“We knew that,” said Zofia.

“What?” spluttered Enrique.

“Truly, I cannot see why it has taken you so long to come to a conclusion that Zofia and I have already agreed would be the best use of your talents,” said Hypnos.

Enrique could not decide if he was more pleased or annoyed.

“Thank you for informing me,” he said.

“Such things are best discovered on one’s own,” said Hypnos. “Though I am curious … what made you realize such a thing?”

Enrique found himself thinking of the dream conversation he’d had with Laila. He thought of her catlike smile and the horizon of some other world illuminating her.

“I suppose you could say it’s because the idea filled me with light,” said Enrique.

41

SÉVERIN

Six months later

Séverin Montagnet-Alarie was no god. As such, he could not change the past, but that didn’t mean he could not break free of it.

Séverin stared out the window of his office, nervously turning a tin of cloves in his hands as he watched the winding, gravel path that led to the entrance of L’Eden. They would be here soon, and he wasn’t sure what they would make of the place …

It was the beginning of winter, and the city seemed more fragile in the brittle sunshine. On the far side of the lawns, workers dug holes and erected trellises, while others lay down tarp to protect the flowers. Next year, the trellises would boast roses of every hue and fragrance. But amidst all that riot of beauty, there was only one star in the garden.

It had taken Séverin and a team of gardeners the better part of a month to find a single surviving rose cane from the variety Tristan had once planted, and which Séverin had later ripped out of the ground and burned. Tristan had never named his roses, and so the duty fell to Séverin. Henceforth, that variety would forever be known as L’Enigme.

While some things had been rebuilt, others had been destroyed.

Gone was the Seven Sins Garden, and although some hotel guests might have mourned the loss of being able to say they had walked through hell and back in time for dinner, Séverin had found that he had enough of hell.

In its place, Séverin had constructed a rehabilitation menagerie for birds who, for a number of reasons, could no longer survive in the wild. There were songbirds who had fallen out of their nests too young, doves who had been mistreated by peddling magicians, sparrows who had once found themselves in the jaws of pouncing cats. There were other birds too, ones who had been kidnapped from their native homes and brought to Paris as objects of curiosity. Birds with plumage that rivaled sunsets, parrots with multihued beaks, golden-eyed falcons, and creatures sporting a crest of rainbows on their brows. All of them found a home in L’Eden and were now cared for by a resident veterinarian and zoologist and, surprisingly, Eva, who had retired her art and moved into L’Eden with her ailing father. To Séverin, each bird carried a piece of Tristan. When they healed, it was almost as if, bit by bit, his brother was healing too.

In the evenings, Séverin would walk through the aviary. Most of the time, he wasn’t looking up at the birds, but staring down at the ground where his shadow sprawled unrecognizably beside him. In those moments, he could pretend that it wasn’t his shadow at all, but Tristan’s. He could pretend his brother walked beside him, Goliath balancing on his shoulder. In those moments, the chaotic murmur of Paris faded, replaced with the secret poetry of birdsong and the flutter of mending wings, and sometimes—sometimes—Séverin could almost hear Tristan sighing. The sound was like peace unclasping from pain and taking wing into the sky.

A knock at his office door released Séverin from his thoughts. “Come in.”

Enrique appeared, a hopeful smile on his face and a sheaf of papers in his arms. “Are they here yet? Because I was thinking—ahh!”

A loud squawk erupted through the office, and Séverin turned to find Argos stalking toward Enrique.

Argos was … strange.

The one-year-old peacock had been kept in the cramped apartments of a brothel madame, who abandoned the creature on the street with his plumage plucked. When he had come to L’Eden, he had snapped at everyone who tried to care for him, except Séverin. A month later with good food and more space to roam, Argos had grown into a beautiful and illustrious creature. Argos had also, for reasons unknown to the staff and despite frequent attempts to shepherd him elsewhere, taken to following Séverin everywhere.

“Will you call off your demonic guard?” asked Enrique.

“Argos,” said Séverin mildly.

The peacock huffed, settling himself by the fireplace. The bird did not take his eyes off Enrique, who inched around him.

“Honestly, that thing makes me actually prefer the company of Goliath.”

“He’s not so bad,” said Séverin. “Perhaps a touch overprotective, but he means well.”

Enrique fixed him with a look. “Argos nearly ran off the new chef.”

“The chef overcooked the halibut. I can’t say I disagree with Argos in his assessment of the man.”

Enrique snorted, then handed over the papers. “These are the newest potential acquisitions.”

Now that Forging was regarded with suspicion, the Order of Babel’s power was gone and they had been forced to sell their considerable treasures to the highest bidders of the public. Wealthy industrialists and railroad magnates vied for the chance to display history in their sitting rooms, while Séverin and his family fought to return those artifacts either to their original owners or, barring that, museums in their native lands.

In the past, Séverin had stolen out of the hubris that he could take from the Order of Babel. Now, he was humbled by the thought of shepherding history into different homes. History might be shaped by the tongues of conquerors, but it was not a fixed shape or story, and with every object they repatriated, it was like adding or recasting a sentence in a book whose pages were as wide and infinite as a horizon.

Séverin leafed through the research. “Good work. I’ll take a look, and we’ll finalize a project for the fall.”

Enrique nodded, his gaze darting to the window. “Are you ready for this?”

“Of course not.”

“Well, at least you’re honest,” said Enrique with a small laugh. “Don’t worry … you’ll have help.”

“I know.”

“I think … I think she’d be happy … to know what you’re doing,” said Enrique quietly.

Séverin smiled. “I think so too.”

He thought, but he didn’t know for certain. He had gathered, in bits and pieces, that the others dreamt of Laila. In their dreams, she even spoke to them. But she never spoke to Séverin.

He waited for her every night, and though sometimes he felt her … he never saw her. In those moments when he missed her most, he would think on her promise. I will always be with you. In the wake of not knowing whether this was true, he had no choice but to believe.

“Well. I should go,” said Enrique. “I have to prepare for tomorrow’s lectures, and I’d like to do that before they get here.”