong about many things, and right about one: The lyre could remake the world.

And it did.

Venice, 1890

Luca and his brother, Filippo, were hiding in the shadows of the Rialto Bridge when it happened.

Up until two days ago, they had not been hungry thanks to the man at the dock. The man had given them apples full of coins, but now they were down to their last two, and the man was gone. Luca wondered what had happened to him.

Two nights ago, there had been an explosion in the lagoons. According to the gossip on the docks, the polizia had made no arrests. Normally Luca didn’t care, but the unsolved explosion had led to more patrolling of the marketplaces, which made it that much harder to steal.

Every time he got close to snatching an apple or loaf of bread from the stands, he’d catch sight of the polizia with their large, Forged batons, and he would be forced to retreat back to the shadows. There was nothing he could do. If he did not steal, his brother would not eat. And if he got caught stealing, his brother would be undefended.

Luca turned to Filippo. “Are you hungry?”

Filippo put on a brave face and shook his head, but his stomach growled loudly.

Luca clenched his jaw, trying to ignore the gnawing ache at the pit of his gut. Instead, he stared at the gondola crossing the waters. A boy leaned against his father, half-asleep, an unwrapped sweet lying in his lap. Saliva filled Luca’s mouth. Why must they scrabble in the corners? Was this what every day would be like?

At that exact moment, Luca heard a song.

It came from nowhere and everywhere. It rippled the lagoon waters. It shook the jeweled lanterns hovering above the streets and sent the Forged platters of food and merchant wares crashing to the ground.

Filippo gasped, pointing to the Forged platters holding up loaves of bread now falling and shattering hardly three meters from where they hid. Luca lunged forward, taking advantage of the distracted polizia as he stuffed the bread loaves under his jacket and grabbed his brother.

They took off at a run … the strange song nipping at their heels, tugging at their hearts. Luca knew, deep in his bones, that the world was about to change, though he could not say why. Away from the loud, crashing sounds, the brothers tore into their stolen food.

Maybe, thought Luca, as he ripped the bread … maybe the world would change enough that he might finally take a bite of it.

New York, 1890

A group of collectors were lounging in a smoke-choked room at the weekly meeting of the New York Historical Society of Forged Artifacts when it happened.

One moment, the auctioneer held up a gold and lapis-lazuli box the size of a snuffcase. A hippopotamus of carved jade appeared to lift its head and then partially disappear into the blue surface, as if it were a true creature reclining in the waters of the Nile. Thousands of years ago, the shining object had been the beloved toy of a young prince, so dear that it had been placed beside his tomb so that he might continue to play even in the afterlife.

The auctioneer cleared his throat. “This particular piece is rumored to have been the favorite toy of Akhenaton’s son and is a donation from our wonderful friends in the Order of Babel—”

“Friends?” One of the members laughed loudly. “Some friends if all they give us are some useless toys!”

A small knot of members seated at the man’s table began to agree loudly.

“It’s true!” said another. “Why should they have all the glorious treasure for themselves—”

“I say we try to take something else—”

But perhaps the object was done being taken.

For the next moment, it burst apart, showering the room in shards of blue and gold so that it seemed as if the morning sky had crashed around them.

Manila, Philippines, 1890

Esmerelda was hiding outside of her father’s study when it happened. Clutched in her hands was a stolen copy of La Correspondencia de Manila. Her parents refused to let her read the newspaper, but Esmerelda hungered for proof that the world was larger than she imagined.

At fourteen years old, Esmerelda had become convinced that her parents would prefer it if she spent the rest of her days with her hair neatly pinned back, her hands neatly folded in her lap, and everything so neat and dainty and orderly that a stray wind would send her into hysterics.