By now, he’d made his way to the meeting place in the Oriental Room. The moment he pushed open the door, he grimaced. The Oriental Room was clearly something dreamed up by someone who had never visited the Orient. The room felt like a bone set wrong. On the shelves lining the walls, he recognized a Tibetan prayer wheel placed as a beater for the percussive Chinese gong. Delicate ivory and agate netsuke—once used in Japanese menswear—lay scattered across a chessboard as surrogate pieces.

“You have excellent hair,” said an unfamiliar voice.

Enrique startled, nearly dropping the documents in his arms. A tall, light-skinned man stood from an armchair situated in the shadowed part of the room. He was young, Enrique saw. And bald. When he stepped into the light, Enrique noticed a slight tilt to his eyes that hinted at East Asian descent.

“What do you do? Egg masks? Olive oil?” asked the man. “Can I touch it?”

Enrique stared at this bizarre person. “No?”

The man shrugged. “Very well. Maybe you’re born with it.” He tapped his bald pate. “My own inheritance is a touch sparser than I’d like.”

When he drew closer, Enrique saw the man’s arm was in a sling, though it was concealed by the drape of his sable coat.

“Ruslan Goryunov the Bald at your service,” said the man, bowing low.

This close, he could see how young the man was … no more than in his late twenties.

“Enrique Mercado-Lopez.”

“Ah! The historian!” said Ruslan. “A pleasure to meet you.”

Enrique’s face burned. “You know me?”

He’d never imagined anyone had ever heard of him. It made him wonder if he should’ve worn something more … official-looking … more interesting than his usual black suit and simple cravat. Then again he wasn’t sure how exemplary it was if the only person who recognized him was someone who went by Ruslan the Bald.

“I know of you,” said Ruslan. “I know most things. Except for how to resurrect a hairline. Alas. I rather enjoyed your article concerning the return of artwork to colonized countries. My understanding is that you’ve been a historian and linguist to Monsieur Montagnet-Alarie at L’Eden Hotel for quite some time now. Do you like it there?”

Enrique nodded, hating that the first—and probably the last—time he was being recognized in public was also the only time he couldn’t find the right words. He kept panicking that his voice would come out far deeper than he intended. Or that he might spontaneously belch and therefore destroy all semblance of credibility.

Ruslan grinned, then glanced behind Enrique to the clock above the door threshold. He frowned.

“I’ve gotten the time wrong,” he said. “We will have more time to talk soon, I am sure.”

“What are you—” Enrique started, then stopped. He didn’t want to seem rude.

“Doing here?” finished Ruslan with a laugh. “I thought I’d be here for a meeting, but then I got distracted by a beetle, then a daydream, and finally that painting.” He bowed. “It was an honor to meet you, Monsieur Mercado-Lopez.”

He swiftly made his way to the exit, leaving Enrique to ponder what, exactly, just happened. Self-consciously, he reached up and touched his hair. It was nice, he had to admit.

Enrique made his way to the back of the room. The mural Ruslan had mentioned lay half in the shadows. At first, the mural was hard to discern amongst the clutter of the room. It merely looked like ugly wallpaper. But the closer he got, the more the images made themselves known. The mural showed dark-skinned villagers holding out a basket of tea leaves, and pale-skinned soldiers, priests, and kings extending their arms to receive the gift. Natives and Europeans. It wasn’t an unfamiliar pattern, but as Enrique stared at it, he felt the quiet panic that had haunted him since childhood. Where did he exist in this arrangement? He stared at the empty middle ground of the painting, and a familiar ache settled in his chest.

There was danger in not belonging. He’d learned that at a young age in the fish markets of the Philippines. When his mother had taken him, he’d lost her in the sea of people. He remembered running up and down the market aisle, the smell of fish and vinegar stinging his eyes. Finally, he’d spotted her in her bright pink dress, turning wildly in the market, her basket swinging from her arm as she called his name.

“Mama—” he cried, pointing.

A woman grabbed hold of his hand, caught sight of his mother, and laughed. “That can’t be your mother, you look nothing alike! Come now, I’ll take you to the Civil Guard—”

He howled in terror, and only then did his mother see him and fetch him, folding him against her where he sobbed and refused to be put down. Later, she laughed off the incident, but all he saw was her brown face, and how dark her arms looked next to his. He had the shape of her eyes and the curve of her smile and her habit of hoarding pillows … but something about him was not enough to belong to her.

Enrique was still staring at the painting when he heard the door open once more. Hypnos grinned at him as he made a quick scan of the room.

“Is anyone else here?”

“No,” said Enrique.

“Good.”

Hypnos crossed the room in quick strides and kissed him. The kiss sent a sparkle through his body, and Enrique savored the slow melt of it. It was a welcome distraction, and he leaned into it with the greed of someone starved. Hypnos drew away first, though his thumb rested at the nape of Enrique’s neck, tracing small circles against his skin. Enrique didn’t know what possessed him that next moment. Perhaps he was still shaken from the troika fire, or disturbed by the mural on the wall … or maybe drawn in by the other boy’s hypnotic touch.

“I don’t just want furtive kisses or meetings of convenience,” said Enrique in a rush. “The others already know about us … What if we made it more public?”

Hypnos’s fingers stilled. “Why?”

“Why not?” asked Enrique. And then, feeling foolish, he added, “If we find what we’re looking for, everything could return to normal. Séverin would come back to his senses. You could officially be part of the team, and we could be together too.”

He trailed off, staring at the floor until he felt Hypnos’s hand tip up his chin.

“That isn’t my usual arrangement, you know,” said Hypnos gently. “But I could be tempted. Let’s see how this job goes first, shall we?”

That was fair enough, thought Enrique. Though he caught something like guilt in Hypnos’s eyes, and he couldn’t fathom why.

“Would I have to move into L’Eden just to be part of the team?” asked Hypnos. “Because I quite like my living arrangements.”

Enrique laughed and shook his head, just as Hypnos’s arms tightened around him. Enrique squeezed his eyes shut, imagining what it would be like not to feel this ache in his soul where some part of him always felt wanting. When he lifted his head, he caught a flash of golden hair in the doorway.

“Zofia?”

Hypnos released him, and Zofia stepped inside, looking somewhat stiff as she stared at them.

“I’m here for the meeting,” she said tersely.

Hypnos smiled as he flounced into one of the silk chaises, absentmindedly picking up one of the objects on the nearest shelves and jangling it like a toy.